11 July 1935

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE CLEAN-SKINS?

Black Boy Solves Mystery On Forbidden Walkabout

Cattle mustering carries with it a great thrill and generally, provided the season has been at all fair, the station owners wear contented smiles as the tallies are reckoned up each evening. Sid Welch, the boss of Chirripana, however, did not wear a pleased look when he had finished totalling up the work for the week. Another three days or so and the stock would all be through. The Gap section was the only one left to be run in, and as that consisted of the roughest country he could expect no great addition to the total. He was worried. His feed paddocks were as good as in previous years, and he had sold off only what he considered was a very conservative surplus. The calves seemed plentiful enough, but not up to last year's numbers. He would only have about two thirds of last year's surplus for sale.

No wonder he wore a worried look. His stockmen were quick to notice it, and all offered to scour their own sections again to make certain that no clean skins had been overlooked. Their offer made him feel that no matter what happened he was still fortunate to possess such sturdy and loyal employes. After more than a week's hard work at the yards they were still prepared to go out and search for possible strays.

He packed each man off next day and prepared to wait. It would take them at least two days to search their individual runs thoroughly. It so happened that just at this time Johnny, the only native employed on the station, decided to take a holiday. The tribal instinct had been rising within him for some time, and the hard work of the previous week had decided the issue. 'Me go walkabout, Boss. Me go longa Myall people.' 'No you don't, my lad,' replied the boss, who, in spite of his general good humor, was feeling rather bad tempered at the moment. 'You'll stop here until mustering is finished, or else you'll get no baccy and no pay.' 'Me go walkabout, Boss. You gib me baccy. Me been working a long time.' 'No,' stormed the boss. 'You'll get nothing if you clear out before the work is over.'

Johnny slunk away. It was not altogether fair. Once a native decides to go on his walkabout he feels that he must go. It is move than a tribal urge. It is a primitive instinct. No threats would keep Johnny at Chirripana for a day longer. As he expected. Welch found his fire unlit next morning and the work about the yard fell to him.

Next day his stockmen returned, having found but few strays. One solitary bunch of about thirty odd was all that they brought back. He felt angry. There was not the slightest doubt that some one had run off a bunch of clear skins. It was the same old story of the outback— the first with the brand gets them. It was too late to cry. Goodness only knew where they were now. He would have to watch out during the coming season. The mustering having been completed, he drafted out his surplus stock into the better feed paddocks and began to make preparations for droving them to the southern markets.

Late one day a miserable and dejected looking native slouched into the yard at Chirripana, and unobserved began chopping at the heap of firewood. Sid Welch heard the axe and guessed the reason. 'Johnny,' he called out. 'Shut the yard gate.' 'Yes, Boss,' replied the black boy, knowing that he was welcome and forgiven. A stranger entering the place an hour later would never have dreamed that Johnny had just returned from the wilds. Only one thing clung to him, and that a sign of hardship. His ribs were plainly visible, evidence of the poor fare he had had to exist on during his walkabout. The black boy had been back only a few hours when he sought out the boss when the latter was by himself. Johnny shuffled up to him uncomfortably.

'Well, my lad, what's up? We're not going to hurt you,' said the boss. 'No, boss,' replied the black lad. 'But me know where clean skins are.' 'What! You know where clean skins are?' repeated the boss. 'Whose clean skins?' 'Dem what was left out in de Gap hills branding time,' replied the lad. 'How do you know, Johnny,' queried Welch, quivering with excitement. 'Me walk by Gap hills, and me see 'em, may be dozen hundreds, all good fat ones, too,' came the ready answer. Johnny was dismissed with 'All right. Don't you tell the boys about it.'

Welch was thinking hard. This was not in order. The Gap hills were supposed to have been fed bare some time ago. He was forced to the conclusion that his stockmen had been deliberately misleading him. The Gap hills had been spared by them to provide good grazing for the clean skins about which he was not supposed to know. Johnny had served him well if his suspicions were proved correct.

Next day, on a pretence of going over to a neighboring station on a business trip, Welch rode off down the track on the best horse procurable. Well dressed and riding easily, he did not arouse the suspicions of his men. Once out of sight, however, he circled the homestead and rode hard for the Gap section. After some hours of riding he found a large number of well conditioned clean skins. He was overjoyed at the sight and, after making a note of the number, he rode to the neighboring station. The owner was a man he could trust and, after explaining the position to him, he enlisted his aid in handling a very difficult situation.

The following morning the Chirripana stockmen were surprised to see the boss and the neighbor come out of the house with guns. The game was up before they realised it. The law was far distant, and it was bush justice that was meted out to them. Without any pay for their work and with only an old horse to each man, they were forced to ride ahead of the neighboring station owner. He escorted them to the edge of his property, where the next station owner took charge. Thus from one station to another these men were run out of the State into Queensland, each station owner emphasising the threat, 'Don't you dare show up in these parts again, or it won't be healthy for you if you do.' Sid Welch learnt a lesson, and never again did he rely entirely on his men. He had also learnt the worth of an honest black lad.— 'Bushire.'

An Eccentric Parson

About 40 years ago, the Church of England minister at Robe was a man who, though most kind and sincere, was particularly absent-minded and eccentric besides being somewhat short sighted. These peculiarities frequently led him into most amusing predicaments. However, he was a man who always appreciated a joke against himself, and never in any way attempted to hide his idiosyncrasies.

On meeting a person in the street he would, on account of his shortsightedness, find it difficult to tell how close he was to them. For this reason he would usually extend his hand while still five or six yards away, at the same time loudly enquiring as to their health and well being. No matter whether he met the same person four or five times a day, he would shake hands on each occasion. Nevertheless, in the grip of his hand there was that which put his sincerity beyond all doubt.

On one occasion he was crossing a paddock when he suddenly came face to face with a mob of cattle. Instead of moving off at his approach, the cattle started to walk towards him. Believing that they were about to atttack, he picked up a large piece of wood to frighten them off. It so happened that a family of ants had selected that particular piece of wood for their home. Next moment the parson found himself covered with the aggressive little insects. Quite forgetting the cattle, he tore off his coat, but sharp nips made him decide that this was of little avail. He ripped off his collar, and then flung off one garment after another, till finally he had divested himself of all his clothing.

Just then a steer, no doubt greatly astonished by this extraordinary display, walked close up to him. Believing that the animal was about to rush, the parson seized his clothes and raced for the nearest cover. Later, when telling of his experience, he averred that he found great consolation in the fact that none of his flock had witnessed his ignominious retreat.

Where his duties were concerned he was almost over zealous. He thought nothing of riding his old brown horse 50 miles in a day to visit outlying members of his flock. Not only this, but in a number of instances he walked out to call on settlers living more than 20 miles from the town. Some people declared that on these occasions he had quite forgotten that he owned a horse, but it is far more likely that it was out of consideration for the animal that he chose to walk; for, where his horse was concerned, both his kindness and eccentricity were again apparent. If he came to a steep hill when riding, he would always get off and lead his horse till he reached the top. He would then mount and ride as fast as the animal could go till he either came to another hill or decided that the horse was tired; in which case he would again dismount and lead the animal. Never was he to be seen riding at a walking pace. Either he would be going 'flat out,' or else walking and leading his mount.

In one instance, when he wished to visit a family living in the bush, a friend tried to direct him by drawing a rough map of the track he should follow. Later in the day he was found sitting astride his horse, which was standing in a deep waterhole, into which it had floundered while taking a short cut. He was diligently sketching something in a notebook. He explained that he was drawing a map of the track by which he had come, and that he intended presenting it to the person who had directed him. Though the good man has long since been laid to rest, his eccentricities, and above all, his undoubted sincerity, left such an impression that in the minds of those who knew him memories are as fresh as though he had lived but yesterday— A.H.B.

Real Life Stories Of South Australia (1935, July 11). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 14. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92317728

Old Jacob's Christmas Pudding

In 1902 I was manager of Stuart's Creek Station in the far north. A tribe of natives was camped on the run, and on Christmas Day Jacob, the old man of the tribe, came up to the station kitchen to borrow a boiler, explaining that he wanted to make a plum pudding for the tribe. 'We want 'um white-feller Chris muss feed,' he said. 'Got 'um plour, tshugar, c'runt, raisen. You give 'um big feller boiler; mine makem big feller blow-out, my cripes.'

The cook handed over his biggest boiler, and old Jacob walked back to his camp, where he filled the boiler, put it on the fire, and then mixed the ingredients, with the whole of the tribe looking on. First 20 lb. of flour was put in a big dish, followed by half a tin of baking powder, handful after handful of currants and raisins, heaps of sugar, and two tins of treacle. Then water was added, the dough was mixed up, and put into a pudding cloth made out of an old skirt belonging to his lubra. Then the weighty mass was lowered into the big boiler, and the lid was clapped on.

The tribe stood around waiting; presently a nice, fruity smell came out of the steaming boiler. The tribe began to demand information as to how long the pudding would take to cook; by the time half an hour had passed they were stating that it must be done by now, and ordered the old man to pull it out and dish it up. Old Jacob at last gave in, pulled it out of lie boiler, and cut the string.

With a terrific flop the almost liquid contents of the pudding cloth fell out on the sand, followed by a wild howl from old Jacob, whose feet and legs had received a liberal splashing of hot dough. He sent one of the lubras up to the homestead to get some medicine; she told my wife what had happened, and was given a bottle of carron oil. some clean rags, and was told that the pudding should have been left to cook until the middle of the afternoon.

Old Jacob seized the bottle when she came back; when he raised it to his mouth his lubra tried to stop him, but he would not listen, it was ridiculous to talk of rubbing it on the burns, he declared; you always drank white-feller medicine. He suited the action to the words by pouring the carron oil down his throat, then tied his legs up with the rags, and ordered the tribe to scoop up the pudding and put it back in the cloth. They obeyed, the pudding was placed back in the boiler, and left to simmer for hours. Then it was taken out for the second time.

This time the contents did not pour out when the string was cut; instead a huge grey ball of dough, speckled all over with sand, currants, and raisins, stood steaming on the ground. Old Jacob seized a knife and apportioned it out.

That evening I asked one of the natives how the pudding had turned out. He was most enthusiastic. 'Old Jacob, him plurry fine white feller cook,' he cried. 'Make 'em plurry fine feed, my cripes. Blackfeller eat 'um plenty that one.' 'But didn't it have a lot of sand in it?' I enquired. 'Plenty sand sit down longa that feller,' the native admitted. 'But blackfeller no worry — eatem plenty good feller puddin', boss.'

We all know the saying that Christmas comes but once a year. That tribe decided that white fellers were fools— the blackfeller would go one better by holding Christmas whenever they could supply old Jacob with the materials for a pudding. As a result they had no less than three Christmas dinners in a month. But later editions of Jacob's first venture at making a 'White-feller Chrismuss' feed were always allowed to cook properly.— W.O.

Old Jacob's Christmas Pudding (1935, July 11). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 14. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92317686