7 December 1933

TWO HORSES AND A DOG 

Droving Days In The North

THIS is the story of a drover, his two horses, and his dog, all four firm friends. They refused to be parted, and when necessity decreed that they should they took effective steps to effect a reunion.

When a young man I was forced to drive sheep for my daily bread. After years of droving I got to like it, and drove sheep for over twelve years. A drover has two horses as a rule, one in the cart, the other following behind, change about each day. The first horse I had was a small medium chestnut mare, Trixy. The other I bought later— a light, black gelding named Ponto. Both were rising six when I got them together. At the time I got Ponto I had a small black sheep dog given me, and, of course he had to be called Nigger. This little chap rode in the cart for the first few months of his life, and got to know both horses well. They, in turn, showed a great liking for him. As the years passed, the two horses and the dog were my constant companions, no matter where I went. They became so attached to one another that never since have I seen the like. On one occasion I had to rest Ponto for a week at Houston's Point on account of lameness. Trixy had the cart and road to herself. It was with the greatest difficulty that I got her on the road, and Nigger howled and moaned, not knowing whether to stay with Ponto or to come with me. Eventually I tied him to the cart and drove off. It was 32 miles to my destination, and I did it in one day, with a few spells In between. Nigger whimpered most of the way, and Trixy refused the nose bag. 

That night I camped at Martin's Well, find carefully tied up both my mates before turning in. Nigger was still howling when I dozed off. In the morning he was missing. His chain, a fairly strong one, had been snapped in two. Trixy hadn't eaten a bite during the night and was in no fit condition to travel. I rounded up my sheep with the aid of a boundary rider's horse and two other dogs I had with me, and started for Yalpinna, leading horse and cart. After two days on the road I had covered 21 miles. Then I had to stop, as Trixy was fretting so badly that I thought she would break down any minute. On the third morning I rounded up my flock, counted them off to see, that none had strayed, and headed on foot post-haste for the nearest boundary rider's hut, eight miles back on my track. After covering two miles I noticed a riderless horse approaching me, and soon heard Ponto's familiar whinny. The poor old fellow was almost done, his lame foot swollen to twice its normal size, and he only walked with great difficulty. Behind him, with his tongue hanging out, was Nigger. Both horse and dog came to meet me as fast as their aching feet could carry them, and muzzled themselves against me, displaying the greatest joy, despite their condition. Slowly I led them towards my camp, and when halfway there poor old Trixy was coming to meet us, her hobbles smashed to pieces. The meeting of the three friends was the most touching reunion that I have ever witnessed. It took three days' rest and good feeding before the animals had recuperated sufficiently to travel, and Ponto limped three weeks as a result of his hard going. 

When I later returned to Houston's Point, I learnt the facts of Ponto's escape. Nigger had retraced the 32 miles from Martin's Well in about six hours according to our reckoning. He reached Ponto's stall a little before sunrise, and before the occupants could do anything Ponto had broken out and raced along my track with Nigger in front. As they had their own horses out in the paddock, the hands didn't bother to pursue the runaways. The lame horse and dog covered the 53 miles in two days without food or drink in the middle of summer. When the three friends were later pensioned off, Nigger slept with them in the paddock every night. He finally died watching over them. Both horses reached the ripe old age of 28 years, when I destroyed them both on the spot where Nigger had died. They were the drover's greatest friends— his horses and dog.—C. E. Smith, Ngapala.

Windmill In A Tree

On the Millicent-Kalangadoo road can be seen a red gum tree noted for its peculiar growth. The tree was at one time cut off about 10 or 12 feet from the ground, and a windmill (wooden) was erected on the stump. But the enterprising landowner forgot to ringbark the tree. The result is that anyone looking on the left going to Kalangadoo from Millicent, at about the 14½-mile post, may see the remains of a windmill high in the air completely enclosed in branches that have shot from the top of the "windmill stand.— 'Digger Sol,' Millicent.

'Campfire Grand Opera'

In 1914 I travelled with three Afghans and a long string of camels with loading to Kokatha station, which (after a long term of lying idle) had been acquired by the late W. A. West. 

After the load had been delivered to the various wells where windmills were to be erected, and the arduous labor of loading and unloading every day was over, my 'Ghan friends and I, around the camp lire, sang songs of our native lands. There's only one of those songs lives in my memory, although without a translation, I knew less of its meaning than I'd know of, say, 'Faust.' It was a song with a moral. 

A fairly large acquaintance with what we call primitive people has taught me that the dark races usually have something to sing about when they break into melody. Imagine a dark night, a good myall fire, and the sky for a roof, with three turbaned sons of Afghanistan singing, sometimes softly, at other times loudly passionately, pleadingly, displaying all the emotions expressible in song. 

For an hour the piece lasted; solos, duets and trios; sometimes in unison, at others in harmony, most weird but never unmusical, the actors moving as on a stage. I remember the last song was a trio in unison, the singers moving off stage to a gradually diminishing volume of tone. 

Although I consider the singing one of my musical treats, what I think made most impression on me was the story of the plot, which one of the performers subsequently told me, and which explained the splendidly portrayed emotions. 

The singers represented each a priest a mother, and daughter. The girl was brought before the priest for breaking the moral code. The priest sang the praises of Allah and declaimed the punishment he could order. The girl's story was that she had unknowingly sinned, as her mother had kept her in ignorance. The priest's summing up was that, as the mother had not prepared her daughter to meet the outside world, the daughter was to have a minor punishment and the mother was to receive the greater one.— 'Trogolodyte,' Coober Pedy.

Early South-East

In the days when the South-East was being pioneered men had some strange experiences. The old mail route from Adelaide to Mount Gambier crossed the range at Mount Burr, where, on the eastern slope, was a wayside inn for the convenience of travellers and employes of the surrounding stations. 

There was also a sawmill at Mount Burr which supplied timber for the building of Mount Gambier and Millicent. Before the latter town came into existence the Government drained the flats, and while the main drain was being excavated most of the men were camped alongside it near their work. From the top of Mount Burr one could see the drains. 

A bootmaker, who had had to leave Mount Gambier because things were at a low ebb, took up a post at Mount Burr. From the hill he could see the tents of the drain diggers, so he decided to strike across country for them in the hope of securing orders. On reaching the foot of the range he came to a dense belt of ti-tree, through which he had difficulty in making his way. 

After struggling three-quarters of a mile the scrub became so dense that he was forced to turn back. But he was hopelessly bushed, and didn't know how to get out. He wandered about for a week, looking for an exit. 

Finally, when he had almost given up hope of extricating himself, he heard a team travelling along the other side of the tea tree, and, struggling towards the sound, came out at almost the same place he had entered seven days previously. 

He then discovered that he had spent the week in a section of some 170 acres fenced on all sides by dense scrub. Fortunately there was plenty of good water, but all he had to eat while he was lost was a dead magpie that he found. The experience cured him of bush life, and soon after he returned to Adelaide.— 'Argus,' Millicent.

Waterless West Coast

The hardships of pioneer life on the upper West Coast have been modified considerably of recent years. Big tracts of this country are different from the mallee areas, for it is a fairly hard soil, with large mallee and ti-tree. 

Now there are a fair number of Government tanks eight or ten miles apart, ranging from 250,000 gallons upwards. But in those days the policy of many settlers was, "Get all you can out of this sun blasted land without putting anything back into it'!' 

They paid for it dearly. Some even lost their souls. When the tanks were going dry there were 'rush' periods on the last remaining tank. Teams travelled as far as 30 miles (one way) for the precious fluid, coming from all points of the compass. One might see as many as forty teams waiting at the tank for their turn to 'pull under.' Men horses, and vehicles of almost every type gathered together for water. 

Perhaps nothing else would draw such a widely assorted band of humanity to one spot at once— big, grim-faced men and strong, humorous men, sturdy, middle-sized men of various types, the 'crawling' howler, the pure simpleton, the mean sneak-thief of the lowest type, a few bluff, hearty fellows of the 'dad' species, and, above all, real dinkum Aussies. who snatched fun from tragedy. 

Once two substantial farmers started an argument over politics, and it got to blows. They both finally rolled into the 'catch-pit,' a small cavity several feet deep, and half full of the filthiest of black mud, rotting birds, &c. 

At another time a notorious 'pointer' sat in the shade under some pretext, while a dozen flashing arms rocked the pump as it filled his 'twelve hundred.' Afterwards he was rolled into the horse trough and then into the powdered dust of the road! 

All day, through the blazing heat, low-hanging volumes of dust clouds flies, and oaths, teams pulled in and out, and in every direction long trails of low-hanging, slowly drifting dust, gyrated in fantastic patterns, marking the melancholy progress of the water waggons. Some men carted day and night, perhaps for a week, then stopped until it was used. 

Others, deeming themselves clever, carted for months, in some cases 'storing' up to fifty thousand gallons, caring little for the plight of the less fortunate. More than one member of this thick-skinned brigade, after weeks of greediness in 'rushing,' had the pleasure of seeing his tanks surrounded by acres of water through a thunder storm just after he had carted them full! 

Once a feeble old man offered a sum of money to a carter if he'd pump his load. The offer was refused. Returning for his second load hours later, he found the old man, struggling weakly with the heavy pump. Before he could get to him, the old fellow had dropped exhausted, with only one hundred gallons on. He had been too weak to force the water up, only the thought of his perishing stock at home had kept him on his feet. Stark realism. Yes, it was stark enough in those days to slake the thirst of anyone. — 'C.D.," Charra.

Absent Minded

This story concerns a farmer near Maitland who was greatly affected by absent-mindedness. He was about 70 years of age, remarkably active, and often drove to Maitland in a horse and buggy. 

One day his wife decided to accompany him. On reaching the town they separated, the wife going about her shopping and the husband making his way to a crony's shop. 

After an hour or so, the old man left the shop, and going to the yard where his horse was tied, harnessed the animal and drove home. He was silent all the journey, and when he came to the farm and found the gate shut, he handed the reins across to his 'wife,' saying, 'Hold on to him, Mary, while I open the gate.' He scrambled from the cart, never realising that he had forgotten to pick up his wife. Mary was still in Maitland.— 'Billy Bones,' Kadina.