21 January 1937

ALL ABORIGINES ARE NOT EXPERT HORSEMEN 

But Some Can Hold Their Own In Any Company

Half-castes occasionally figure in some of the big buckjumping contests held at country shows and bush carnivals, but rarely are full bloods seen at them. It is a pity that some of the best rough-riders amongst the blacks do not get the chance to show their skill against the whites. Although I would not for one moment suggest that the best Aboriginal riders are better than those in the front rank of white rough-riders [sic], I do claim that I have seen just as efficient horsemen amongst the blacks as I have met any where in Australia, either on stations or in show rings. At the same time I have to admit that I have also seen some awful riders amongst the Aborigines. They are not by any means all super horsemen, as many fiction writers would have us believe.

Having had nearly fifty years intimate association with rough horses and rough-riders, I have no hesitation in saying that the most remarkable rider I ever saw was an Aborigine named Dinny. On many occasions have I seen him in action, and if ever the perfectly balanced horseman existed, it was Dinny. He had a peculiar habit of waving his right arm in a circle as soon as the horse he was riding started to perform. It reminded me of a tight wire walker assisting himself to balance to see Dinny's arm in action. He could not explain why he did it, but it was certain that it helped him to keep his balance. 

Dinny worked for a horse breaker in Queensland, and although he never took part in any contests, he rode many outlaws attached to the various buckjumping shows that toured the State. Saddle or bare-back, it was all the same to Dinny. I doubt if he was ever thrown. 

On the big cattle stations of the outback where mustering camps are mostly comprised of Aborigines, one sees some fine horsemen. Many of the good Aboriginal riders have beautiful hands on a horse, and being balanced riders in the main, it is a pleasure to see them on bad horses. But good as some of them undoubtedly are, they don't last as long as the whites; they seem to lose their nerve early in life. Once an Aborigine becomes afraid nothing will persuade him to mount a horse he thinks might buck. 

Championship contests are held regularly in New South Wales and Queensland, and it would create added interest if by some means a few first class Aboriginal rough-riders were enabled to take part in them. Some of the blacks, if brought from areas beyond civilisation, might get affected with stage fright and thus not give of their best; but there are plenty of them, who have been associated with whites all their lives, and would not be affected by the excitement, the strange surroundings, and the crowd. Possibly the best of our Aboriginal horsemen would not defeat the best of the whites, but I know of a few of the former who, in my opinion, would hold their own on rough horses in any company in the world. 

As a matter of fact, some years ago, a pastoralist in south-western Queensland was prepared to back one of his station boys to ride against anyone in Australia. The pastoralist was prepared to wager anything up to £1,000 on his Aborigine. There was a lot of talk at the time of a match being arranged, but it did not get past talk; the match never eventuated. I never saw the black-boy in question ride, so I can not speak of his ability, but if he was half as good as he was claimed to be, he must have been an exceptional horseman. 

Perhaps some buckjumping enthusiast will one day provide the necessary funds to enable a team of Aborigines to compete at the big buckjumping contest held each year at the Sydney Show. Such would not be a heavy undertaking financially, and besides being an added attraction, it would be the means of enabling city folk to see what fine horsemen some of the descendants of the original owners of the country are. 

One thing is certain, the Aboriginal competitors would be prime favorites with the crowd. There is no saying but that they might not even win. But speaking generally, the average Aboriginal horseman is not as good as the average bushman, but in my opinion those blacks who are near the top are equal to the best of our white rough-riders. Many will dispute this statement no doubt, but I have known most of the best white rough-riders of the past thirty years, and of the blacks I have seen, Dinny and some of his fellows were equally as good.

Admittedly there is no such thing as 'the best horseman,' as the word 'best' applies to sport. I would say that the better rough-riders amongst those whites who regularly take part in contests would have to look to their laurels if ever they found themselves competing against some of the black horse men to be found in the mustering camps of the Northern Territory and North West Queensland. — 'Over-lander.' 

Technical Knowledge 

Old Jimmy MacGuire was progressive in his way, although lack of schooling proved at times rather a stumbling block. 

When a water supply for the town was mooted Jimmy was right in the forefront of the agitation for it. He made a close study of such terms as cubic capacity, reticulation, evaporation, pumping heads, seasonal fluctuation and weather statistics, which he constantly employed to adorn his arguments. Blinded by science, the rate-payers decided to go in for water and expect the worst, in the manner customary to municipal ventures. 

To everybody's surprise, the scheme worked like clockwork, and became a kind of model for other undertakings of the same nature throughout the State. Most of the credit of course went to old Jimmy, who did not hesitate to appropriate all he could get. 

Jimmy's next move was to suggest the installation of an electricity supply. The difficulties were infinitely greater. In the first place Jimmy did not know enough about it to talk convincingly, and the more he read the greater muddle he got himself into. 

However, he did achieve the stage of being able to talk fairly convincingly about amperes, volts, and switchboards, eked out by references to the good job he had made of the water supply— an argument which normally sufficed to quieten all critics. 

Finally the scheme was introduced, and the town became flooded with curious looking workmen from other parts doing mysterious things with lengths of wire, poles, and thick handled pliers. When the bills for the overhead cable started to come in, Jimmy got worried, as it proved to be considerably dearer per yard than the cost of water pipe— the dearest thing Jimmy had then come across. He went home, did some figuring with a carpenter's pencil, and dashed down to see the engineer. 

'I've just been calculating,' he said. 'So far you have put up about a mile and a half of double wire, and there is easily another three miles to go. The rest of the wire is bought and down at the Station, and it is not going to be worth a tinker's curse. Can you tell me if you got a guarantee from the makers, or shall we have to throw the lot out?' 

'What do you reckon is the matter with it?' asked the engineer. 

'Why, didn't any of you men notice it? There isn't one coil with a hole in it for the electricity to go through!'— 'Warrigal.' 

The Line Inspector 

Nearly a quarter of a century ago a middle-aged station hand arrived at a town in western Queensland, with a cheque "as big as a blanket." After two years' hard work he considered that he had earned a few weeks' spell, and, his intentions were to enjoy his holiday to the utmost. 

As is customary with most bushmen, he invited all and sundry about the hotel where he intended to stay, to join him in a drink. He was not sure now many drinks he bought on the day of his arrival, but next morning he had a painful awakening. 

Of his big cheque of the day previous only a few shillings remained. It appears that he had ignored the advice of the publican to allow him to hold £200 in safe keeping. He considered that he was quite capable of looking after his own money. Instead, however, two bush confidence men had attended to that part of the business for him. 

On coming to his senses and realising his loss, he made a vow that never again would he work. Right faithfully has he kept his vow, and today, as for years past, he carries his swag backwards and forwards throughout central west Queensland. Scorning police rations and the old age pension, to which he is entitled, he is known far and wide as the 'Line Inspector,' or 'the man who never works.' 

'Line Inspector' was the title conferred on him by the children of the fettlers living on the railway lines along which he regularly travels. Always primed up with the latest news, he is a welcome visitor at the fettlers' camps, where he is always assured of getting his ration bags filled. As soon as he appears in sight along the line, the children of some fettler will call out, 'Mummy, here comes the Line Inspector.'' 

No bagman of the west knows the records of the sheep stations better than he does. He knows when shearing starts, how many sheep are to be shorn, and how much the owners owe the banks and wool-brokers. More important still, as far as he is concerned, is how these stations stand in the matter of 'hand-outs.' He only leaves the railway line to call at homesteads where the 'hand-outs' are generous. 

He is now an old man and often talks of making application for the pension, but he hesitates to do so, realising that it would be too great an effort to give up his roving live and settle down in a town. It is quite likely that he will continue to carry his swag until the inevitable happens, and then no more will the fettlers' children greet him as the 'Line Inspector' or 'the man who never works.' — 'Overlander.'

Achievement 

This story has been told of many persons, but I first heard it from an old pioneer who vouched for its originality in his younger days. 

An old 'hatter' came and squatted in a remote corner of the run on which he was then working. As the old fellow was perfectly harmless and did some useful execution amongst the dingoes, nobody interfered with him. 

The boss rode over a few times to make sure that he was not short of rations and was assured that every thing was all right, as the old man had a small private income that catered for his simple needs. Eventually a sort of friendship developed, and the boss concluded from scattered hints that the 'hatter' had had some grave disappointment earlier in his life from which he had never recovered. 

This half statement naturally set the womenfolk agog to discover what the mystery could possibly be, especially as they suspected that a woman was at the back of it. It was not long before they began to call at the lonely hut with some little delicacy to cheer up the solitary hermit, and incidentally loosen up his tongue. For months nothing transpired, but then the boss's wife, emboldened by a growing confidence in her, decided to ask straight out for the story. 

'Why did you come out here like this, Bill?' she asked him one day. 

Bill thought for a few minutes before he answered, 'To forget.' 

'What did you want to forget?' she continued, her curiosity thoroughly aroused. 

'There you have me licked, missus,' answered the wanderer, with the faintest suspicion of a twinkle in his eye. 'I've forgotten!'

— 'Greenhide.' 

A Hailstorm That Left Its Mark 

On the bark of water-gums growing near the main Tumby Bay-Stokes road even today can be seen many curious brown marks and gashes which were caused by a severe hailstorm which swept the district in 1924. Even after the lapse of so many years it is still possible in places to trace the course of the storm. 

The morning dawned hot and sultry, and towards noon a dull, yellowish haze overspread the sky. A feeling of oppression seemed to be in the atmosphere, and even the birds and animals were restless and uneasy. 

About the middle of the afternoon there were several distinct earth tremors, following which the hail started to fall. Not the usual sized hailstones, but large, jagged pieces of ice varying in size from a marble to a hen's egg. Fowls rushed for shelter, and those that were late in starting were either killed or knocked senseless as they ran. Cattle and horses also raced for the shelter of sheds — anywhere out of reach of the sharp, stinging hailstones. 

Exposed windows were badly cracked and broken. The fall continued for about ten minutes, then stopped as suddenly as it had started. Hailstones were piled up against walls and fences to the depth of a foot, and were several inches deep all over the ground. Crops fared badly —not a bag of wheat being harvested from the affected area. The storm extended over a distance of about 30 miles in length and a mile in width through the central districts of Eyre Peninsula. — R.V.H.