6 August 1936

BEATING THE GOVERNMENT 

Successful And Unsuccessful Attempts

The first settlers along the Murray took all the water they needed from the river without let or hindrance, but the day came when the Government decided that the settlers were to pay for all water pumped from the river in future. 

Some of the men affected by the new legislation took the matter calmly, others cursed, but old McRawra, the big squatter, was most bitter in his criticism. He had just installed a big steam pumping plant upon the river bank to irrigate about 40 acres of lucerne, and the new Act would hit his pocket fairly hard. He spent some time in getting up a petition against the new law, but found it was time wasted, for the petition was rejected. 

He then found what he thought to be a loophole in the Act; anyone was allowed to sink a well a certain distance back from the bank, so McRawra had a well sunk at the stipulated distance. However, like most wells near the river, the result was only a meagre supply of very salt water. 

The old squatter did some hard thinking; then loaded his biggest buggy with fodder, and drove off, his objective the Victorian goldfields. A fortnight later he returned with a couple of grim-faced, taciturn old miners, and set them to work; at the same time he found jobs for all the other station hands at spots far from the homestead. 

Day after day those old miners toiled away, but the mound of earth around the shaft grew no bigger, for McRawra and his son worked every night carrying the mullock away in a dray and tipping it into the river. A steamer dumped a lot of sawn redgum slabs upon the landing; these vanished underground. 

At last the job was completed; it was a strongly-timbered drive from the bottom of the well to the river. When the inrush of water from the river became too strong for the steam pump to handle, old McRawra paid the miners for their work, and took them back to Ballarat. 

A little later, one of the newly-appointed water rangers paid a visit to the station, looked down the shaft of the well, tasted a sample of the water, and congratulated the old man upon having struck such an abundant supply. Neighboring squatters also sank wells, but everyone of them struck salt water. 

Government officials often came along to look at the irrigation paddocks and the tax-free water supply, but nobody ever suspected the presence of that drive. It is still there today, and McRawra's descendants still use it for irrigation. 

Of course, the job took enough money to pay water rates for the next 50 years, but that did not worry the old squatter. He viewed the water which flowed down the river as the Mohammedans do; their creed states that Allah gave water for the use of all mankind, irrespective of class or creed, and that no body has any more right to charge for it than they have for the air which we breathe. 

McRawra thought that he had only taken possession of some thing which was his by moral right further, for the rest of his days he had the secret satisfaction of knowing that he had beaten the Government; and to some men, there is no other triumph half as sweet. 

A neighboring squatter, however, had worse luck— or was not so cunning—when he tried to beat the Government. He lived higher up the river, across the State border, and when the irrigation settlements were formed, the State Government approached him for a site for a pumping plant. 

The squatter stated that the chosen site was one of his choicest pieces of river frontage, and demanded an absurdly high price. He was then asked to sell some other portion of his river frontage, but replied to the effect that he placed the same valuation on all his frontage. He waited for the Government to give in, but heard no more of the matter for some time. 

Then a bombshell arrived in the shape of his land tax assessment. It was very much higher than previously. Full of indignation, he rushed off to have an interview with the Commissioner. When it was granted, he realised that he had been caught in his own trap. 

'You put that valuation on your land yourself,' he was informed. 'We had no idea that the land was so valuable until you demanded such a high price for it, when the Government wanted to buy a site for a pumping station. All we can say now is that you must be taxed accordingly.' 

The squatter spent the next few days in having interviews with members of Parliament and departmental heads. Then a compromise was arrived at. The tax was put back on the old assessment, and the site for the pumping station was sold at the figure which the Government had first offered. That squatter never tried to beat the Government again. — 'H.A.L.'

Putting The Cattle King In His Place 

I was returning to Hergott Springs from Adelaide, and in the carriage in which I was travelling was a man who was somewhat under the influence of liquor and very talkative. Finding me an unappreciative listener, he transferred his attentions to the others in the carriage, some young fellows evidently going north to employment on a sheep station. 

Possibly fortified by rum and the fact that he was getting a hearing, our friend told of being a big gun drover, having just been in Adelaide to see his cattle sold. He then recounted in great detail how he had put the Cattle King in his place at the sale. 

'Just when the first of my cattle was about to be sold,' he said, 'the Cattle King came along and yelled out, 'Hold on butchers, I've got better bullocks than these coming on behind, so you'll do better to hang off!' 'Here, I yelled,' he continued, 'who wants you to sell my cattle. You clear out of this before I put you out.' 

In truly melodramatic style the 'big gun' drover demonstrated by word and arm waving how he put the Cattle King out of the yard. Then was told of the wonderful prices the bullocks brought solely due to the stand he took in the matter. He then told about his big plant and of how he was going straight back into Queensland to bring down another mob. I took little heed of his tale, but thought it strange that I had not heard of his name amongst those droving from Queensland. 

However, the yarn must have exhausted him, for he indulged in a long sleep, to wake up and find the carriage unoccupied except for him and myself. The others had got but at their destination whilst he slept. 

''You're a drover, ain't you?' he enquired, and on my nodding assent he asked me where my plant was. I told him somewhere near the Queensland border, and that I intended to see if I could not get a lift back with some other drover's plant returning north. 'I'll give you a lift,' he said. 'Only too pleased. I wired to Hergott Springs before I left the day I'd be back, so the plant will be there ready waiting.' It suited me, and I thanked him.

Eventually the train arrived at Hergott Springs, and later at the hotel I remarked to a friend that I had arranged to go back with Mr. So-and-So, whose plant would be ready to start in the morning. My statement was greeted with a hilarious laugh. 'Who told you he was a drover?' asked my friend, alluding to Mr. So-and-So. 'He's my cook!' Then I told of the incident in the train and of the tale the cook had told. 

My friend thought it a great joke and seeking out the cook brought him into the bar. 'Have a drink, Jim,' he said, and whilst the publican was getting the drinks for the half dozen of us there, out came the request from my drover friend, 'Tell us how you put the Cattle King out of the yards when you were selling your bullocks,' he drawled. A hastily swallowed drink, a roar of abuse, and the cook hurried out of the bar, followed by shrieks of laughter from his drover boss. 

On the trip north the mere mention of 'putting the Cattle King out of the yard' would bring forth a torrent of abuse from the cook, now perfectly sober and very sensitive when any mention was made of the tale he had unfolded to the unsuspecting listeners on the train journey. Still, I'll give that would be 'big gun' drover his due; he could cook.— 'Drover.'

Carpet Snake As A Pet 

Some of the old-time boundary riders employed on sheep stations kept queer pets. I once came across an old chap who for years had regarded a carpet snake as his best friend. 

Previous to the visit I am about to mention I had once before seen the snake when passing through the station where the old fellow was employed, but I had forgotten all about it, otherwise I would have told the two men with me that the snake was harmless and a treasured pet of the old boundary rider. 

I was droving a small mob of bulls at the time, and with feed and water scarce, I received permission from the boundary rider to put my horses into his paddock. A stockyard half a mile away from the hut was used to secure the bulls for the night. 

As is usual with those living in the outback, the old chap invited us to have a drink of tea shortly after we had yarded the bulls and hobbled out the horses. Showing us seats at a table under a bough covered back verandah, the old chap said the billy would not be long, passing out a late paper with which to pass away the time whilst waiting. 

Just as I sat down, I noticed one of the horses making away in the opposite direction to that taken by the other horses, and jumping up I walked out to turn it back. A loud yell, followed by a string of curses, told me something was wrong, but hurrying back I did not expect to be received in such a lurid manner by the old boundary rider. One-tenth of what he hurled at me and the two others could not be repeated, but I soon saw the reason for his wrath. 

His pet, the carpet snake, had been decapitated. Before any explanation could be given, or even, before I could find out how the snake came by its death, we three were after the horses to pack up and get. As a moral persuader the half-maddened old fellow was waving a single barrel shot gun in a threatening manner. 

Away from danger and beyond hearing of the old chap's curses, I heard what had happened. Whilst the two men were standing at the table, looking at the illustrations in the paper, the snake had uncoiled itself from the bough roof above and slowly allowed its head to stretch be tween their faces. 

Two loud yells as one were evidence of the scare received, which would hardly have been otherwise; but whilst one man ducked quickly away, the other grabbed a butcher's knife that lay on the table and with one stroke had severed the snake's head from its body. The old chap arrived on the scene just a couple of seconds too late to prevent the death of his pet; one that he had had for many years. Whilst abusing us, the old chap told us to get, before he shot the murderer of his pet. 

Possibly I was partly to blame for not remembering and enlightening the two men with me about the snake; but equally so was the owner himself, as he did not know of my previous acquaintance and should have given us due warning. We were not allowed to stay to have that drink of tea; we boiled our own billy instead well out of sight of the hut. — 'Overlander.'

Made In Japan

Recent accounts of poaching by Japanese luggers in North Australian waters bring to mind an episode that happened nearly thirty years ago. Two of us were camped with our droving plants not far from a station from which we were both to lift cattle. A quiet, unassuming Japanese was cook with the other plant. 

One night an argument arose between two men as to the distance between Burketown and Normanton, and eventually a wager was made, the stake being £1 a side. Whilst the argument was in progress the Japanese cook was poking in a bag that served as his pillow, and little heed was paid to him when he returned to the fire with a cloth covered parcel, saying, 'Me settle bet.' He settled the bet all right, for in a few seconds he laid out before us in the firelight a section of a map embracing both Burketown and Normanton. The map was not only drawn truly to scale, but was the best I have ever seen before or since. 

It gave me plenty to ponder over when in due course the cook displayed other sections, which took in the North Australian coast from Cairns right round to Wyndham. Every creek and river I knew of, as well as scores I had never heard of were there, and, although the spelling was not as it might have been, names of places, inlets, creeks, &c, were more than sufficient for identification purposes. The maps had been printed in Japan, and showed thoroughness in all details, the mystery being how all the information had been obtained. 

The cook did not give us the chance of gaining much information from the maps, as he folded them up and put them away after a few minutes. Furthermore, he was reluctant to say how he had procured them, except to remark that the maps 'belong friend.' 

An offer by me to purchase them next day was rather coldly received, the little Jap saying that he and his friend wanted the maps to assist them in a search they intended to make for gold. I heard later that the little Japanese cook had been drowned, and I have often wondered into whose hands the maps fell, or if there were many more in Japan so full of information.— 'Old Timer.'