18 October 1934

ADELAIDE MUD IN THE FORTIES 

A Bet And Its Consequences

Adelaide mud seems to have been a byword in the early days. 

At a time when Hindley and Rundle streets were beginning to take shape as the shopping and business streets of the capital and when a few stores, newly erected, served to mark the approximate positions of Currie and Grenfell streets, men were still clearing away tree stumps from the thoroughfares, chiefly by grubbing.  To the danger of the holes thus left was added the inconvenience of dust and mud. 

Bullock drays pounded the soil to fine dust in summer and mixed it into the most tenacious brand of mud in winter. 

In the summer every breeze whispered the dust through the chinks left in the house walls by the contraction of the boards in the intense heat, and spread it over all that was within. 

In winter the same dust, but now in the form of mud, came in through the doors on the shoes and boots of people who had picked their way through sloughs feet deep in the streets outside. 

Adding to the havoc done by bullock drays and by grubbing tree-stumps were the people who excavated cellars. They were allowed to throw the dirt dug out of the cellars into the streets because it was plausibly stated that the holes could then be filled in and the streets raised. 

But the effect of winter rains on such quantities of loose earth lying about is too easily imagined to require description. As a result, the crossing of streets in winter time was a matter requiring the nicest judgment. I suspect that Caesar himself spent not so much time in pondering over the waters of Rubicon as many a belle and dandy of early Adelaide spent in contemplating the breadth of Hindley street. 

It was no uncommon sight to see a bullock dray bogged to the axles being dug out, and thereafter the hole quickly filled with water and became a continual trap for the unwary. Loungers on the primitive footpaths enjoyed many a laugh at the expense of some unlucky individual who suddenly found himself submerged to the knees or the thighs, or even the waist, in some one of the many lurking pitfalls. 

The story is told of a likeable young fop who accepted a challenge to walk through any pool in Adelaide. The young man dressed very stylishly in the broadcloth of the period, and he had an inordinate taste for jewellery, much of which he wore set about his person. On this particular occasion he was proudly parading in front of the Southern Cross Hotel with his legs encased in a pair of boots reaching well up to the knees and claiming to have the laugh on everyone as he could, so he said, go through any pool of water in the town without getting wet. He was challenged on the point, the challenger undertaking to point out a pool through which the young fellow could not walk without letting the water into his boots. The loser was to shout drinks. 

Attended by a large crowd, the two principals moved off and took up their station by a certain pool. The challenger stood on one side, and at a given signal the other was to walk through the pool towards him. The signal was given, The young man began carefully to wade in. Half way over amid the laughter of the on lookers, he disappeared, to appear again spluttering in the muddy water. He had been lured into an old saw-pit, but he took it very well. 

Inspector Tolmer, who was then in charge of the police, relates that he drew rein in King William street one day in July, 1843, to speak to a friend. His horse was standing in mud a foot deep and, whatever the cause, suddenly bucked and sent its rider sprawling. Picking himself up, he caught and remounted the horse, riding off to the barracks amid the laughter of the spectators, with his uniform clotted with mud of the best Adelaide brand. 

Those mud-lakes where Tolmer's horse threw its master are smooth, shiny black ribbons where the lineal descendants of Tolmer's horse now seldom appear. For one thing, the surface is so smooth that the unfortunate beasts can hardly keep a footing on it in winter. And where the naphtha flares of early Adelaide glowed yellowy in treacherous pools, nowadays, neon signs send back brilliant and multi colored reflections from the glistening bitumen. — 'Kestrel.'

Expensive Experiment

It is the unexpected that often happens, particularly in the case of the experimentalist or inventor, a fact that was demonstrated to me in a very striking fashion on one occasion. 

Jack Ormiston, a wealthy old squatter and the possessor of one of the finest homesteads in the district in which I was then living, suffered severely from the ravages of wedge tailed eagles, particularly during the lambing season, and naturally his hatred of those birds was deep and abiding. He was always devising some new method of destroying them, but the baited rabbit-trap had so far proved his most successful means of catching them. 

One day I had occasion to visit him, and while I was there a black boy arrived with an eagle which he had found in a trap, and had brought in alive and very little damaged. When old Jack saw the captive his face lit up. 'Cripes,' he said, 'the very thing I wanted! Now I will show you my latest method of painlessly exterminating these blanky birds. I thought this one out yesterday when I was down at the windmill watering the ewes.' 

The old chap walked quickly into his storeroom and returned with a half plug of gelignite, a detonator, a short length of fuse, and a piece of sewing twine. 'This is a good one,' Jack remarked. 'All you have to do is to fix the fuse and detonator into the gelignite, tie it to his leg, light the fuse, let the bird go, and watch what happens.' 

At the expense of sundry scratches and cuts, Jack and the black boy tied the gelignite to the bird's leg and, when the fuse was well alight, let it go. Whether it was exhausted by its struggles in the rabbit-trap, or whether it was frightened by the unusual fixture on its leg, I do not know; but that eagle flew straight from old Jack's hands and perched on top of one of the chimneys of the house. 

When they saw this, the old man and the black boy danced about and swore, vainly endeavoring to dislodge the bird, but to no avail. At last, with a deafening report, the bird and the chimney disappeared in a cloud of dust, while I, thinking that the expression on my face would offer the lie to any expressions of concern or sympathy that I might tender to the erstwhile jubilant experimentalist, quietly unhooked my horse and rode away. 

When I looked back at the gate old Jack was endeavoring to explain to his indignant and startled women folk, who surrounded him, the cause of the loud explosion and the reason why the homestead had now only a shattered column of masonry instead of a chimney. — 'Murraminga.'

Robe's Early Stone Walls.

On several properties near Robe stone walls take the place of the customary post and wire fences. Most of these walls, despite the fact that they have been built without mortar, have stood for over half a century, some having been built more than 70 years ago. 

The usual pay for building these walls, which are mostly about five feet high and more than two feet wide at the base, was at the rate of one pound per chain. In those days wire fences were unknown. What few fences there were had mostly been made by dragging boughs together. 

A few of the wealthier squatters had a bit of post-and-rail, but the stone walls were considered to be easily the best fences in the South East. There were, at that time, no rabbits to burrow under them, and they served splendidly to keep back the hordes of kangaroos which infested the country on which they were built. 

A great deal of the wall stands on a property known as Richmond Park, then owned by Mr. Edward Stockdale. Mr. Stockdale concentrated on horse breeding. Hundreds or horses roamed over the hills of the huge holding, but the venture did not prove very profitable. Although some of the horses were splendid animals, the market was poor. 

At a sale on one occasion Mr. Stockdale sold a thousand horses for a thousand pounds, foals thrown in. Several of these horses subsequently did well on the racecourses. Australia's great poet and horseman, Adam Lindsay Gordon, spent a time horse-breaking on Richmond Park. 

Most of the walls on Richmond Park were built by a gentleman of good family who came to Australia to seek his fortune. Near where he was working, he built several huts in which he and his family lived. The walls of the huts he made from rough stones. In the place of mortar he used red clay. The roofs were thatched with cutting grass from nearby swamps. Some of the walls of these crude huts are still standing, even though half a century has passed since they were last occupied. 

The gentleman did not make a fortune by building stone walls, but he inherited a large estate in England. However, he did not leave Australia, but had a huge house built near Robe. In charge of the mason-work he had a man named Levi Cooper, who was far famed for the neatness of his workmanship. It is said of him that he was a man who was never known to slum a job. No matter how long work took, he cared not at all, even though he lost money by it—his work must be faultless. 

When the house was completed he built about a half a mile of stone wall near it. So perfectly did he fit the stones into the wall, that even after all these years, it would be a difficult matter to find one that has moved from the position in which it was originally placed. Though Levi Cooper did more pretentious work, it is, nevertheless, in this old, unplastered wall that his workmanship stands out so prominently. 

The old mason has passed on, but the wall stands as a monument to his skill. Another old wall at Robe, though not of a great length, leads to Karatta. At one time, Karatta was a governor's summer residence. Later, the house fell into disrepair but a few years ago was renovated and converted into a guest home.— "Memorabilia."

Mother's Lonely Vigil

Mrs. Tonkin looked out through the night for the return of her two sons, who were harrowing about a mile from home. A thunderstorm had passed over about two hours before, followed by heavy driving rain.

At last her anxiety led her in search of the missing boys. With a lantern she searched the paddock, to find them lying alongside their dead horses, killed by a flash of lightning during the storm. 

Telephones and motor cars had not then reached the district, and travelling at night time, with heavily flooded creeks, was dangerous. Morning came, and neighbors sought assistance from the policeman at Carrieton, who rode out to find the mother still watching by her dead, a vigil that she had kept throughout the night.— 'Brumby.'

It Could Shoot Straight

Some years ago two young lads decided to go shooting. One of them turned up with a very old shot-gun, which the other said was no good, as it would not shoot straight. 

An argument followed, in which the one with the gun challenged the other to walk fifty paces ahead and bend down. He would soon prove that the gun was all right. The challenge was accepted, and the other boy walked the fifty paces and bent down. His companion took aim and fired. 

The target leaped into the air, and his screams and moans proved that the gun did shoot straight. — 'Sleepy Hollow.'

Ants Solve A Mystery

Ants are doubtless a pest, but they have often been very useful to man. One old-timer I know looks kindly on every ant-mound he sees. Years ago, on the Palmer River goldfield, he stopped one day out of curiosity to inspect an ants nest, he noticed a few minute specks of what looked like gold, and started to 'pan' the locality, the ants' nest included. In less than a month he obtained about £50 worth of gold.

At Roma some years ago, a series of shop burglaries had the police baffled. But after some weeks a constable and a black tracker located a mysterious stranger camped in the middle of a scrub about ten miles from the town. A thorough search of the camp and its surroundings revealed nothing. 

The constable decided to arrest the man as a vagrant, and just as he was about to depart with his prisoner, the tracker gave an excited yell and dropped on his knees alongside an ant-track. He had noticed that the ants were carrying grains of white sugar from somewhere in the scrub to their nest near the camp. 

The trail led a quarter of a mile into the scrub, where it disappeared inside a large hollow tree stump, which contained the stolen property. A packet of sugar was among some purloined groceries.— R.R., Eastwood.