9 February 1933

YORKE PENINSULA COMEDY

Mrs. Parrington And The 'Buck'

Perhaps the part played by the women in pioneer days was greater even than that of their menfolk, The story below illustrates the dangers by which they were faced— and how they met them. Mrs. Parrington was the worthy wife of the first white man on Yorke Peninsula.

Mrs. Parrington and the Black.

— The account of the late Mr. Charles Parrington in 'The Chronicle' article on Minlaton (formerly Gum Flat) was exceedingly interesting to one who happened to be born on the Peninsula 60 years ago.

Mr. Parrington no doubt was a fine type of Englishman, and his wonderful wife, of whom you make no mention, was equally plucky. She was not in the least frightened of 'them niggers,' as she used to say, and on one occasion, at least, she showed up to some advantage.

Parrington had received word to meet a flock of sheep which were en route to the station. This meant he would have to be away from home for three or four days. Usually on such occasions he took Mrs. Parrington with him. But on this particular trip she did not want to go, and, woman-like, got her own way. All she wanted, she said, was the gun left fully loaded in both barrels, and she would deal with them niggers if needs be.

Parrington duly loaded the gun the night before he left but, during the evening he decided that he did not want the niggers blown to Kingdom Come. He got up and withdrew the shot, replacing it with a wad of paper. Parrington had not long gone in the morning when the whole camp, about 24, turned up. They stood in a half circle around the back door awaiting their daily allowance of meat, tea, tobacco, sugar, flour, &c.

Mrs. Parrington handed these things out, and told them to be off. But they were aware that she was by herself, and they straight away demanded another serve. In reply Mrs. Parrington produced the gun. One big buck, thinking to bluff her, stood up grinning at her, and, pointing to his stomach, invited her to fire. There happened to be a water butt, which was at the back door of every house in those days, over which she levelled the gun. She pulled the trigger, and the concussion and paper wad striking the n--- fair in the stomach, lifted him off his feet, and landed him half a chain away on the broad of his back, —dead to all appearances or purposes.

The rest of the mob went for dear life, and she let go the other barrel at them, glad to help them on their way. They did not stop for 16 miles. Some time later, when Mrs. Parrington was considering just what she would do with what she thought was a dead nigger, she saw some slight move. He appeared to be getting his breath and soon rolled, over. First he got on his knees and then suddenly up and off on the track of his tribe. Some time towards afternoon he got within sight of them, but when they saw him, knowing that he had been shot, they thought it must be his 'ghost,' and away they went again for another ten miles with the 'ghost' in pursuit. They never returned to worry Mrs. Parringinton.

If anyone should think there are any flies on this story, Just let them get someone to pull a trigger on them with powder and paper. When they wake up they will certainly have altered their mind.— D. N. Martin, Maynard's Well.

Better To Be Sure Than Sorry

—Reference in 'The Chronicle' to the young man who shot the top off a snake-bitten finger recalls to my mind an incident which happened many years ago. A man returning home late one night proceeded to feed the horses. When putting hay into the manger, he felt a sharp prick on the finger, striking a match he was horrified to see a large black snake in the manger.

Naturally he concluded he had been bitten. Rushing into the house he told his wife, she, a woman of the Spartan type, made him place his finger on a block. With a meat chopper she severed the finger at the first joint. Then a journey of several miles was undertaken to obtain medical assistance.

After dressing the wound, the doctor examined the dismembered portion of the hand, which had been taken along. All he could discover was a cockspur prickle, which had penetrated the finger.— 'Peggoty,' Cowell.

Kissed The Wrong Girl.

— A few years ago there were six men working on a farm on the West Coast. A few miles away lived an old bachelor. He used to come over to chat with the boys. They used to tease him for not getting married.

One day the 'boss' hired a girl to help his wife. Next time the bachelor came over they accused him of coming to see the girl. He got quite serious. One night, as he came up to the door, the girl came out with a dipper in her hand. It was fairly dark, and he stood back. The girl didn't see him. She went to the tank, and was filling the dipper when the old fellow caught and kissed her. She let him have the dipper of water in the face.

Perhaps that calamity would not have happened, but for a slight mistake in the dark. It was the wife of the 'boss' that he kissed.— 'O.M.,' West Coast.

Doctor's Creek.

— Few of the travellers who pass through Doctor's Creek know the interesting history of the quiet and pretty property, midway between Macclesfleid and Strathalbyn. In 1850 Dr. Rankine owned the property. It was because he was in residence there that it was known as Doctor's Creek. Before Dr. Rankine owned it, Doctor's Creek was called Blackwood station.

Dr. Rankine stood for Parliament and a wag prominently displayed the following doggerel as an advertisement by nailing it on a tree close to Dr. Rankine's property:— Dr. Rankine killed a calf, Dr. Blue, he had half, Nipper Stephens had the head, For ringing the bell when the calf was dead.

Doctor Blue was in residence at Strathalbyn. The widow of Dr. Blue's son afterwards married the late Sir Samuel Way. Dr. Rankine sold the property to Mr. Nutt, who secured the contract in 1868 to lay the tram lines at Victor Harbour. All the timber for the contract was procured from Doctor's Creek. Mr. Nutt had a large plant erected for the purpose. Part of the plant still remains at the homestead. One of the assistants one day became entangled in the belting, and was cut to pieces before the machinery could be stopped.

Later the property was owned by Mr. Fisher. The present owner is Mr. Thring, who is in residence now. Mr. T. Gooch, an old identity of Macclesfield, was mail driver for Mr. Ben Thomas, of Mount Barker, who had the mail contract in between Macclesfield and Mount Barker. The mail was run by horse and trap via Bugle Ranges. In those days a hotel did a good trade at Bugle Ranges.— 'M.J.B.,' Macclesfield.

Bird's Fidelity.

— The devotion of birds is sometimes equal to that of dogs or horses. My brother worked on the saw mills at Parachilna. On one of his holidays he brought home a young cockatoo. This, as it grew, became very fond of my sister. Cocky would follow her about, and always looked to her at feeding times. He was savage with other members of the family or with strangers.

Once my sister drove in a cart to a funeral. Cocky flew down the road and over the vehicles, calling my sister's name. She had to draw out from the funeral, and drive home.

During an illness once, my sister was confined to her bed, cocky was shut out of the bed room. He climbed the curtains at her doorway, and sat on the top, looking a picture of misery. He seemed to fret so that mother eventually let him into the room. He sat on my sister's pillow the whole of every day until she was better.

In the 1913-14 drought we had to travel our horses to the West Coast for feed. My sister went on the waggon. Old Cocky would go down in the scrub, in the direction the waggon had started, calling my sister by name. Then he would go back to the cow-yard and sit on the bail where she always milked her cows. We had to fetch him home at nights, but in the mornings he went back to the waiting place looking for his adopted mistress. He fretted and refused to eat.

One day we went away from home. Cocky disappeared. He either died in the scrub or was killed by hawks. — 'Wattle Blossom,' Germein.

Patawalonga Sands.

— One Sunday morning a friend of ours decided to ride from the Semaphore along the beach to Glenelg. He reached the mouth of the Patawalonga Creek, and decided to cross where he thought there was firm sand.

His horse, 'Major' had not gone far when he began to sink, first up to his knees, and then lower, until he was nearly under. Our friend managed to jump on to firmer sand, and with the help of some men who came to his aid, they dragged 'Major' to firm ground.

I shall never forget the sight of our friend arising, after he had taken 'Major' to be attended to, for the poor brute was in a bad way! — E. Roebuck Wise, Normanville.

Real Life Stories Of South Australia (1933, February 9). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 17. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article90898894