21 June 1934

WITHOUT CLOTHES IN CENTRAL AUSTRALIA 

Unenviable Plight Of Adelaide Youth

In 1886, when the Northern Territory was still part of this State, the South Australian Government sent a survey party to the Barkly Tableland to fix the boundaries of the newly-taken-up cattle runs. The leader was my brother-in-law, the late David Lindsay. I was only 18 at the time, but when I was offered a chance to go with the party, I begged my father to allow me to take it. He consented at last, and we set off. 

We had hardships and difficulties on the trip, but the worst of them came during the last seven weeks, when we crossed the arid strip of country which lies between the MacDonnell Ranges and the Queensland border. 

We had barely enough water to drink, and washing was an undreamed-of luxury. Seven weeks without a wash or a bath, in a very hot climate! Only those who have experienced it can realise the misery which it causes. You get so that you hate your very self — you are filled with nausea at the feel of your grimy skin and bodily staleness. Not even a teaspoon of water can be spared to clear your eyes in the morning; no mater how filthy your hands become, sand or grass is the only thing to clean them, and you have to eat and handle food with fingers reeking from contact with your camel. 

And then one day we topped a rise and saw Lake Nash before us, a beautiful sheet of water sparkling in the sun. One thought filled my mind, a swim and then clean clothes. I took every stitch of clothing; and bedding I possessed, a bucket and a bar of soap, and made for the lake shore, where I first had a swim and then rubbed and scrubbed for hours at my clothes, spreading them on lignum bushes to cry. 

Before I left Adelaide my mother had sewed for hours, getting ready an outfit of clothing for me, for we were to be away from civilisation for a year at least. When my clothes were all washed I went, for another swim. I saw a big mob of poddy calves go past where I had put my clothes to dry, but in my youthful ignorance I paid no heed; an old bush man would have run up to protect his belongings.

When I came out of the water a ghastly sight met my eyes — my clothes were ruined. Almost crying with anger, I collected the muddy, chewed, horned and trampled fragments of what had been shirts, singlets, socks, and trousers. The cattle had eaten every cotton garment and had torn all the woollen ones, blankets included, to ribbons with their horns. 

I could barely collect enough to cover myself. My mates roared with laughter when I came back to the camp, but in reality it was a tragedy, for nothing could be replaced, so many hundreds of miles away from the nearest store. 

And then an outback angel came to the rescue — Mrs. Farrow, of Lake Nash station. She did not laugh at my plight; she made me collect and wash every rag; and then she set to work to sew them together for me. 

People who have never been far from the sound of the railway whistle cannot realise how precious clothing was outback in the eighties, when supplies arrived once a year by bullock team, and might be months on the road. Every rag of clothing around the house which could be spared she used to patch up my garments, with the result that I was once more protected from the scorching sun by day the freezing winds at night, and the hordes of stinging and biting insects. 

A lot has been said and written in praise of the pioneer women, but even so not a tenth part of what they deserve has been placed on record. Strangely enough, the bravest and most indomitable of all were the women who had been reared in comfortable surroundings, never seeing the bush until they went out with their husbands to help carve a home out of the wilderness. I owe many of them debts of gratitude which can never be repaid, and the greatest of all I owe to Mrs. Farrow for the way in which she sat for hour after hour, sewing patiently for a lad who was a complete stranger. 

If any of her descendants should read this, I would like them to know that a man of nearly seventy has not forgotten what was done for him by her in 1886. — 'Larrapinta.'

Something He Had Never Eaten Before 

In the outback the practice of 'duffing' was very prevalent among the more unscrupulous of the smaller squatters. This meant appropriating calves belonging to other squatters by rounding them up and marking them with the brand of the 'duffer.' 

The faking of brands, too, was not uncommon, and killing a neighbor's cattle for beef was not infrequently done. The penalties for these offences were very severe— if they could be proved. But they seldom were. 

There was the case of two old squatters whose runs adjoined. Both bachelors, they had been bitter enemies for several years, seldom seeing each other and never speaking if they did. I have forgotten their real names, but will call them Brown and Smith.

About a week before Christmas, Smith was greatly surprised to receive a letter from Brown, in which the latter suggested that during the coming festive season they should bury the hatchet and become friends again. The letter concluded with a cordial invitation to Smith to join the writer at dinner on Christmas Day, and a promise that there would be something there to eat that he had never partaken of before. 

Christmas Day arrived, and at noon Smith presented himself at Brown's place. He was met in a most cordial manner. The two ex-enemies shook hands, and talked of cattle, horses, the drought, and of other matters that interest squatters. 

Presently the cook — a Chinaman announced that dinner was 'leddy.' The two adjourned to the log-built dining-room. The only food placed on the table, however, was damper and a huge piece of freshly salted, well cooked fat beef, accompanied by black tea. To this fare both men helped themselves liberally and made good use of their teeth. 

When it was finished. Smith waited for the stuff he had never tasted before. But Brown filled his pipe and prepared to leave the table. "Haven't you forgotten something?" the guest enquired. "What's that?" asked Brown. "The stuff you were going to give me that I had never eaten before." "Oh, that," replied Brown. "Why, you've had it." "Had it!" echoed the bewildered Smith. "Yes, you blighter — a bit of your own beef," was Brown's answer as he made for the door.

Friendly relations were not maintained after this. But I expect Smith managed to get his own back in some way or other that would even up the account. — A. Daly.

Animals At Play

Unless trained to do so, it is not often that one finds animals playing games, and more seldom still of their own volition. And yet the following game is played almost daily by a horse, a sheep dog, and a kitten at Glenelg. 

The yard at their home is divided from the next door neighbor's by a high paling fence. There is only one hole, and that a small one, in the bottom of the fence, just large enough to admit a particularly perky bantam cock from next door. 

No sooner is this tiny intruder seen than the horse, the dog, and the kitten take up their positions and the game begins. The dog, with infinite patience, proceeds to 'work' that bird, exactly as he would a sheep, inch by inch back to the hole in the fence. The horse and the kitten are much more than merely interested spectators, for whenever the dog succeeds in moving the bantam a few feet nearer the goal, they at once close in. 

Strange to say, it is the cat that is the first to show impatience. If progress is at a standstill, she makes a pounce, when the bird breaks through, and the whole business begins again. They do not show any animus towards their little neighbor, but appear to regard the whole affair as a game, into which they enter with the utmost zest. 

When at last their patience is rewarded and they succeed in shepherding the bantam through the hole into his own yard, they all appear to feel the greatest satisfaction at having won. — 'Logopoios.'

She Cured Him

In the early days of Robe, night drinking was a general pastime. A young Scotch woman, however, not liking the loneliness of her home, nor the 'siller'' that it cost Jock each night, decided that she would put a stop to it. 

Not wishing to put the test on single-handed, she explained her plan to another young married woman and asked her to accompany her, and bring 'Sandy' home. The other woman, however, said that her husband could stop there till doomsday before she would go for him, so Mrs. 'Jock' went alone. 

Arriving at the hotel, she found a fair gathering there, including her husband; but nothing daunted, she 'breasted the bar' with a pound note in her hand, and demanded a bottle of champagne. 

She then invited everyone in the bar, except her husband, to join in her little festivity. The contents of the bottle having disappeared, she ordered another, but before the publican was able to execute the order, Jock edged up to her and suggested that it was time to be going home. 

His wife acquiesced, and she did not have to repeat the lesson. The couple soon afterwards left Robe for Mount Gambier, where they lived for many years, but never again could anyone persuade Jock to spend the evening in an hotel.— 'TantaTyga,' Milicent.

Wreck Of The Edith Haviland

Perhaps no part of the Australian coast has proved more disastrous to shipping than that portion of South Australia stretching from the Murray mouth to the Victorian border. Since August, 1838, forty-eight vessels have been wrecked there, and many lives lost. 

In June, 1877, the Edith Haviland, commanded by Captain Rodie, was wrecked off Cape Banks as the result of a severe hurricane. The circumstances were the more tragic because it was the captain's last voyage, and he was accompanied by his wife and two children, besides a crew of five. 

The waves rose to a great height, and the vessel was tossed to and fro like a cockleshell. Captain Rodie held his children in his arms, but a huge wave tore them from his grasp, dashed them against the bulwarks, and then swept them overboard. 

When the storm had eased a little, the captain returned to his cabin, only to find that his wife had also disappeared. The ship's cook, a negro, was severely cut on the chest and swept overboard. 

The Edith Haviland rapidly broke up, but the captain and crew managed to reach the shore on pieces of the broken vessel. The negro cook was tossed up on the shore by the waves. He was alive, but his wound, coupled with his struggle with the waves, caused his death. 

The skipper and his men staggered inland with news of the disaster, and help was subsequently obtained. 

Captain Rodie, sitting by a fire in one of the cottages after his escape, feelingly related the story of the wreck and showed the people of the house one of his children's little play-things, which he had found hanging on a hook in the cabin, when it was washed ashore. The bodies of his wife and children were never recovered. The cook was buried at Port MacDonnell. — 'Interested.'