Christmas Dinner— And The Beer

Trusted Mates Who Went To Town For Supplies

Three years ago half a dozen of us working on a station, writes 'Up North,' decided we'd put in two pounds each, and send into town for a supply of delicacies, and, of course, some beer. There were many anxious moments and heart burnings before there was a happy ending.

The boss and his wife had gone to the seaside, and although we'd been given permission to spend a couple of days in the town, it was conditional that at least two would remain at the station, meaning that the spell in town had to be spent in relays. We decided we'd all remain at the home stead and celebrate the festive season there. A few days before Christmas we drew lots to see which two should go to town for the supplies, and as the car had gone with the boss, the buck board had to be called into use.

As luck would have it, the pair who won the right to drive in had a strong liking for beer, and I, for one, thought we were depending on pretty rotten reeds to return in time for Christmas.

However, two days before Christmas the two men started off in the buck board, promising to stay the night in town and leave so as to return to the homestead on Christmas Eve. Both promised to keep strictly sober, and many were the threats we made as to what would happen should the pro mises not be kept.

After mid-day on Christmas Eye we at the station kept looking anxiously along the road, and when sundown came with no appearance of the buck board, we came to the conclusion, as was natural, that the pair had got drunk and were still in town. Of course, we blamed ourselves for allowing the pair to go together, and we were not very particular in expressing our opinions of them; but cursing would not bring us our Christmas beer. We talked the matter over, and it was decided that two would leave at daylight and ride into the town. As there wouldn't be any chance of the return journey being made before sundown, it was arranged we'd postpone our Christmas dinner and hold the festivities on Boxing Day.

The pair of us left behind had just finished lunch when one of the horse men returned and told us the news. The men with the buckboard had been met about half-way into the town, but the horses were missing. It appeared that the two men with the buckboard, probably afraid of their weakness, had obtained the supplies and left town the same night. They had driven until about midnight, and as the horses needed a spell, the men decided to camp for the night and get away at daylight. They forgot, how ever, to hobble the horses, and in the morning they could not be found.

When the two horsemen caught up with the buckboard, one man was away seeking the horses, and on realising the position, the two mounted men set off on the tracks of the missing buckboard horses. Rough and stony country prevented tracks from being seen, and eventually the horsemen returned to the buckboard to see if the man on foot had had any luck. He hadn't, so there was nothing else for it but for one of the men to ride back to the station for fresh buggy horses. There were no buggy horses in hand, but as soon as I caught a mount two of us set out for the spell paddock, and luckily found the horses we wanted sooner than we expected.

But by the time a start was made for the backboard it was seen that it would be well after sundown before the party would arrive at the homestead, so visions of a late dinner on Christmas Day were dashed. About nine o'clock that night the buckboard arrived, and, wonderful to relate, the four with it were perfectly sober, and, more wonderful still, not a single bottle of beer had been opened. During the wait, and while driving back, soft stuff only had been drunk. The cook and I, who had remained at home, fully anticipated that all the buckboard party would be more or less merry.

Owing to being practically unprotected from the hot sun, the case of lager was far from cool, and after opening it and feeling a bottle, it was unanimously decided that the cargo wouldn't be broached until next day. But a day late though we were, we lost nothing by celebrating our Christmas on Boxing Day, and during the festivities we forgot all the rather unkind things we'd said, and thought about the buckboard pair. Both confessed that the reason why they left without spending a night in town was because of the fear of getting an over supply and thus being too helpless to leave in the morning. And, knowing both as I did, I had to admit they did the most sensible thing. Still, all's well that ends well.— 'Up North.'

Drover Knew His Stock Routes

John Joseph . . ., a well known drover, who knew more about stock routes than most, was travelling in a mob of bullocks that had passed through lean times. John Joseph had given the required notice to a station that he would enter on the following day, and as feed was scarce, the manager annoyed J. J. greatly when he demanded that he do his stage and keep to the stock route, and not let his cattle wander afield.

Two days later J. J. picked a camp not far from the homestead, and in the morning he told the horse-tailer to take a short cut with the plant by going through the horse paddock. 'And don't bustle the horses,' said J. J., 'there's a bit of feed in the paddock.' The plant of horses had just, entered the paddock gate when the manager came along, and roundly abused the horse-tailer for not keeping to the stock route.

Having been refused permission to continue on, the horse-tailer had to turn back with the plant, and on coming up with J. J., he told of the incident. 'Right,' said J. J. 'I'll fix that fellow.' Giving the horse-tailer instructions, J. J. halted his bullocks, and after allowing them to camp until late in the afternoon, he turned them back and drove the mob into the horse paddock.

And then things started. The manager made threats of suing for trespass and what not, but after he'd finished his tirade, J. J. said his little piece. 'You're manager and I'm only a drover,' said J. J., 'but apparently I know more about this station than you do.'

And then a very amazed manager heard J. J. tell of how the homestead and the horse paddock were both on the stock route. When shown the survey pegs the manager had to admit defeat, and although J. J. played the game and kept his cattle from wandering, his horses got what they hadn't had for many a night— a decent feed of grass. J. J. knew what he was about. — 'Drover.'

Horse That Climbed Through Wire Fence

In the days when every new chum offered possibilities to the practical joker, a new parson came to Clarendon. As far as knowledge of horses went, he was as green as the grass of his pastorate. The parsonage was situated on a steep hill, near the old cemetery. Having purchased a horse and a gig, he looked down the road, and said that if he attempted to drive down it the gig would run away with him. Then the steel check-shoe was explained to him.

Next day he went visiting. From district to district he went, up and down-hill all day. Late that afternoon, a puzzled pastor pulled up at the shop of the Clarendon blacksmith. He could not understand, he told the smith, what was wrong with his horse. All day he had had to use the whip on it. Now, covered with foam, it was on the point of collapse.

The smith took one look at the gig, repressed a smile, and removed the shoe that, all through the day, had been causing the wheel to drag.

News of the newcomer's ignorance soon spread through the district. When the cleric went to Coromandel Valley to conduct a service, the jokers were waiting for him. While he was preaching, they took the horse from the shafts, ran the shafts between the wires of the fence, and put the horse back between the shafts. The pastor had been puzzled by the habits of Australian people. When he came out from conducting the service, he was even more amazed at and puzzled by the ways of Australian beasts. He pointed to the horse. 'Now how,' he asked, 'can a horse climb through a fence like that with out getting his harness tangled.' — I.M.