23 January 1936

A ROUNDUP THAT WENT ASTRAY 

Leader Of Mob Goes Down Fighting

Back in the seventies a stockman named Jackson told the manager of the cattle-run at Mosquito Plains that he would like to mate his grey filly with one of the station thoroughbred sires. 

'He wants much who wants a good horse,' quoted the manager, but, knowing that the man had the best style of handling young horses of anyone for many miles around, he added that he thought the sire would mate splendidly with the grey filly, which had the reputation of being a nice tempered beast. 

'Beast!' said the man. 'She's not a beast. She's a lady, sir.' And, indeed, he was right! The grey filly's breeding was traceable to some of the best horses Australia has produced. 

It was 65 miles as the crow flies, or the stockman rides in level country, to bring the grey filly (Jackson's Pet, as she was called) , to Mosquito Plains, She was all that could be desired in docility and sureness of foot, and, when the season for mating arrived, Jackson took her with two other mares to the Plains. 

When the time came for their return, Jackson could not be spared from the station, and so another man was sent for the mares. It might have been the man's fault, or just bad luck (I'm not sure which), but he lost Jackson's Pet about half way back on the return journey. 

And, worse still, he lost her in a belt of country where a mob of wild horses was known to run—deep swamps and thick belts of timber— hard country in which to muster horses. 

The manager, wishing that he had spared Jackson, said that it was hard luck, but the mare would be nearly sure to come back, answering the homer's call. Jackson wanted to go immediately and coax his pet back, but the manager advised waiting— a fatal mistake from a stockman's point of view. 'I don't believe in this Bo-Peep business, said Jackson, 'where a mob of the wild-uns run.' 

The call of the wild is very strong in the thoroughbred horse — more so than in any other domesticated animal —and the grey filly soon found that she could hold her own with her wild kinsmen in their gallops, and with her new-found sense of freedom (mingled, perhaps, with feminine vanity) and good pastures, she soon forgot her prosaic little home-paddocks. 

Twelve months went by, and the grey mare was seen at a distance with a black foal following her. The story reached Jackson's ears, and he made more than one excursion to try to secure the high blooded truant. 

She was, surely, like Britomarte, of whom Gordon said— 'She was iron-sinewed and satin skinned, Ribbed like a drum and limbed like a deer.'  But, somehow, Jackson's luck was too much like the fisherman's when he finds a shoal of rock in place of fish. 

Three years went by, and the black entire's name became a by-word. He had been seen by stockmen, and even by swagmen. One had seen him here, one there; and all agreed that his symmetry and action (flavored, perhaps, a little with romance) was easily as good as, or better than, anything that ever started in one of our classic races. Certain it was that he had the two most essential factors, breeding and feeding, for sixty years ago there were few fences to cut the summer from the winter grazing stretches, and one scarcely ever saw a wild horse in anything but the pink of condition.

Another year went by. The squatters all knew that to get the wild horses out of the rough country, with the risk of life and limb to men and horses, was a game scarcely worth the candle. The Plum, the black entire, was getting old, and to yard him now would be one thing; to tame him another. But the former, perhaps, would be the harder task of the two. 

The advance of settlement, however, was forcing the wild horses over the Glenelg River to a district known as Killara, where, although the country was more heavily timbered, there was good grazing for them— green herbage on the river flats in the summer and rough grass and bushes further out. A big bend in the winding course of the river was roughly ten miles around and formed a natural boundary, there being only odd crossing places. 

Edward Henty gave his consent for his men to try to get the Plum in along with some of the others. To his men were added a few picked stockmen from other stations, Jackson being among them. Nature (with the bend of the river) helped the men who were eager to get the horses in, as in those days, when mares like the grey filly got away and herded with the wild ones, there was a chance of getting something worth while. 

The beat of the horses, when disturbed, was round the long bend of the stream, and, as amateur stockmen had often attempted to round them up, the course they would take was well known. And so, placing a man on a fresh horse at every 'three-mile post' as it were, they could 'wind' them at the end of about ten miles, where there was a stretch of open heath country. Where they might swerve if pressed, there was a small waiting mob of young mares in charge of two men, which perhaps would act as a decoy to the black lord and some of his band. The plan was good, and success seemed assured. 

On they came, the black entire flying the obstacles in his path like the winner in a National flies his hurdles. What a picture they made, with their uncut manes and streaming tails waving in the wind, their muscular bodies, nature free, parting the richly scented forest air! No wild cat or rock wallaby was ever surer of foot. One experienced a far greater heart-thrill, indeed, in watching them than in watching the finish of many an English Derby or Melbourne Cup. 

With a perfectly timed-to-the-second rush, the stockman swirled his stock whip with the object of making the mob veer in the direction of the little mob of tailers. The Plum swerved and flew over a fallen tree with a thirty foot bound, but, on landing, he shot his front cannon from the socket. 

Then, as his pursuers closed around, he fought as only a cornered hero can, charging first one and then another of his tormentors on his three legs. 

Soon, he shot the other cannon out, but, still fighting on the two broken bones as he scorned the pain of the wounds, he showed to the full the splendor of his muscles and his almost perfect symmetry. 

To have to kill this noble Carbine of the bush was, indeed, a tragedy and Jackson turned from the sight as to himself, he murmured: 'An uncrowned king, if ever there was one!'— C.E.D.

Mistaken Identity 

A man had a young heifer calf which he considered was old enough to wean. As he had no land of his own to run it on, he made arrangements with a neighbor to put the calf in his paddock to graze. 

A months or so afterwards he met a friend who informed him that his calf was in rather a bad way, and advised him to have a look at it. As the calf was in splendid condition when he turned it out, the man thought it rather strange that it should be in such a state as his friend described. 

He went down to the paddock, however, and there sure enough was a young calf looking very forlorn and miserable. He decided that the only thing to do was to take it home and look after it. It was too weak to walk all the way, so it was given a ride in a dray. 

When he arrived home with it his wife came out to have a look at it. She was a great lover of animals and appeared to be greatly concerned about it. She had a good look at it, and seemed to be taking a long time over it, her husband thought. There was a smile on her face also which he could not quite understand, but he refrained from asking questions. 

She said that the poor little thing needed to be looked after badly enough, but it would be all right soon. It was looked after well, and in about three weeks was a different animal altogether, quite strong and hearty. 

About this time the man's wife came to him when he was feeding the calf, and, looking very thoughtful, said, 'Don't you think you had better take the heifer back to the paddock? The owner of it might miss it and be looking for it.' 

The man stood and stared at his wife as if he thought she was having a joke at his expense. 'Why?' he said, 'what do you mean by the owner look for it? I'm the owner of it, I reckon.' 

She answered, 'Your reckoning is astray this time. I knew when you brought it home that it was not your calf, but the poor thing did need care, and I knew you would look after it all right.'

The man then remembered the smile on his wife's face when he had brought the calf home, and began to understand why it had been there. The sympathy she felt for the calf had kept her from saying anything about it being someone else's animal. 

It was taken back to the paddock, and when the man saw his own calf there he wondered how he could have made such a mistake. It was a joke in the district for a long time, and the man had to put up with a good deal of good natured chaff about not knowing his own animal. — A.C.H. 

Blacks See Cattle For First Time 

Joseph Hawdon, in his account of his trip overland with cattle from New South Wales to Adelaide in 1838, tells of some rather amusing incidents in connection with the Aborigines who then saw cattle for the first time. 

'I was much amused during the day at the simplicity of four or five blacks, who were standing together whilst a number of the cattle were walking towards the spot they occupied, snorting as they cautiously drew nearer to their black observers,' he wrote one night in his diary. 

'It was quite evident that the natives looked upon the oxen as rational beings, for they gravely saluted them with their usual friendly exclamation, 'Bo, bo, marwood,' meaning 'Go on, go on, we are friendly.' They also waved green boughs at them in token of peace. The cattle, not at all appreciating these marks of respect, continued to move onwards, at which the poor blacks turned and ran off, not daring to await the nearer approach of visitors so rude and unceremonious.' 

At another time one of the blacks asked in perfect seriousness whether the cattle were the wives of the white men, and was quite abashed at the shout of laughter which greeted his question. — C.H.G.