23 November 1933

PLAYING THE MADMAN IN THE BUSH AT NIGHT

Story Of A Practical Joke Along The Birdsville Track

How a member of two coach loads of men going to Birdsville acted the part of a madman in the bush at night, much to the discomfort of the rest of the party, is related amusingly here by 'Old Bushman.'

It was in 1890 that I played the conspicuous part of 'a man in the horrors' when camped for the night close to a waterhole six mile west of Birdsville, and kept some big men on tenterhooks until long after midnight.

There were two coach loads of us going to Birdsville. One coach was driven by Ted Steers, a well known Jehu of those days, and the other by a comparatively new hand, Atkinson. On Atkinson's coach were Frank Booth, Ned Whitting, and Bob McOid. On Ted Steer's coach there were Charlie Chappie and a man named Roberts, and myself.

It was just dusk when we overtook Atkinson's coach and pulled up. I was lying down in the coach with a rug over me. Someone enquired where I was. 'Oh, he stopped back at Karatunka with Armstrong' (who was camped there). Immediately the cry came, 'Oh, well, I'll come and take his place.' 'No, you cannot; we have got a lot of luggage in behind.' Atkinson said to Steers. 'You had better go on ahead: you know the road best.' So on we went, and reached the camp some time before the other coach, and hobbled our horses out.

I then conceived the idea of giving the second coach passengers a shock. Taking my 'quart pot' and rug, I went some hundred yards away and lay down be hind a big saltbush. On the arrival of the other coach the horses were hobbled, and Steers and Booth started to go to the waterhole. Booth coming directly towards me, Steers ahead of him, but a bit further from me. I thought my scheme was over when Booth, discerning a dark form on the ground, yelled out, 'Stop, Ted! Ted, there's a man here!'

But Steers took no notice, and immediately Booth ran after him, and I moved my quarters. On coming back to the camp Booth told them about the man be had seen, and they all ridiculed the idea. But Booth was not to be silenced. At last someone said in a loud voice, 'Oh, shut up; you've got the horrors.' Booth said, 'Come on with me, and I'll show you where the man is.' But there was no man there.

This put the idea into my head, and I began talking to myself, &c., &c. They were having their tea at the camp, when Chappie got up in the coach, a butcher's knife in his hand, and exclaimed, I'll stab you if you come here.' (Chappie was acting well). McOid talk like that, Charlie,' said McOid, and quietly he said, 'Come in here, old chap, and have same tea.' (All this time I was moving about.)

There were no trees about, the two coaches were about three of four yards apart, and all hands were lying on the ground watching. Suddenly Booth said. 'We are a lot of fools to be lying here; if that fellow comes in here he would murder two or three of us. We have nothing to protect ourselves with. We had better take the 'swingle trees' off the coaches.'

I thought it was time to act, so putting a stone in my quart pot, and with my rag over my head, I started for the camp, rattling the stone in the pot, howling and groaning, I approached them.

Nobody moved, Roberts, who was 'in the know,' had wrapped his rug around himself and gone to sleep. On purpose I tripped over Roberts. Instantly Whitting (16 stone weight) was on my back. 'Bring a rope; we've got him,' he yelled Someone else caught hold of my legs. I could scarcely contain myself. At last I managed to turn my head, and Whitting saw my face.

'Good Lord,' he exclaimed, 'where the devil did you come from?' Then mutual recriminations followed as to cowardice, &c., Whitting declaring that he was not afraid of the devil if he met him in the daylight, but he 'was damned if he liked a madman in the dark,' but it was the stone in the 'quart pot' that scared the lot. All my companions in that trip have long since crossed the border line. -OLD BUSHMAN.

A Night Of Terror

It was in the early seventies that I was sent down, with a team of bullocks and a waggon, to bring up the rations that were required for the shearing, which was to start on my return. There were no fences out back in those days.

I was only a lad, and I had brought a black [man] with me to assist me on the trip. I was loaded, and made a start for home. After having gone about four miles, I came to a big claypan, across which the track went. As several teams had been across it in wet weather, they had made some deep ruts. Almost in the middle of the claypan I saw a man lying face downwards. On coming up to him I saw he was drinking some thing out of the wheel tracks, and by the smell I knew it was brandy. He told me that he had dropped a bottle and broken it, and rather than lose it he was drinking it out of the mud.

He was very drunk, and I recognised him as one of our shearers. As shearing was to start on my arrival, I decided to take him with me, and with the assistance of my [companion] we got him on top of the load.

Coming to our camp for the night, the waggon was left on the road, and a fire was lighted some 20 yards away, and we boiled our billy and had our evening meal. 'Old Tom,' the drunken shearer, had gone to sleep close to the fire, and was mumbling to himself. We left him there and dossed down close to the waggon and slept— but only for a little while.

We were awakened by loud outbursts, such as, 'Keep off, keep off, or I'll stab you.' We could see 'Old Tom,' a butcher's knife in his hand, addressing an invisible foe, and making a blow at him. Then there was quiet for a while, and only a low mumbling. Suddenly another loud outbreak, and wordy war with the imaginary foe.

On the first outbreak my black [companion] had vanished into the scrub and I, thinking that discretion was the better part of valor, had moved my camp to underneath the waggon, between the hind wheels, through the spokes of which, in fear and trembling, I watched 'Old Tom's' antics until daylight, when he went to sleep and my [companion] returned. But the memories of that night have never left me. There was not another person within 10 miles of us that night.— 'Old Norwester.'

The Blind Man And The Birds

Up in the hills in the 'seventies a poor working man lived on a fruit block. He did casual work on his neighbor's blocks. He was so fond of birds that they would come around and eat out of his hand or pick up the worms as he dug them up.

His wife died and left him with four young children. A spinster blocker nearby looked after the two youngest children by day while he worked. She also did the patching and mending. At night the father cooked and washed for the children, and showed them how to help him. He brought them up to be well behaved, industrious young people, and kind to all animals and birds.

Twenty years went by. All the children left the home nest, and were settled happily in life. The spinster and the old man had a quiet wedding, and, as her block was let, they were in comfortable circumstances. They fed the birds night and morn— quite a flock— robins, thrushes, swallows, sparrows, willies, starlings, finches.

The old man became blind, and it was wonderful how he knew what birds perched on his head or shoulders. 'Mary, lass,' he would say, 'where are the robins? Are they nesting? Some more swallows— are they lasting? More finches — are they young?' It was interesting how they came at his call.

One summer day the old man said, 'I am very tired, Mary, lass. I will rest until dinner.' The doors and windows were open and the birds flew in and out. After a while, Mary noticed everything seemed dull no birds about. She went outside and saw the birds sitting in the trees with drooping wings. When she called, they answered with mournful cries.

She became scared, and called out, 'Dad! Dad!' There was no answer, he had passed quietly away. The birds for many days mourned sadly — and flew in and out, seeming to search for their kind friend.— S.M.J.

A Snake Story

I had gone down a well to repair a neighbor's windmill pump. Seated in a sling, with a candle for light, and to test the air in the well, I had nearly reached the water level at about 150 ft., when the feeble rays of the candle were reflected in the beady eyes of a snake, which was coiled up in a recess which had been out in the rocky wall of the shaft to carry one end of the pump bearer. The water level had subsequently fallen, and the pump had been fixed some feet lower.

There lay the snake, in the 9 ft. by 6 ft. opening, its head projecting into the well, up raised and motionless, within 2 ft. of my face. Having no desire to remain, I promptly knocked with the spanner on the water pipe, and was drawn to the surface.

On relating the facts, my mates asked what I intended to do. I suggested that one of them should go to the house and get his rifle, and I would go down again and shoot the reptile. After argument as to the wisdom of such a proceeding, he did so, and again I descended, to find the snake in the same position. I have done quite a lot of shooting, but I confess to a certain amount of nervousness on that occasion.

Steadying myself with feet stretched across the well, and holding the candle so as to get a clear sight of my mark, I fired with one hand at close range — very close, as the rifle nearly reached across the well. The light was dim, and a snake's neck is not a wide mark, so I was relieved when I heard the splash in the water below where it viciously thrashed about in its death throes. Retrieving the snake with a length of bent wire, I found that the head was practically severed from the body, so my hand had been steady. It was a 5 ft. diamond snake.— EKWAH.

Saved By Trousers Cuff

A party of men and lads was rounding up sheep for shearing on a farm in the neighborhood of Balgowan on a very hot summer day. Snakes were in abundance at this time, and on such a hot day the men were keeping a close watch for the reptiles in the drying grass of the paddock. They had no cause for alarm for quite a time, but as their task neared completion the day's excitement occurred.

One of the lads, while rounding up some strays, stepped on a clump of dried grass, and immediately sprang back, uttering a cry. The men rushed towards him and saw a 6 ft snake coiled around his leg, its fangs buried in the region of his ankle. There was no time to waste, and one of the men dashed forward, grasped the snake by the tail, and with a wrench, swung it over his head and cracked it like a whip, breaking its back.

The others hurried to the boy, expecting him to be badly injured. He seemed all right, and looking at the place where he had been bitten, they found the cuff of his trousers yellow with poison where the fangs had sunk. Luckily for the boy the snake struck at the cuff of his trousers, which, fortunately, was thick enough to resist the bite.— Billy Bones, Kadina.