21 December 1933

IN THE DAYS WHEN MEN WERE MEN 

Pioneers Who Made Good

The origin of some of South Australia's biggest firms is touched on by an octogenarian contributor in the article below. He arrived in Australia in the days of excitement following the discovery of the Victorian goldfields.

It was in March, 1851, that my parents brought me to South Australia from the old country. Our ship anchored off the Semaphore. There were no piers, jetties, or wharfs those days, and the men waded ashore, carrying the women and children in their arms. If there were no men folk with the women a sailor carried them to land. 

My uncle Charles (afterwards Sir Charles) Goode, had come out ahead of us, and, on meeting the ship, he carried me ashore. The journey from the Port to Adelaide was a slow and laborious affair by cart through the bush. That was the year the Victorian gold diggings were discovered, and when the news reached Adelaide there was an extraordinary exodus of the male population to the neighboring State until scarcely a man was left in the city. When the children saw one they would cry out excitedly, 'Mummy, there's a man!' 

Among many South Australians who got the gold fever were some who afterwards rose to eminence in the political and commercial life of the province. 

Among these were William (afterwards Sir William) Morgan, founder of the firm of Morgan & Co., after whom the river town was named: John (afterwards Sir John) Colton, founder of Colton, Palmer & Preston; Richard Wills, one of the founders of the firm of G. & R. Wills, warehousemen; James Counsell, of Whyte, Counsell & Co.; Thomas Goode, a noted storekeeper at Goolwa in the days of the boom, and its first mayor; Samuel Goode, of the firms of Goode Bros and Matthew Goode and Co. He was also Mayor of Adelaide and president of the Royal Show; Thomas Good, of Good Toms & Co., warehousemen; T. B. Marshall, after wards a storekeeper at Melrose; and Charles (late Sir Charles) Goode, of Goode, Durrant & Co., warehousemen. The ship by which they went to the fields was, I think, the Kandhar. 

When she arrived at Port Phillip the whole of the crew deserted, and hurried off to the goldfields. The ship, like many others, was laid up in the bay, because it was impossible those days to get crews. The ship remained idle until many of those who had made the trip to Melbourne in her were ready to return. 

On the way back the captain became dead drunk, and the mate had to handle the vessel. He could do that, but he couldn't work out the reckonings for her navigation, and this share of the work was done by a passenger, Thomas Goode. 

When the ship reached Port Adelaide, the captain had to be cleaned up, and led to a seat at the cabin table to receive the agents. My father and uncle then walked ashore, carrying their gold in worsted stockings, which at that time were worn by men. These old pioneers gradually worked their way up without any spoon-feeding by Governments. Why can't men do that now?

— Edward Goode, Kingston.

Edward Goode died in Kingston in 1942 aged 91. He arrived with his parents possibly on the King William 16 July 1851

Getting Rid Of The Pests

A well-known doctor, since deceased, who lived in a northern town, purchased the first motor car in that territory. It caused a good deal of curiosity and several of the local girls pestered the doctor to give them a ride in it. He used to reply that he didn't have the time. 

On one particularly scorching day, however, the girls were more persistent than ever. The doctor replied, 'All right, girls. Hop up.' So away he sped, and the girls thoroughly enjoyed the ride. When the doctor got 12 miles from the town, he pulled up remarking, 'Now girls, you will have to get out while I turn round.' The girls did so. The doctor let in the clutch and at full speed sped back to town, leaving the girls spellbound in the middle of the road. There was nothing else for them to do but to tramp home the 12 miles over hot and dusty roads. The medico thoroughly enjoyed the joke, but the girls didn't. He was never troubled again.— 'BUSHWACKER,' Cunyarie. 

Won In Hobnailed Boots 

Years ago footracing used to be popular on the Lower Light Beach. Huge crowds used to assemble to witness the events, and some crack sprinters used to take part. Amongst these were three brothers with a local reputation for swiftness who came to be regarded as invincible. They took the sport seriously, and trained hard. 

On one occasion a race of a mile was about to be started when one of the spectators, a newcomer to the district, remarked to the brothers, 'If I was in this race I'd beat you hollow, in spite of your running togs, and my hobnailed boots.' The brothers laughed. 'Better meet us in the event for allcomers,' they challenged. 

And he did. He not only raced in his hobnailed boots, but he beat them without effort. There was a row, of course, and the unknown sprinter was threatened with a handicap the size of the national debt next time he entered for a race in those parts. But he smilingly gathered in the prize and a few pounds in wagers, and was never heard of in those parts again.— 'Rough Shod,' Verran. 

Scare For Both Of Them 

Thirty odd years ago kangaroo skins were bringing a very high price. America was a large buyer. 

Out north of Fowler's Bay were ten or a dozen white kangaroo hunters, each of whom had a mob of blacks killing and skinning for them, while they themselves led a very indolent life. The young blackfellows were shown how to use a rifle and soon were very fair shots. The old men and women were given dogs, with which to hunt. For their work they got flour, tea, sugar and tobacco, and now and then a skirt or blue shirt. 

One of those white men to kill time made a lot of wire snares, which he set along a brush fence. He visited them every morning to skin any kangaroos that were caught. 

One morning he noticed a blackfellow's track around his snares. This black, it appeared, came from a neighboring camp, and was robbing the snares. The trapper made up his mind to catch the culprit, and early next morning waited behind some bushes. It was not long before he saw a black kill a snared kangaroo and proceed to skin it. The trapper was a noted shot, who could place a bullet almost anywhere he wanted to. While the blackfellow was skinning the 'roo the trapper fired. The bullet hit the ground at the native's heels, scattering the sand about him. 

The nigger got such a fright that he fell on to the dead kangaroo, and remained there for some seconds. The white man got a scare, too, for he thought he had shot the thief in the legs, which of course he did not mean to do. In conversation with the hunter some time after the shooting, I said, 'Suppose you had killed him, what then? His reply was, 'There was plenty of firewood about.'— 'M.J.A.,' Coorabie. 

New Chum's Terrible Fate 

One day, many years ago, in the far outback of South Australia, a lone horseman rode along, a hot and dusty track. He was a young man, who had only recently come to Australia. He had no idea of bushcraft, and no knowledge of where to find waterholes in a territory notoriously shy of the precious liquid. Horse and rider covered mile after mile of parched country, and the throats of man and beast resembled the interior of a lime kiln. 

At length the horseman espied a building, which he took to be a station homestead, and thither he made his way, certain at last of a long and cooling drink. On reaching his destination, however, he discovered the place was abandoned. 

On one side was a square 200-gallon tank, but it was empty, save for a small residue of muddy water in the bottom. Without hesitation the traveller climbed into the tank through the small aperture in the top, just large enough for him to squeeze through. Having satisfied his thirst he was about to climb out when his horse put its head through the opening, and was unable to get it out again. Both horse and rider were horribly trapped. The man attempted to saw off the horse's head with his pocket knife, but failed. It was months later that a party of men out shooting came across the trapped bodies of horse and rider, and from the signs were able to reconstruct the tragic story.— 'Lone Star Ranger,' Hallett. 

An Oodla Wirra Race 

It happened near Oodla Wirra. Fred was a city lad visiting his country cousins. He was thrilled when he learned they had fixed up for him to ride in a race, but rather staggered when he saw the mounts— 'billies' and 'nannies,' as lean, as tough, and as hard as the fencing wire of which they tried to make a meal.

Freddy's mount was a he-goat as full of the devil as any bunter could be. But Freddy shut his teeth hard, and determined to uphold the honor of the metropolis against all comers. 

The race started. The goats got away for dear life, especially Freddy's mount. You see there was no bridle on it, and the city boy had to hold on by the horns for all he was worth. 

Freddy passed the field and wound in and out amongst the scrub. Presently he passed them again, and yet again. That he-goat was as full of speed as Phar Lap, and there was no pulling him up. 

He raced for an hour, and it was not until the rest of the riders had dismounted and chased Freddy's 'horse' that the vigorous goat was brought to a standstill. Freddy was a pitiable sight. There was scarcely a stitch of clothing left on his body. An avenue of rags clinging to bushes marked Freddy's frantic course through the scrub. But Freddy didn't care. He had won the race, though he was never certain whether it was a flrst-past-the post victory or an endurance test.— 'Rough' Shod.' Verran, 

Stranger Than Fiction 

A young man of 18 years, in Scotland, was reading an old newspaper about the gold rushes in Victoria in the 'fifties. "Father and mother," he cried, "I'd like to go to Australia and pick up gold nuggets.' After a long argument the parents save a reluctant consent, and young McHugh trudged to the seaport, obtained work, and reached the goldfields after the big rushes were over. 

However, knowing how to handle sheep, he was taken on shearing at a distant run. He drifted from station to station until finally he settled on a sheep and cattle property near Kooringa. 

For a few years he kept in touch with his people, but letters took a long time to come, and he led a busy life, so correspondence eventually dropped for twenty years. At the end of that interval he was manager and part owner of the station. 

One day he was riding around the run when a persistent urge came to him to go to Adelaide, to take a holiday. He could not shake the idea off. "Why not go?" he asked himself. "I've not been to town for years." 

He saddled a horse, and two days later was at the Black Bull, in town. He stabled his horse, hired a bed, and strolled round town all the evening. Returning at 11 o'clock, the landlord said, "A new chum, one of the emigrants, has the other bed in your room. He is a decent fellow, and going to country in the morning." 

McHaigh, being a cautious Scot, said to himself. "I'd like a look at the chap's face. I've some money on me I winna care to lose." 

He unlaced his boots, thumped one down, and sent the other banging across the floor. Up bounced the man in the other bed. "Good evening," said Mac. "You're a new chum. Had a good voyage out?" "Fine." "What are your prospects now ye are out here?" "I've been advised to go into the country, as I have worked amongst sheep and cattle." "In that case you might come to our station. We could do with a good man. Ye come from the land of oat cakes. What is ye're county?" 

On being told. Mac said. "That's my county, too. What's ye're clan?" Again he said, "That's my clan; what is ye're name?" "McHugh."

"Why, mon, that's my name, too! How do they call ye?" "Ken." "Why, mon, ye must be the baby I left behind me. Ye're my brlther. We'el now; no sleep for us this night: we'el clacket till morn." And so they did. 

Next day they started for Kooringa. The brothers worked well together, became successful pastoralists, and their descendants are still living in South Australia.— S.M.J., Maylands.