15 March 1934

EARLY DAYS OF BERRI 

Excitement In A Murray Settlement

Less than thirty years ago Berri, a fruit growing settlement on the Murray, was just a hut in the bush. Today it is an important town. The story of its beginning is told by a man who saw it

In 1908, on the banks of the River Murray, nestled among the gums a small hut belonging to Oscar Klemm. The country all around was scrub, over-run with rabbits and kangaroos. The place where that hut was is now Berri. 

About 12 miles below Berri is Cobdogla. It still retains its original name. Cobdogla was once a sheep station. About three miles above Cobdogla is Lake Bonny, now known as Barmera. 

When Berri started to boom, large gangs of men began clearing, and making concrete channels for the purpose of irrigating. The land was cut into blocks of from 10 to about 30 acres, and planted with vines and fruit trees. Those were the times. The navvies were there working, and money used to fly. 

I was working at Berri. My job was 'slushy' in the cookhouse. It mainly consisted of washing tin pannikins and plates, peeling spuds, and making tea. The pannikins would be washed and hung up on a big wire hook. The cookhouse and dining rooms were mostly big tents with long tables down the centre. The men would take a pannikin off the wire and a plate. They dipped a pannikin of tea out of a kerosene tin, filed past the cook, and got a plate of food. Then they went back to the table to eat their meal. 

The times they had around the pub, Saturday afternoon! Money was no object. They used to collect their wages and most of them would 'do them all in' on Saturday, and start work again Monday morning looking forward to the next Saturday. 

Bill Wade took up one of the first blocks in Berri, and built the hotel and a general store. Harry Martin built the first butcher's shop and bakehouse. 

When Berri first started it went ahead by leaps and bounds. Houses sprang up like mushrooms in a night. Now Berri can boast of having one of the best hotels on the Murray, one of the best picture theatres in the country (built for Mr. Najar); also half a dozen first class drapery and grocery stores, tailors' shops, hairdressers, chemist shops, private hospital, and a cool drink and refreshment rooms, boarding house, dining rooms, an up to-date bank, police station, and a fine school. 

On the river bank is a big pumping station, used to pump the water into the channels, which run for miles to irrigate the vineyards. Also on the river bank is a big packing shed, where fruit is graded and packed before being sent to market. About five miles out of Berri, about midway between Berri and Barmera, is the Berri Distillery, which, I believe, is the largest winery and distillery in the Commonwealth. They put through thousands of tons of grapes every year. About three miles above Berri township is the Berri Government Experimental Orchard. At Berri there is also a punt used to cross the river. 

An amusing incident happened at Berri a few years ago— at least it struck me as amusing. A blackfellow and his lubra were camped in a bag shanty on the river. The [Aborigine's] name was George Disher. The local constable found him with a bottle of wine that someone had bought for him. When George came before the court the 'beak' asked, 'What is your name?' 'George Disher, K.C.M.G.' 'Nonsense,' said the JP., 'it can't be K.C.M.G.' 'Yes,' said George, 'it is— Kindly Call Me George.' I bet there are plenty of Berrites who remember the incident.— Murray Weaver, Magill.

Melody Mac

Many old Northerners would readily recall 'Melody Mac,' whose gifted fingers enchanted many a droving camp, shearing shed, and bush hotel with music rung from all sorts of unexpected places. 

One evening at the Coward he was tinkling delightful tunes for us on wineglasses, when he became reminiscent. 

'These things,' he began, waving towards the glasses, 'remind me of the most genuine, unsolicited compliment I think I ever received. It happened a good many years ago, when I was working on a small place down the Mid North. There was an old chap there, a relative of the owners, who was supposed to be the bookkeeper, but most of his time was spent at the local pub, a few miles distant. 

One day, after he had been missing for nearly a week, the boss ordered me to jump in the buggy and go in and get him. It was getting towards evening when I arrived at the pub, where I found Uncle, dead to the world. The publican advised me to let him sleep until morning, which proposal suited me, probably Uncle as well, and certainly the publican. 

In the morning I sprang out bright and early, and, going into Uncle's room, endeavored to rouse him, but without success. After a while I gave it up and sat down to consider. Noticing an assortment of bottles and glasses scattered about the room, the idea came to me to amuse myself by saying it with music. Filling some glasses, I was soon tapping out some old favorites with a couple of cork-screws. After a while, for no fixed reason except, perhaps, that it happened to be Sunday morning, I drifted into some old hymns, arriving, finally, to that old favorite, 'In the Sweet By and By.' 'That concluded. I threw down the corkscrews and sang out loudly, 'Come on, Uncle; daylight!' 

'The result was absolutely astonishing. With a tremendous leap Uncle landed on the floor, and, after gazing wildly about the dimly lit room for a second, he sighted me, and at once threw his arms around my neck, at the same time gasping hysterically, 'Is it really you, Mac?' ' 'Of course it's me,' I said. 'What's wrong with you?' ' 'Why,' he whispered, 'I thought I'd died and gone to heaven, and the angels were playing on little golden bells.' '

'Well, to give this story a moral, I'd like to be able to tell you that Uncle signed the pledge then and there, lived a different life, and left me a legacy in his will. But what actually happened was that, Uncle, being so relieved at his narrow escape from heaven, insisted upon staying another day at the pub to celebrate it, and furthermore, he insisted upon me celebrating with him, I did not receive any legacies. What I did get was the sack.'— 'CM.,' Colonel Light Gardens.

Always Hungry

We had an old man working for us once who seemed to be always hungry. In winter we would set his table overnight and lay the fire sticks so that he could get his breakfast himself. Often and often he complained that we set him no breakfast. So we watched. 

At last we caught him at 3 o'clock one morning eating his breakfast before a roaring fire. He took up the lantern when he had finished and went back to his room to bed. We reset the table and fire, and later on he ate a second hearty meal. Thus the puzzle was solved.

— S.M.J., Maylands.

Always Hungry 1934, March 15

The Old Talisker

About fifty-six years ago [1878] the Old Talisker silver mine, near Cape Jervis, was in full working order. 

Most of the miners lived in wattle and daub cottages with thatched roofs. Cool and comfortable homes they were, perched on the sides of the hills. The mining captain and the storekeeper had a stone house, and there were two or three stone houses in the township of Silverton, a mile away. The day school was held in a stone chapel at the foot of the hill. The walls are still standing of these stone houses, monuments to the skill of the masons who built them. 

To obtain water people had only to dig a few feet into the clayey ground, and the next rain would fill the holes, and they held splendidly, clear, cool water. On the Mine Hill there was a chimney or flue to carry off the fumes from the smelted ore. 

The grass around this hill was poisonous for horses, cattle and sheep. Many and many an animal died through eating grass off that hill, but, strange to say, the flocks of goats kept by the miners seemed to flourish on it. Some years ago this chimney was opened out, the arsenic scraped out, and sold at a profit. 

For a time work was resumed at the old mine, but through want of capital once again it was left. There were heavy dews in summer so that there was always plenty of green grass near the creeks for the hundreds of goats that roamed there. 

From the highest hill can be seen Kangaroo Island and the sea dashing over the rocks two miles away. It is a lonely and picturesque place; lovely birds flit about and wild, beautiful flowers grow in profusion. Sometimes picnic parties visit it, or farmers go there collecting their sheep.— S.M.J.

One Too Many

In my young days we often had visits from the blacks. Prince Alfred and Princess Emma, of the Adelaide tribe, were a devoted couple. They had been well educated at the mission and were intelligent and well-mannered. They would share a meal with travellers if invited. I do not remember them ever begging for anything. They sometimes brought fish to sell, but I believe their wants were supplied by the rest of the tribe. I lost sight of them for many years. 

One day the princess, with Black Lizzie and two children, came to the door with some fish. We had a friendly talk and Emma said, 'You remember Lizzie? She is the prince's wife. Alfred, he had no heir, and he is the last of his line. I said to him, 'You are a prince. You can have two wives: You marry Lizzie. She ugly; no one wants her.' 

Alfred did, and these are his two little girls. Yes, we are happy. I do not mind. I take one piccaninny, Lizzie takes the other, and we wander away and help each other.' By and by the prince came along, looking sad, weary, and lonely. 'Hullo! prince, got another wife since last we met. Is it a success?' 

He shook his head sadly. 'No, no. Two wives no good. When I had one she stay with me and help me. Now I have two they go away and leave me alone. I am worse off than ever.' 

An epidemic of diphtheria spread to the blacks in the early seventies. The prince and his family were among the victims.— S.M.J., Maylands.

St. Patrick's Day

I recall spending St. Patrick's Day of 19?? in a little northern town; and right well did the populace celebrate it. It was 5 o'clock in the afternoon when I arrived at the hotel. There had been a race meeting, and when it was over all the sports came to the hotel to quench their thirsts. 

The trouble started by some fool staffing the 'Battle of the Boyne.' He did not finish it, though, in a few moments the lights were out and pandemonium reigned. Gradually the melee became general. 

From my hiding place under the bar counter I could hear the sound of blows and the curses that followed them. Luckily all revolvers had been 'parked,' otherwise there might have been more serious results. But a good deal of damage was done with bottles, sticks, and even bare fists. 

When things quietened and the casualties had retired to dress their wounds, the local butcher came to me with his hand wrapped in a handkerchief, a black eye, and several other bruises. He told me he had got mixed up with one of the policemen after the lights went out. During the scuffle, somehow or other he had got his little finger into the policeman's mouth. 'And the — bit it off and swallowed it,' he concluded. I examined his hand and, sure enough, the first joint of his little finger was missing. All the wounded man said about it was that 'he hoped the blighter would have indigestion for the rest of his life.' 

Next morning all the three local policemen showed signs of battle, having bandaged heads or arms in slings. But it was never found out which of them had swallowed the finger.