21 November 1935

THE UNCERTAINTY OF LIFE

Strong Are Taken And Weak Are Left

There were six men in a gang at a lumber camp about 100 miles from the nearest town in the State of Washing ton, U.SA., in 1910. One of them had been ill, on and off, for nearly six months, when he had a severe internal hemorrhage which left him weak and bedridden. He had a hacking cough, and the rest of the gang were of opinion that he was suffering from consumption, and that it was only a matter of time before he 'went west.'

His tent mate, Alf Johnson, a young Australian, did what he could for him, but he steadily grew worse. Finally it was decided that his only hope was to return to Seattle, where he could receive medical treatment. There were grave doubts, however, whether he could stand the journey, which would have to be made by sledge over the snow. However, it was decided to make the attempt; so one bright, sunny morning the sick man and two others of the gang set out on their long trek. Sadly his mates bade him goodbye, and wished him a safe trip.

As the men who remained in camp set out for their work that morning after his departure they naturally discussed his chances of recovery. 'Poor old Bob,' said Jim Walker to his mate Bill Jones. 'They will be lucky if they get him to Seattle alive.' 'Yes, indeed,' replied Bill. 'I wouldn't give much for his chances of seeing the city. What do you think about it, Alf?' Alf, who was remaining in camp for a while to give it a general clean up, replied, 'I am afraid we shall never see Bob again. His days are numbered, and there aren't many more of them left.'

With that Jim and Bill gathered up their axes, saws, &c., and set off for their work. Soon they were busily engaged in felling a giant spruce. They worked on steadily, and eventually saw that it was about to fall. They knew which way it would fall, and when they heard the ominous creaking that gave warning that it was about to crash they jumped a few yards back behind it, and waited for it to fall.

With, a terrific crash it fell as they anticipated it would; but something caused it to jump back as it fell much further than was expected. It struck Jim on the head and knocked him down, and pinned Bill beneath it. When Alf came out from the camp a few hours later he found them both dead. Next morning they were buried, while their sick mate Bob was travelling slowly towards Seattle. Only 24 hours earlier nothing would have tempted them to exchange their chances of life for his. Three weeks later the two men who had taken Bob to Seattle returned to the camp and reported that they had left him in hospital, a very sick man.

Ten years passed, during which Alf went to the war and returned home to his father's farm in the Riverina district of New South Wales. One morning he left the farm with a waggon load of wheat for a railway station 30 miles away. He was preparing to pitch his camp that evening on the banks of the Murray about three miles from the railway station when he noticed a wood-cutter's camp near the river. Having unharnessed, watered, and fed his team, Alf took his billy and went across to the wood-cutter's camp to ask if he could boil the billy on the latter's fire, and so save himself the trouble of lighting one. When he saw the wood-cutter, something about him seemed familiar, but at first he did not recognise him. When the man spoke, however, and both men looked straight at one another, recognition was mutual, and so was surprise. The wood-cutter was Alf's old tent mate of the lumber camp in America, Bob, who had been taken to Seattle in what his mates had thought was a dying condition.

Bob and Alf sat long into that night yarning over old, times. It appeared that Bob had gradually regained his health and strength in hospital, but had come to Australia on his discharge from that institution on the advice of his doctor, who thought the warmer, sunnier climate of the Commonwealth would be better for him than that of America. Great was Bob's surprise when Alf told him of the death of Bill and Jim the morning after he had left the old camp. 'It just shows one how uncertain life is,' he remarked, when Alf told him of the accident. 'I don't suppose either of those chaps would have swopped his chance of life that day for mine, if I had offered them all the tea in China. Yet I'm here and they're gone.'— H.M.V.

Another Mystery Solved

Some years ago the residents of Wallaroo Mines were disturbed by rumors that a nefarious character known as the 'Bat' was at large in the neighborhood. Several persons had stated that they had seen the creature, but every version differed from the previous ones. One described the monster as a tall, thin figure, with a huge cloak which enveloped its victims in a smothering embrace. This seemed to be a popular description, although one person said that he had seen it swing from one tree to another with the agility of a monkey.

One night an acquaintance of mine was traversing a lonely stretch of road, when he heard a sound in the distance, which, in view of the current rumors, set his blood racing and his scalp tingling. It was a sound which could only be caused by a chain being dragged at a rapid pace, and it was coming in his direction. Thinking that he was suffering from bad nerves, he quickened his pace and desperately strove to set his mind on something else.

The clanking persisted, however, and drew closer still. It was not long before he was running for dear life along the track, but the awful noise was quickly drawing nearer. In making a desperate effort to increase his pace, his foot struck a large stone and he sprawled headlong on the road, cutting himself badly. He struggled to his feet to confront the monster; but one can imagine his surprise, relief and seething indignation when he saw emerging from the dark ness a large collie dog with a chain round its neck.— A.B.

Aboriginal Surgery

On the second night of a week's shooting trip up north, a big black staggered into my camp with a spear through his stomach. It had made a ghastly wound that exposed parts of the entrails. I got the spear out and was preparing to do a bit of rough bush surgery, although I felt that it was hopeless. My boy, Tiger, as soon as he saw the wound, disappeared into the bush, and arrived back later with a bundle of leaves and roots, which he dropped into the billycan that simmered on the fire. Tiger's preparations were simple but thorough.

First he worked mud up into a simple paste, carefully throwing away any small stones or foreign matter, and then he mixed it with the essence brewed from the leaves and roots. Plastering leaves over the jagged wound, he liberally smeared the mud inside the wound and placed great handfuls of the mixture outside it. 'That fella be all right now, boss,' he said; but I had my doubts. Next morning found the patient with a high temperature and a fever, and, of course, unable to move.

Four days later, to my surprise, he could walk slowly, and I returned to Morgan, taking him with me. When the doctor inspected him that day he said that not one white man in a thousand would have recovered from such a wound, even if he had been surrounded with all the medical talent in the world. Yet that same aboriginal would have died without a struggle had some enemy pointed a bone at him.— F.G.

A Smart Reply

We whites pride ourselves on our superior wit, but sometimes the black man puts one over us. It is well known that it is an offence punishable by law to supply liquor to an aborigine. When, therefore, a young and very zealous constable came upon a native with a suspicious looking bulge under his shirt, he began to ask questions, and at length Binghi reluctantly produced a bottle of the forbidden beer.

'Who gave it to you?' the constable demanded sternly. But this the black man would not tell. Threats and persuasions alike fell on deaf ears. Binghi kept silent. At last the constable seized the beer. 'Now, will you tell me who gave it to you?' he demanded angrily. Binghi grinned. 'You gibbit beer longa me,' he bargained, 'an' I tell plenty quick.'

The bottle was handed over and the constable asked again, 'Who gave you the beer?' Carefully replacing it inside his shirt the native replied. 'You gibbit drink, mine tinkit!' Discomforted, the constable retired, leaving Binghi with the beer and the laurels of the battle.— 'Questing.'

Speaking For Posterity

One of the candidates at the last Federal elections was giving an address at a country town. He was a good speaker, and for half an hour his audience listened attentively. At the end of an hour they were of the opinion that they had been well entertained and that the evening had been well spent. At the end of an hour and a half, however, they thought that they knew enough about politics to last them for the remainder of their lives. At the end of two hours they had sunk into a state of listless despair. 'Important as is this election to us, it is more so to others,' the speaker asserted, apparently getting his second wind. 'I am in reality speaking for the benefit of posterity.' 'Well, just hold out a little longer, old man,' someone in the rear of the hall shouted out. 'and posterity will be here to profit by your remarks.'— A.D.

Real Life Stories Of South Australia (1935, November 21). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 14. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92332965