19 October 1933

WHEN GLENELG BECAME A TOWN

EARLY ADELAIDE HAD A DAY OUT

Episodes curious and comic marked many events when Adelaide was in the infant stage. One such was the inauguration of Glenelg. Probably few people know the story of that celebration, which is told below.

It was in the time of Governor Gawler that Glenelg became a town. The event was celebrated by an official opening. The occasion was also intended to commemorate the launching of the first vessel built in South Australia—a cutter constructed on the banks of the Patawalonga. But the ceremony had to be postponed, as the tide would not rise sufficiently high to float the vessel. It was privately launched at a later date, and christened 'O.G.' The builders were Henning and Fendon.

But the ceremony of opening Glenelg was carried out as arranged, or as near as arranged as circumstances permitted. The day dawned bright and clear, and a distinguished company was expected from the city. They came in traps, gigs, bullock drays, and on horse-back, through the dense Black Forest, which then reached from the seaport to the capital. There was no road other than a rough track between the two points.

Just before lunch rain began to fall. Most of the company were unprepared for this. Coats and umbrellas had been left at home in expectation of a warm day, and very few of the carts had covers. The only shelter was provided by a few canvas tents, totally inadequate to accommodate the big assemblage.

The rain grew heavier, and David McLaren, manager of the South Australian Company, was asked to escort Mrs. Gawler to his carriage. The coachman could not be found. It transpired that he had taken shelter in a tent where the drinks were stored, and had fallen a victim to the wiles of Bacchus. McLaren sought the man in high dudgeon, and after firing him on the spot, returned to the Governor's wife.

But the ground was slippery, and as the dignified official approached the lady, his legs slid from under him, and he sat with an undignified bump at her feet.

For many months afterwards he was barracked for having dismissed his coachman for drunkenness when he couldn't keep his own balance.

The rain caused the luncheon to be unduly extended, but in the end the downpour won. The tent began to leak. One by one the guests disappeared, driving back to town in sodden garments over tracks which had become a series of slippery quagmires.— 'M.J.B.,' Macclesfield

Man Who Escaped

A cause celebre in 1849 was the case of Peter Sidd, publican and timber merchant. Peter kept the Scotch Thistle Hotel. To all appearance, he was an honest and successful trader. Carting in those pre-railway times was solely in the hands of teamsters.

One day in the year mentioned a carter delivered to an Adelaide merchant two large cases of goods, one supposed to contain valuable silks, and the other ready-made clothing. The merchant signed the customary cart-note, setting out that the merchandise had been received in good order and condition. Then he thought no more about the matter until he sold the materials to a retailer. When the latter opened the cases he found they merely contained rubbish. At some point on the Port road the cases had been opened, the contents removed, and the rubbish substituted. Of course, the merchant had to compensate the retailer, and the matter came under the notice of the police.

Act II occurred in the Adelaide hills. A party of police, out after horse thieves, called at a certain coffee shop on the Mt. Lofty track. They noticed that the wife of the proprietor was wearing a dress made of silk resembling the stolen material. She told them her husband had sold some timber to Peter Sidd, of the Scotch Thistle, and had received some silk as part payment.

So Mr. Sidd was called on to explain. He was not at home, but, armed with a warrant, the officers searched the premises. They found the bulk of the missing stuff in a locked room. Sidd was arrested. Several dray loads of suspected goods were produced in court. Sidd was committed for trial. The case was never heard. Sidd was released oh heavy bail, but he did not answer to his name on the day of the trial. It transpired that he had escaped from the colony. Rumor had it that he had purchased a vessel, and was engaged in trading in other parts. — 'M.J.B.,' Macclesfield.

Caught On A Precipice

A few years ago, while a lighthouse keeper on Althorpe Island, I had an unpleasant experience. The only goat in milk out of our mob was missing. She had planted her kids in some cave, and we were without milk. That meant a lot of inconvenience to families with young children.

One morning I started off, determined to find her hiding place. I made for the northern end, and got about half-way down the cliff, several hundred feet high. I eventually got on to a track I had not seen before. The track was on sandstone, about 18 inches wide, and sometimes only about a foot. That did not trouble me, as I was used to the cliffs.

I kept on for about two hundred yards and came to a place where the cuff bulged out and obscured the track on the other side. I followed it round the projection. Then a horrible sickly feeling came over me. The track ended suddenly, and I found myself standing on the edge of a frightful precipice, where the action of the weather had fretted the sandstone away flush with the face of the cliff.

There was not foothold for a penguin. I felt inclined to dizziness. The thought flashed through my brain, "What if I cannot get back round that bend."

I pulled myself together and turned my face resolutely to the cliff. I spread both arms till my chest was close to the sandstone. I remained in this position for a few moments. Then, inch by inch, I worked my way round the bend and on to the safe trail.

For a week after I was nervy on the cliffs, and sometimes even now I can see that man-trap on the cliffs.

A governess who was a great rambler and a good climber about the island came back to the cottages one day looking very white and generally upset. She said she had had an unpleasant experience on the cliffs. From the description given by her I have not much doubt but that she got into the same trap as I did.

Pigs And The Tobacco Plant

In 1918 a city lad was staying on a farm on the Murray. The wonder of wonders in his eyes was a black sow and her 13 suckers, 12 of which were worth 30/ each.

One evening the boy hit on the rather brilliant scheme of utilising the tobacco leaves which grew in profusion about the place, in fattening the piglets. Gathering several armsful, he threw them into the stye, then ran away with Rover.

Returning an hour later, the boy saw his uncle lifting several pigs out of the stye. They were sleek, well-conditioned little fellows. The only visible fault in them was that they were stone dead.

The tobacco leaves fed to them on empty stomachs had proved fatal. The sole survivor was a weedy grunter, who had been relegated to the background while his stronger brethren had gorged themselves to death.— M. Conway, Pompoota.

How We Saved The Stallion

I was one of six musterers on a station on the north-west track in 1927, when the dam went dry during a hot spell. We had a mob of 50 horses in a 3,000 acre paddock of dense scrub. Among them was a stallion which for stamina beat anything I ever knew.

When the water supply failed we rounded up the horses, and took them to another part of the station where they could get a drink— all but the stallion. He was too wild for us get near him. He was a magnificent animal, the admiration of every man on the place.

That horse went without water for nine days. For the first four days he showed no sign of distress. On the fifth day we saw he was getting weaker. We determined to save him in spite of himself. We got our fastest horses to try and head him off. But it was no use; he could beat anything we had. On the sixth day his beautiful satin coat was covered with white foam. He must have suffered agonies. We tried for two more days to get him out of the paddock. Finally we decided very reluctantly that we would have to shoot him. It was a terrible end for such a gallant horse.

On the eighth day, however, we found we were able to get nearer to him, so we deferred drastic action. On the ninth day we found him stretched under a tree. We thought he was dead. But he jumped up at our approach and cantered off, this time towards the paddock gate. There was a joyful shout as, after a moment's hesitation, he dashed through. He galloped for a quarter of a mile before he found the other horses in a yard. We gave him a tub of water every quarter of an hour. He drank it like a thirsty swagman. No wonder the Australian bush horse stands first in the world.— 'Scrub Cutter,' Buckleboo.

A Girl's Adventure

We were a party of schoolgirls spending a vacation at Victor Harbour. We had been warned about the things we must not do, and the places where we must not go. They warned us against railway crossings, but they said nothing about the railway bridge.

So it was to the railway bridge that Martha, just 18, made her way. She stood there admiring the scenery without thought of such commonplace things as trains. A distant rumbling and a sickly vibration recalled her to her senses. She looked up to see a train bearing down upon her, with a white-faced driver frantically endeavoring to apply the brakes.

For a moment she was panic-stricken. There was no room on that bridge to stand aside. It was obvious the train could not be brought to a stop in time. Those of us who were watching stood rooted where we were.

But Martha was the athlete of the school. Gathering up her skirts, she sprang over the side railing and hung there while the train thundered past. Then she climbed back. But it was a quivering Martha who joined us a few moments later.— A. A. Barber, Chaffey.

Forgetfulness.

It is said to be a crime to be forgetful. I know it sometimes means unconscious cruelty.

A girl imprisoned a broody hen under a tub, then she went away and forgot it. On the fifth day the tub was accidentally tipped over, and the poor dazed weak fowl liberated. It revived with care. But it never became broody again.

Some farm folks left their house in charge of a boy. He had to feed and water some pigs in a sty. On the third night from home, the farmer dreamt the pigs were starving. He could hear them squealing. He returned just in time to save the animals. They had been forgotten.

Forty years ago — one hot day — a grazier had drafted out a thousand sheep into a yard. He had just shut the gate when two friends drove up. "We are off to Melbourne for two weeks' fun. Come along. We will give you an hour to get ready."

He sprang into the buggy. They had a grand time for ten days. When talking of home he remembered the sheep. He telegraphed to someone to 'release them.' Too late. They all had succumbed. 'S.M.J.,' Maylands.