24 June 1937

THINGS ARE NOT ALWAYS WHAT THEY SEEM

Connoisseur Mistakes Pig's Blood For Wine

In Ireland the roasting of a pig on festival occasions has a liturgy all its own.

In the days when Lameroo was in its infancy there came to the district on Irishman, Shanus O'Byrne, concerning whose past life in the Emerald Isle little was known. There were some of the residents, however, who hinted that he had left Ireland for that country's good. But that he was educated and cultured none could deny.

There also came to Lameroo one day a man with a hay waggon; but he was not carting hay. His freight was pigs. Soon Martin's piggery became the talk of the township; but the arrival of the pigs had given Shanus an idea. Many were the times he had discoursed at length, over a pint or two, on the pig roasting ceremonies m the far-off Wicklow Mountains. 'I'll tell ye,' he would say, nourishing his glass, 'there's none among ye folks of this counthry who's ever seen such a ceremony as the pig roasting' in Wicklow.'

Mick Sheehan, whose parents were Irish, and who had heard his father speak of the pig roasting liturgy, was chewing a quid of tobacco at the other end of the bar as Shanus made his statement. Dexterously ejecting a stream of nicotened saliva into the spittoon, he said, 'Tell me now, do ye think we could organise something o' the kind now that that fellow Martin has started a pig run?' 'You get me a pig, and I'll do the rest,' said Shanus.

A few days later Sheehan informed Shanus that he had made a deal with Martin. 'I found out the fellow's weakness, he said. 'He can't resist a drop o port, so I made a deal of a demijohn of wine for a porker.' The two men went to the hotel and bought two demijohns of port. 'For, ' said Shanus, 'we'll need one for ourselves, as part of the roastin' ceremony is that the sticker and Roaster should each have a demijohn of Port. 'That will mean three then,' pro tested Sheehan, thinking of the cost. So Shanus decided that the one would do between them.

They bought the two demijohns, one for themselves, the other to close the deal, and set off for Martin's farm, which was about a mile and a half from the township. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when they reached the farm. Martin insisted on the two men having a drink with him, and before they set about catching the porker the demijohn had been emptied.

Eventually the pig was caught and Shanus and Sheehan set off down the bush track leading to the township. Both pig and men meandered along an indirect course; the pig giving much trouble. During the intervals of retrieving the animal from the various sanctuaries it sought beneath bushes, behind trees, and in wide paddocks, Shanus and his companion broached the demijohn which had been purchased for use during the roasting ceremony.

The bush twilight had faded into night by the time the two men reached the scene of their night's ritual — an old barn used for stacking wheat. By some miracle they succeeded in opening the door and getting the pig inside. After shutting the door again they sat down and commenced to polish off the remainder of the demijohn. When they had finished it they decided to buy another before sticking and roasting the pig. Having duly made their purchase they returned to the barn, both fairly 'under the weather.'

The pig caused them considerable trouble. Eventually, by catching hold of its hind leg, amid much squealing from the pig and grunting on the part of Shanus and his mate, it was secured. The next thing was to place it across the tripod, in order to slit it from neck to hindquarters. They found this somewhat difficult, and Shanus suggested cutting its throat first and 'gutting' it afterwards. With a dexterous thrust of the knife Sheehan struck the porker's throat.

Pandemonium broke loose. The shrieks of the wounded pig were shrill and piercing. Blood was pouring every where, and Shanus, thinking that there might be some trouble with the owners of the barn because of the mess, ran outside, and picking up the empty demijohn, placed it under the blood streaming from the pig's throat. The squeals of the pig grew gradually weaker until at last it collapsed, dead. Shanus put the blood-filled demijohn aside. The pig was hoisted on to the tripod and 'gutted.'

Soon a fire was blazing merrily underneath the tripod, and shanus and Sheehan attacked the second demijohn. It was not long before both men became noisy with bibulous songs and uproarious laughter. It was whilst in the act of passing the demijohn to Shanus that disaster came. Mick collapsed and toppled forward; the demijohn, rolling into the fire, spilled a quantity of the fairly spiritous liquor into the flames. There was a sudden flare and soon the barn was a raging inferno.

Struggling unsteadily to his feet, Shanus with one hand dragged the unconscious Mick to the barn door, while with his other hand he rescued the demijohn. As he reached the door his foot accidentally kicked against the other one, which rolled outside. The barn was burned to the ground. The pig was roasted, but not according to ritual.

By the time the towns people, who had been attracted by the glare, arrived on the scene Shanus had found refuge for himself and Mick in the scrub. With the destruction of the barn the crowd dispersed.

One man remained, however — the Roman Catholic priest, Father Ryan. He was concerned about the safety of the two men. His fears increased when he discovered two partly filled demijohns a few yards from the barn door. Picking them up, he made a search for some clue of the missing men, but finding none, reluctantly returned to the presbytery, where he locked the demijohns safely in his kitchen cupboard.

Some three months later, Christmas Day dawned hot and sultry. After Mass, which he had celebrated at 10 o'clock, Father Ryan was having a cup of tea when his housekeeper announced a caller in the person of Father O'Flynn— an old college chum of earlier years in Ireland. After the usual greetings, Father Ryan suggested that, as the weather was so hot and his friend had driven far, together with the fact of its being Christmas day and the occasion of a re-union, some liquid refreshment would be appropriate.

'I'm sorry I've only wine in the house, Pat,' he apologised. 'But shure, Tim, it's the connoisseur ye were in the old days,' was the reply. 'Maybe I was. Maybe I might be,' said Father Ryan, wondering what particular vintage and brand the demijohns contained. Going to the kitchen cupboard, he picked up both the demijohns he had placed there some three months before. One was lighter than the other. 'Perhaps I'd better bottle the contents of both,' he said to himself. Having bottled the contents he dug up an old decanter, into which he poured his bottled brew. Then, more from curiosity than anything else, he poured himself a glass. The taste was a trifle strange. 'Something like a dry Burgundy, but a little immature,' he said. 'Maybe it's newly vatted.'

Arriving back in the dining-room with a tray on which reposed the decanter of unknown vintage, and two glasses, he said to his guest, 'Your luck's in. I've dug up a bottle of Burgundy.' A moment later both priests raised their glasses in a silent toast. Unlike a connoisseur, Father Ryan tossed off his drink in one mouthful. Father O'Flynn, on the other hand took a small sip. The taste reminded him of his early boyhood days, when, as an anaemic child in Galway, he was given pig's blood to build him up. Of wine he was no judge; but where pig's blood was concerned—well he was a connoisseur. He sipped his drink in silence, Father Ryan waiting the while for his guest's verdict. Finally, having drained his glass, Father O'Flynn eyed his host coldly, and in a dry, steady tone said, 'Well, now, Tim, and it's meself who never knew till this moment that Burgundy was merely pig's blood and Port.'— T.W.S.

Hard To Satisfy

A man once approached one of my neighbors for a job and suggested that a week's trial would be the best way to see whether it was worth while making the engagement permanent. At the end of that period his employer told him that he was more than satisfied, but the man shook his head doubtfully and demanded a further week on trial.

Puzzled by the request, the employer asked him if he doubted his capacity to stand the pace he had set himself. 'No,' the man answered. 'That's not what I'm worrying about at all. I was just wanting to find out if you were going to keep up the tucker to me on the same scale before I committed myself too deeply.' 'But we always eat more or less what you have been having,' the other replied.

'Oh, well, in that case I'll stay. You see, everywhere a man takes on a job, they generally feed him up well for a start. The first job I had in this district was for an old chap named Mulvaney. His long suit was mutton. Every Saturday afternoon he used to go out and hunt up the scraggiest wether he could find, cut it up, and start the week with Bombay duck on Sunday. He corned the rest of the carcase, and we had it three feeds a day, six days a week, until we finished up trying to crack a bit of marrow out of the bones for Saturday's dinner.

Even his own sons couldn't stand it. Whenever he sent them out to do a bit of drafting they used to surge the bullocks along until one of them went over a log and broke its neck. Then we used to have a decent bit of sirloin for Sunday, and cornbeef for a month. What a treat it used to be, too!'

'No wonder you got sick of it,' his boss agreed. 'How long did you stand it?' 'I gave it best after about two and a half years, when the old man sold out his cattle and went in for sheep entirely.' 'I don't suppose you ever struck anything quite as bad again?'

'Well, the next place I went to, I put it up fairly and squarely to the boss, a fellow named Nicholls, that I wanted my meat fresh most of the week, and he seemed fairly happy to hear it. He said he always preferred it himself, and the place was close enough to town for the butcher to run out three times a week. I thought I was in clover!'

'What was the catch with Nicholls?' 'Well, he put down a pound of sausages in front of me the first meal and asked me how I liked them. After thirty solid months on corned ram, what would anyone say? They tasted nearly as good the next meal, and it was nearly a fortnight before I began to cool off on sausages. Nicholls used to be mad about them. He was always saying that he would sooner have a tasty sausage than a tender chicken, and he lived up to what he said. I used to watch him and wonder whether he was genuine about it, but you never saw a man who enjoyed his food more. I tried putting half my starvers away each meal for a while and eating them cold later on. It used to give them a slightly different flavor, but that soon wore thin too, so I decided to tackle old Nicholls about it.'

" 'Have you got false teeth, boss?' I asked him."

" 'Every one as sound as a bell, and all my own' he told me."

" 'Then, why the craze on starvers?' "

" 'What's the matter with them? Never strike any crook ones, do you?' "

" 'No, but they do get monotonous.' "

" 'Perhaps they do, but there's one thing I like about them that you can't say for butcher's meat as a rule.' "

" 'What's that?' "

" ' I've been eating sausages for close on forty years, and I've never struck a tough one yet!' " — 'Fisher.'

Deal Which Did Not Come Off

During the shearers' strike in Queensland in 1930, an incident occurred that caused a great deal of amusement to those who heard of it, and the grazier who was concerned in the affair was the first to congratulate the one who had imposed on him.

It had been rumored that shearers were to be brought from the southern States to take the place of the strikers, and efforts were being made to find out when the men from the south were to arrive and how many sheds were to commence shearing. One of the men of the strikers' committee, a shearers' cook, who incidentally knew little or nothing about sheep, volunteered to find out the information desired.

In appearance, Jones, as we'll call the cook, might have been taken for a prosperous business man. He always dressed well, was well spoken, and a better man could not have been found to carry out the plan he had thought of.

One morning Jones drove up in his car to the homestead of one of the stations where it was thought that shearing would soon be commencing with shearers from the south. The owner was at home — call him Woolbale — and introducing himself as a stock and station agent from the southern part of the State, Jones enquired if Mr. Woolbale had any sheep for sale. Jones inferred that he wanted to buy anything up to 20,000 sheep for some clients of his.

Mr. Woolbale did have some sheep for sale, and scenting business, he invited Jones to stay for lunch. He said that in the meantime he would have the sheep he had for sale mustered for Jones's inspection.

During lunch Woolbale volunteered the information desired by the pseudo agent, told when the shearers from the south would be arriving at the station. Jones played his part well, and whilst gaining information was loud in his abuse of the way the striking shearers were carrying on. In the afternoon Jones inspected the sheep, and, as he said afterwards, he feared every minute that Woolbale would ask him to mouth one to see that the ages were right. Jones did not know if a sheep had one tooth or twenty. However the inspection passed off without him being embarrassed, and on leaving he said that he would wire his clients and let Woolbale know by telephone the next day.

Well satisfied with his day's work, Jones departed, and that night the committee of the shearers at every town in western Queensland knew of the information he had gained. Next morning Woolbale drove into the township, and whilst speaking to a friend he saw Jones walking to the post office. 'Excuse me,' he said to his friend. 'There's Jones, a stock and station agent from southern Queensland. He inspected my sheep yesterday and I want to see him.' 'Who did you say it was?' asked the friend of Woolbale. When the latter repeated what he had previously said, the other burst into laughter.

'Why, man,' he said, 'that's Tommy Blank, the shearers' cook.' 'Woolbale remonstrated, but the other, although ignorant of what had taken place, called out to the pseudo Jones. With a grin on his face Jones walked over to the pair and said, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Woolbale, I won't be able to buy those sheep.' Jones, knowing Woolbale's friend, then told the latter what he had done; but being a sport, Woolbale took what had happened in good part, and after he had been introduced to Jones under his right name by his friend, led the way to the hotel nearby. Other than causing amusement, the incident did not benefit the striking shearers in the slightest; and shortly afterwards shearing was in full swing throughout western Queensland, being carried on by men brought by special trains from New South Wales. — 'Woolbale.'