29 April 1937

TIPPERARY CURSE BREAKS THE DROUGHT 

Wife's Devotion Releases Mayor From Gaol

Because of the famous Tipperary curse, Daniel O'Riordan, unofficial mayor of a small bush township in north-western Eyre Peninsula, broke the drought and made history. 

For many months the pipe line of the Tod River water scheme had been wending its tortuous way through Eyre Peninsula, and now the day had come when the water was to be officially turned on. 

It had been Daniel's glorious boast that the bringing of the water to those dry parts was mainly due to the efforts— political and otherwise— of three generations of the species O'Riordan. 

Grandpa O'Riordan— the Hon. John Patrick William, M.P.— so Daniel said, was one of the first of the West Coast settlers to observe the uncertainty of the rainfall in those parts. Once, on an official visit to Port Lincoln, he had accidentally discovered the River Tod by falling into it whilst returning at a late hour one night from a deputation of farmers, who, to drive home their political argument, had generously regaled him with liquid refreshment. 

The sudden and cold immersion into the river convinced the honorable member for Flinders of the Tod's fresh quality as well as its abundant quantity. 

Returning to Adelaide for the Parliamentary session, Grandfather O'Riordan had the matter of the Tod River placed on the agenda for the next sitting. As history has told, the scheme for reticulating the outback agricultural areas of Eyre Peninsula was eventually put in operation, and in 1928 be came an established fact. 

Fate was kind in that it fell to the lot of a grandson and great grand daughter of that veteran legislator of the O'Riordan family to play an important role in the ceremony of the official opening — the great-grand-daughter performed her piece with flowers: the grandson with the famous Tipperary curse. 

For several weeks the town's population of some sixty souls had been agog with expectant excitement. The Vigilance Committee, comprising Daniel O'Riordan, who was chairman, the local bank manager, the store keeper, and Father O'Rourke, had received official advice that the Governor, and suite, together with several Cabinet Ministers and other officials, would arrive on a certain Wednesday in June to perform the solemn rite of turning-on the Tod water. 

Committees and sub-committees had formed; had met, disbanded, and reformed. All had worked with a will to ensure the success of the great occasion. The school children had been put through their paces, drilled, and taught suitable songs in keeping win the vice-regal visit. The streets were gay with flags and bunting; the shops appropriately decorated, while the interior of the local hall was, as Father O'Rourke put it, reminiscent of the chambers of the Irish National Parliament at the ratifying of the Home Rule Bill. 

Dawned the great day. Daniel awoke from a fitful sleep which had been troubled with uneasy dreams, wherein he had seen himself tongue tied when presented to His Excellency. Pulling on his boots and fastening his trouser's belt, Daniel once more mentally rehearsed his official address of welcome to the vice-regal party. On the other side of the room, Bridget, his wife, was peacefully sleeping.

"It's proud o' me she'll be this day," thought Daniel, "for today will prove the worth of the O'Riordan stock." This mental soliloquy finished, Daniel called his wife in a voice that sounded like the cross between a typhoon and a cyclone. Soon the household of O'Riordan was riotously astir. Colleen, the eldest of the eight-stepped O'Riordan ladder, helped with the thousand and one side-lines in connection with the family preparations for the great day. 

"'Tis proud o' ye I am this day, Colleen Acushla'' boomed Daniel, as he passed through the kitchen, where his daughter was attending to the twins, Michael and Patrick. '''Twas the good judgment the school children showed, when they chose my Colleen asthone to present the 'bookay' to his Excellency's lady this day." 

"Git along wit ye, Dan'l, or we'll all be late," interposed Bridget, who entered just then with a baby in her arms and young Kevin hanging to her ample skirts. "Don't be for gettin' that 'tis eleven mile we must travel. Hurry! We'll be ready to shtart in foive minits, Dan'l, me pride." Then, as Daniel moved towards the door, "Whist! Just a word of warn in' ye spalpeen! Mind Dan'l, me heart, and kape yoor distance from Jimmy Kelly's pub this day." 

"Never fear, Bridgee, me darlint." Daniel retorted. "Do ye think it's disgracin' the O'Riordan name I'd be doin', an' just as we've riz to the top? Don't be afraid, Bridgee, aroon. 'Tis honor I'll be bringin' to our race this day." "God grant it," sighed Bridget doubtfully. 

Some minutes later the Ford wheezed its asthmatic way on the eleven mile bush track leading from Daniel's farm to the town. Over loaded beyond even the capacity of those hardy 1922 model Fords, the car with the ten O'Riordans aboard, plus the family provender for the day's outing, groaned and creaked as it jerked and jolted the miles behind it. 

At last, after forty minutes, with two short stops to allow a boiling radiator to cool, the O'Riordans arrived in the town. The hall was filled to overflowing The buzz of subdued expectancy, intermingled with muffled and shrill cries of infants protesting against a long inactive wait, echoed around the institute's four walls. 

There was a shuffle of feet, and a turning of heads, as Daniel and his retinue walked up the centre aisle to their seats of honor in the front. Many thought that the arrival of the O'Riordans was that of the vice regal party. Here and there a few disappointed 'Ohs' reached Daniel's ears, as he led his family to their places. He misunderstood and glared his disapprovals. 

The minutes ticked on. Eleven o'clock came and went, but the Governor's train had not yet arrived. Daniel became hot under the collar. Beads of perspiration bubbled like pearls against florid background of his hairless dome. He not ungently nudged his wife. 

"They're late," he said. "I think I'll go and make some enquiries — kape an eye on me seat." 

"Don't be long," said Bridget, "and mind — kape away from Kelly's."

"Have no fear," answered Daniel, and went out. A few minutes later Father O'Rourke mounted the platform and announced that the vice-regal train had been delayed down the line. 

To fill in the time of waiting, he suggested a rehearsal of the National Anthem so that the people might do it justice on the auspicious occasion of the Governor's entrance. Bad rehearsals usually indicate perfection of performances. Judged by the conglomeration of sounds, musical and unmusical, which burst from the throats of the assemblage, as his reverence conducted the rehearsal, it augured well for the performance. 

There came a sudden commotion from the rear of the hall. A peremptory command for 'Silence!' sounded from Constable Robins; while frantic gesticulations on the part of Crauston, the doorkeeper, for the anthem to begin, heralded the arrival of the official party. 

A momentary hush; then the piano, under the uncertain direction of Miss Bull's nervous hands, struck the chord for the anthem to commence. The crowd rose to their feet in single file, and with tremendous pathos in toned 'God Save the King.' 

Bridget stirred uneasily in her chair. 'Drat the man,' she thought. 'Where's he got to?' Father O'Rourke then motioned for Colleen to ascend the platform to present the bouquet to the Governor s wife. As her eldest born walked across the stage and curtsied with the simplicity of childish grace, the heart of Bridget swelled with motherly pride, and she forgot for a while, the absence of Daniel. The Governor and his wife, smiling graciously, took Colleen's hand; shook it sincerely, and patted her pretty fair head. Colleen descended from the stage and resumed her seat beside her mother. 

This should have been the cue for Daniel's address of welcome. As yet Father O'Rourke had not noticed Daniel's absence, and looked around expectantly for him to commence. As he did not appear, the priest, being a man of resource, sensed that some thing was wrong; and being a practiced and fluent ex tempore speaker, filled the breach left by Daniel's absence.

The children performed perfectly, the other speakers did ample justice to their subjects, while Bridget worried her heart and soul away. What would the other women, jealous of Daniel's leadership in the community, say now? She knew their minds, their hearts, and the potency of their tongues. 'The Omadhaun,' she muttered. 'I'll show him — O'Riordan and all.' 

His Excellency rose. There followed a respectful silence. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said. 'This day is surely for you people a day of proud achievement. With true pioneering spirit you have fought and won against insurmountable difficulties, and now . . . 

'To hell wid your soul!' Clear, crisp, resolute and strong these words reverberated around the hall— the vilest of vile Tipperary curses. 

There followed the sounds of a scuffle— a dull thud, and the rattle of bolts being hastily shot. Silence. The Governor, showing no signs of perturbation from the curse, which, though not hurled at him, had ricocheted and struck his person, continued his address to the end as though nothing untoward had happened. 

There was, however, one in that hall who recognised both the curse and the voice that uttered it. 'God help me,'' said Bridget, 'the spalpeen has been to Kelly's after all.'

The sun had set behind the blue hills of the Gawler Ranges. Daniel paced the narrow cell. His head ached; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. 'Why had he gone to Kelly's,' he thought. 'Bridgee was right; and why had that blasted fool of a police officer refused him re-entrance to the hall.' Anyway, there he was, incarcerated; his honor gone; the O'Riordan's name dragged through the mud — all because he had gone to Kelly's against Bridgee's better judg ment; . . . where was she now? Oh. for a drink of cold water! . . . As if in answer to his thoughts he heard footsteps outside the cell — footsteps that he knew as he knew his own name 

'Are ye there, Dan'l?' came Bridget's voice. 'It's thrue for ye, I am; and a sorry mess I've made for sure; . . . Can ye ever forgive me, Bridgee?' he whined. 'Well, ye can never say I didn't warn ye ... but Where's Constable Collins, I've come wid Father O'Rourke to bail ye out.' 

'I haven't seen the dog since he threw me in here,' replied Daniel. 'Bridgee,' he continued, ' 'tis dyin' from the drouth I am. Can ye git me a draught o' water?' ' 'Tis more than ye deserve, ye poltroon; but wait a minyit.' 

A few moments passed, and then he heard, 'Here ye are Dan'l.' 

However, the pannican she proffered him would not pass through the cell grating. So near, yet so far. Daniel's parched throat almost choked him. ' 'Tis punishment for me sins,' he whimpered. 

But Bridget was a woman of resource. Running to the store adjacent to the police station, she astounded the storekeeper by purchasing a clay pipe. Back again at the cell she passed the pipe through the grating to Daniel. Telling her husband to come close to the grating, she manipulated the pipe stem into his mouth; then, taking the pannican of water, she slowly poured its contents into the bowl of the pipe; Daniel sucking the while the quenching draught. 

Thus was the drought broken. Thus did Daniel make history; for the water imbibed by him in so strange a fashion, was the first taken from the standpipe after the official opening. 

Through the kindly intervention of Father O'Rourke, Daniel's escapade cost him ten shillings; but never again, he vows, will he go to Kelly's against Bridget's advice, to quaff a brew so full of the Tipperary Curse. 

Two Live Ghosts 

The Angaston Cemetery, about 40 years ago, formed the setting for a practical joke which ended disastrously for the victims. The local boys, dividing into two groups, each selected a victim, and suggested to him that he lacked the nerve to parade through the cemetery at midnight draped in a sheet. 

Naturally enough, each victim assumed an air of bravado, and on a given night each party released its victim, clad in a sheet, at opposite entrances, and set them walking towards each other. They met somewhere about the middle of the cemetery, each unsuspecting the presence of the other, and the scene may be well imagined. 

The night was dark and the tombstones loomed ghostly through the gloom, and those boys proved the truth of the adage, 'Fear lends wings to flying feet.' 

Unfortunately, the homes of the two 'ghosts' lay in the same direction, and in the terror of the moment they sought the natural refuge. Sheets flapping around one's legs do not aid one's turn of speed, but the witnesses vow that the ghosts broke all records as they raced for home. 

When the first runner heard the flying feet of the second pounding along behind, his yells of terror marked his inglorious retreat. It developed into somewhat of a race, with both boys thinking only of home. The leader attempted to take the stream in his stride, but the flapping sheet foiled a glorious attempt, and he landed in the cold water. 

In the confusion the sheets came adrift, and the plot was revealed. It took the boys a long time to soothe the victims, and to talk them out of a fight. It took them longer still to explain the tattered sheets.— F.C.