2 May 1935

MY TRIP TO KEERONGOOLOO 

Overland From Adelaide To Queensland

Nearly 50 years ago I came to Adelaide from Western Queensland on a holiday. While in the city I met Peter Burt, whom I had known in Queensland, where he was managing Keerongooloo cattle station. He informed me that he had brought his wife and family to South Australia for a holiday. 

Some weeks later I was preparing to leave Adelaide when I received a telegram from Burt; it said, "Don't leave Adelaide; letter follows."

When he letter arrived, it explained that Amy, their youngest daughter, aged seven, had developed throat trouble when they were ready to leave, forcing them to leave the child behind with friends in Adelaide until she had recovered from an operation, which had been necessary. When the family reached Melbourne another daughter, Mary, aged 12, had to be put in a hospital there with the same trouble. The rest of the family were on their way back to Queensland. Mr. Burt wanted to know if I would be willing to wait until both the children were well again, and then bring them home. 

There was only one answer I could make to that request; I promised to do so. But, all the same, I felt that it was a big responsibility, as I was little more than a lad myself at the time. 

While waiting for the girls to recover from their illness, I investigated the cost of travelling with them by boat and train, only to find that either would be rather expensive. Moreover, the two children stated that trains and boats made them very sick, and begged me to take them home overland. After thinking the matter over, and asking my father's advice, I went to Duncan & Frazer's coachbuilding shop and ordered a big, strong express buggy. 

When it was ready I took charge of the two children and we went by train to Broken Hill. On the trip I saw that both girls had been right about the way in which train travelling disagreed with them. 

The buggy had been sent up by a previous train, and as soon as we arrived in Broken Hill I bought four good horses, loaded the buggy with stores and equipment for the trip, and we set off. 

I soon found that my fears about the responsibility of caring for the two girls were unfounded; they were bush kiddies, and never gave me a moment's anxiety, but looked upon the trip as one long and glorious picnic. 

From Broken Hill we travelled by way of Bancannia, Tibooburra and Cobham Lake to the border; then we went past Nockatunger to Mount Margaret, where I found some station hands from Keerongooloo waiting for me, with fresh horses for the remainder of the trip. Before leaving Adelaide I had wired to Mr. Burt to get his approval of my arrangements, and he had sent the horses down in consequence. 

After leaving Mount Margaret I found all the rivers flooded by torrential rains, which forced me to make long detours in order to keep to the high ground. Not once during the trip from Broken Hill did we sleep under a roof, though many of the owners of the stations through which we passed begged us to stop for a day or two with them. I refused, because I knew that Mrs. Burt would not rest until she had her two children back safe and sound, and pushed on as hard as I could. 

I cannot praise the conduct of those two children highly enough. For hour after hour, with never a word of complaint, they tramped alongside the buggy in order to lighten the work of the horses when we were passing through the Cobham sandhills. At every halt they gathered the sticks for the fire as soon as they alighted; every evening they pitched the little gipsy tent I had bought for them and laid out their bedding inside; every morning they had it all rolled up and ready to load by the time I had brought in and harnessed up the horses. 

And now comes the queer part of the story. The Burts were sitting down to dinner one day when Mrs. Burt suddenly exclaimed, "The children will be here soon." She then rose from the table, leaving her dinner untasted. 

Peter Burt glanced at the almanac on the wall and replied, "Nonsense, my dear. With the country flooded like it is down south, it'll be a fortnight before young Lindsay can be here." Mrs. Burt, however, refused to listen. She put on her hat and went off along the track which led to Top Keerongooloo, one of the outstations, knowing that that was the route by which I would come. 

The children were almost beside themselves with excitement when we reached the station property, and gleefully called each other's attention to well-known landmarks. Suddenly little Amy stared down the track ahead, then rose to her feet with a cry of "There's mum! There's mum!" I looked over the horses' heads to see a woman running towards us. With a few minutes Mrs. Burt, laughing and crying by turns, was hugging both her children. "I knew you were nearly home," she kept saying to me, "I knew it. I walked four miles along the track, and then saw the dust coming. I knew it could be nobody else but you." 

I could not make out how she knew that we were nearly home, or what caused her to walk out and meet us, and during the rest of the drive she was too excited to tell me. When we arrived at the house, however, Mr. Burt told me how his wife had left the table and hurried out. I can only explain the matter by saying that she had received one of those 'mulga wires,' which enable the aborigines to send messages over long distances. 

That night the homestead at Keerongooloo saw one of the happiest family reunions it has ever been my lot to witness. Some people may doubt the latter part of my story. Well, I have heard nothing of the Burt family for many years, but should the above come under their notice I am sure that they will corroborate my statements. In any case, I hope that some member of the family reads this story, as I would like Amy and Mary Burt to know that I have not forgotten the two little girls whom I took back to their home nearly fifty years ago.— G. S. Lindsay.

[See rebuttal by Mrs S. Birt in a Letter to the Editor 23 May 1935]

An Oakbank Nightmare

I have a friend who in his younger days owned and rode several winners on the turf. Of recent years he has taken up bowls, and dropped out of racing. However, there is one meeting he never misses— Oakbank— and, believe me. he spells it with a capital letter. 

Shortly after Easter last year he was laid up with a particularly virulent attack of influenza. For several days he was the victim of delirium, and had the most vivid and harrowing nightmares whenever he went to sleep. This is one he recounted to me when I went to visit him. 

"I was at Oakbank," he said, "talking to several racing enthusiasts, all old friends, and members of various country racing clubs. The scene was was most vivid, every detail of the course and its surroundings being as clearly defined as possible. Suddenly, as we chatted together, a group of officials approached us, and explaining that they were in need of more padding for the jumps in the Great Eastern Steeplechase, dragged us on to the course, and without more ado, proceeded to strap us by the shoulders and heels, lengthways, along the top most log of the jumps. Brown, Jones, and I were securely fastened to the top of the first jump, in spite of our violent protests, to which, indeed, they turned a deaf ear. 

"The sensation of waiting for the start was nerve-racking to a degree. Brown remarked that it was a blessing it was the first jump, as the horses would be fresh, and so less likely to clout the 'timber.' Jones said he was not so sure of that, as sometimes the horses blundered at the first obstacle, not realising it was there. I said nothing, but like the parrot in the story, thought a lot. 

"At last the cry, 'They're off!' reached us, and how can I describe my feelings as the 'field' approached the first jump? Clearly I saw them coming; distinctly I heard the thunder of their hoofs as they quickened their stride; palpably I felt the fence shake with their rush. Well, I got off scot free, but I heard a terrific yell from my neighbor, Jones, who had received a terrible smack in the ribs from a big bay horse that jumped his portion of the obstacle. As soon as he recovered his breath he followed this up with language I should, under ordinary circumstances, have blushed to listened to, but with which, as things were, I heartily sympathised. Jones ended his remarks by fervently expressing the hope that the big brute would fall at the next fence and break his neck. 

"As soon as the horses had passed, the officials ran out and unbuckled the straps that held our feet up, so that we could stand and watch the race, which I thought very considerate of them, strapping us up again before they came around the next time. This lap the big bay above mentioned, though he appeared to me to jump particularly high, came an unholy buster, sending his jockey flying like a stone from a catapult, and then fairly standing on his head.

"After the race the stewards held an enquiry, as the jockey swore his mount had been interfered with.  As the closest spectators, although I knew at the time this was irregular, we were also present at the enquiry. 

"One jockey gave it as his opinion that the bay had taken off too far from the jump. Another declared he was too close to the jump as he rose. Then Jones electrified the hearers by interjecting, 'Go on with you. You don't know what you're talking about. I pulled the cow's leg as he went over!' As this juncture I woke up, and for once was almost sorry to do go, as I was keenly interested to hear the stewards' finding!"

I sympathised anew with my old friend, and prayed that I might be delivered from that particular brand of influenza.—'Logopoiss.'

A Particular Father

There was a farmer friend of mine who was in the habit of taking his little boy, aged about six years, out on the waggon with him. One Saturday as they were returning home with a load of hay the waggon capsized. The boy became scared, and ran for assistance to a farm house about half a mile away. 

He knocked at the door and informed them of the accident. The farmer told the lad that he had just finished his dinner, and invited him in to have a cup of tea. At first the lad was disinclined to sit at the table, but after a while he consented. After the meal the little chap became impatient, and wanted to get back to the lorry. 

"There's no hurry," assured his host. "We don't want to go to work directly after dinner."  

"But father mightn't like it," stuttered the boy. 

"You must have an awfully particular father; where is he?" asked the farmer.

 "Oh! He is under the load of hay," replied the boy.— A. D. 

Tangled Words

When the South-Eastern drainage works were being constructed near a small town, the contractor had a well hidden dump for high explosives. 

The dump, which was in a patch of thick scrub, had been formed by digging a pit and covering it over with boughs. Being in deep shade, and having nothing but the doorway to allow daylight to enter, the interior of the dump was always in semi-darkness, and like most underground places, had a strange air of gloom about it. 

The dump-keeper was an elderly German, who had an amusing habit of getting his words inextricably tangled, especially when he was excited. 

Late one afternoon the small daughter of one of the men working on the drains decided to pay a visit to the dump-keeper, with whom she was on good terms. She entered his dugout, but finding him absent, she selected a case of gelignite as a seat and settled down to await his arrival. 

Shortly afterwards, the dump-keeper came hurrying in with a bag of dynamite fuse slung over his shoulder. The day being far advanced, and the man coming from the daylight into the gloom, it was some seconds before his eyes could become accustomed to the darkness. Without noticing her, he almost brushed against the girl seated on the box. 

Seeing that her presence had passed unobserved, she drew attention to herself by leaning close to his ear and crying 'Bang!' 

The effect exceeded her expectations, propping his bag, the German leaped into the air, and striking his head on the roof almost knocked himself out, "Gott in himmell" he gasped. 

Then, catching sight of his visitor, he said: — "Mein Gott! You almost gave me a finish. I thought I'd trod on a dentamator. Never should you not do things like that. If I'd dropped dead I could have come on you for damages." —'Static.'

Liked To Know It 

Old Charley, a kangaroo shooter of the outback, owned an ancient motor car that was the last word in dilapidation. The body was held together by pieces of string and tie-wire; the engine threatened to fall apart, and the tyres were stuffed with grass and bound with strips of greenhide. 

''Time you got new tyres, Charley," remarked the station manager, meeting the old fellow on the road. "These must be very rough to ride on. Why don't you buy new ones?" 

"Well, it is like this, Boss,' replied Charley confidentially. "Some might call it rough, but when I'm riding in a car I like to know it."— J.R.