Books to keep an eye out for.

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Experience the Gold Trails

Welcome to the NSW Gold Trails

From the discovery of Australias first payable gold at Ophir in 1851 and for several years after this memorable event, the history of New South Wales is dominated by the feverish rush to find gold the splendid triumphs and bitter disappointments, the mateship of the original diggers and the dramatic impact the gold discoveries had on rural societies and economies.

Explore the Highlights of the Gold Trails and discover for yourself how this golden heritage vein underpins the story of the towns, villages and landscapes of NSW.
The Gold Trails experience encompasses mining landscapes such as the historic Hills End Site, Reefers Mill at Adelong and OBriens Hill at Grenfell with relics of the mining boom days. There are social echoes of the bushrangers and Lambing Flat, and the unique painted murals at Eugowra celebrating the 1862 hold up of the gold coach at Escort Rock. You will also have the opportunity to fossick for your own golden treasure along the way.

The illustrative map shows our six recommended Gold Trails.

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https://www.goldtrails.com.au/
 
Handbook of Queensland geology / by Robert L. Jack

Download at https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-409636148/view?partId=nla.obj-409636774

The goldfields of Queensland : Gympie goldfield, 1868-1898 / by Wm. Lees.

Download at https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-415597879/view?partId=nla.obj-415760312

Guide to the Palmer River and Normanby gold fields, North Queensland, showing the different roads to and from the Etheridge River, Cleveland Bay, and Cooktown, with map of the Palmer River and adjacent gold fields, and, Journal of explorations / by James V. Mulligan.

Download at http://handle.slv.vic.gov.au/10381/93172
 
TheMediocritist said:
Ive got a bunch of old PDF books (all out of copyright) mainly relating to gold mining in Victoria in the 1800s. Should I post them in this thread?

yes please mate id like to see them thats for sure.
 
Jemba TM thanks hey you guys just filled in some holes for me and what a dam great amount of reading i must say and yikes jemba i thought i was ok at digging up history dang mate theres some books in your list ive heard of and tm ive been looking for one of those book you posted for ages thank you so now in turn when i reach ten pots ect i have a few ill upload to if thats ok with the mods that is i have geological maps from befor and after the 1800s and ill pass on a few really really old books from the victorian region
 
TheMediocritist said:
Tathradj said:
As long as copyright is not infringed by all means. :) :)

Thanks. Should be fine, theyre mainly over 150 years old, and available from online libraries.

The gold regions of Australia : a descriptive account of New South Wales, Victoria, and South Australia : with particulars of the recent gold discoveries / by Samuel Mossman 1852
https://www.dropbox.com/s/ood2uy2cc...lia_Samuel Mossman (1852)_compressed.pdf?dl=0

Next is a great read. Id love to get my hands on these in first edition:
Land, labour and gold, or, Two years in Victoria : with visits to Sydney and Van Diemen's Land / by William Howitt 1855.
Volume 1: https://www.dropbox.com/s/wjpa8cakb...n Victoria_Vol1_William Howit (1855).pdf?dl=0
Volume 2: https://www.dropbox.com/s/mubupf8ip...n Victoria_Vol2_William Howit (1855).pdf?dl=0

Ive got another dozen+ but Ill upload them and post them as I can, if people are interested.
This goes back to the beginning of this thread, years ago, but some might be interested in some background to the Howitt books.
William Howitt and his wife were English writers, and they took their son Alfred William Howitt with them on their journey around the goldfields. Alfred Howitt later became Mining Warden in Omeo, then a government geologist - the government sent him into the mountains east of Melbourne to explore for a new goldfield. He wintered over there with a famous landscape painter Von Guerard, and discovered the Crooked River goldfield. He was the first to describe some landscape features such as the Den of the Nargun on the Mitchell River, and he wrote many geological reports famous at the time (e.g. the geology of North Gippsland). He wrote about the aborigines of the region and his book and papers on this are referred to today. There was a town, Howittville, named after him near Crooked River, as was Mount Howitt, and various fossils and living creatures such as the Gippsland water dragon (Intellagama lesueurii howitti) - the common garden wattle, Sticky Wattle ( Arcacia Howitii) was named after his brother. Alfred led the search for Burke and Wills, and the major street, Howitt Street in Ballarat, is named after him (there is also a statue to him in the main street, Sturt St). Quite a character.....
 
Handbook on prospecting in South Australia.

Corporate Author: South Australia.
Language(s): English
Published: Adelaide, K. M. Stevenson, Govt. printer, 1952.
Subjects: Prospecting
Mines and mineral resources > Mines and mineral resources /South Australia.
Physical Description: 151 p. illus., maps. 25 cm.
University of Michigan

https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015068535635&view=1up&seq=88

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A thousand miles away; a history of North Queensland to 1920

Main Author: Bolton, Geoffrey, 1931-
Language(s): English
Published: [Sydney] Australian National University Press, 1970.
Subjects: Queensland > Queensland /History.
Physical Description: xvi, 366 p. illus., maps, ports. 22 cm.
ISBN: 0708100481
Original Source
University of California

https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=uc1.b3821100&view=1up&seq=145

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Opals & gold; wanderings & work on the mining & gem fields

Main Author: Macdonald, Robert M. b. 1874.
Language(s): English
Published: Philadelphia, J. B. Lippincott company [1928?]
Subjects: Opals.
Prospecting.
Mines and mineral resources > Mines and mineral resources /Australia.
Physical Description: 255, [1] p. plates. 22 cm.
Original Source University of California

https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=uc1.$b32739&view=1up&seq=7

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Journal (with plans) of the government prospecting expedition to the southwestern portions of the Northern Territory, by F. R. George; and to the Buxton and Davenport ranges, by W. R. Murray. Minister controlling the Northern Territory--Hon. L. O'Loughlin.

Corporate Author: South Australia.
Related Names: Murray, W. R., George, F. R.
Language(s): English
Published: Adelaide, C. E. Bristow, government printer, 1907.

https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015035524233&view=1up&seq=1

Government geologist's report re visit to far north. SA

Corporate Author: South Australia.
Related Names: Brown, Henry Yorke Lyell.
Language(s): English
Published: [Adelaide, 1884]

https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=uiuo.ark:/13960/t6h19fg2g&view=1up&seq=1

General report on Tanami goldfield and district (north western central Australia) ... /
By Lionel C. E. Gee

Corporate Author: South Australia.
Related Names: Gee, Lionel C. E.
Language(s): English
Published: Adelaide : R. E. E. Rogers, government printer, 1911
.
https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015080078028&view=1up&seq=5

Record of the mines of South Australia Compiled under the authority of the Hon. Laurence O'Loughlin,

by Lionel C. E. Gee. H. Y.L. Brown, Government Geologist
Published 1908
Author South Australia. Department of Mines.

https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=nyp.33433089968196&view=1up&seq=7
:Y:
 
Hi all I have been looking into doing a line of post on the guy below. If you enjoy Henry Lawson type yarns you will quite enjoy this, a remarkably well written serial. I hope to entangle you within the living history in the pages, as they unfold. Indeed from what I have read so far it is good very good. I will be posting it in this section. The document will run into quite a few pages, which can be printed out if need be. I love Australian history, so many books and such have been lost to time, and this is one that needs to be retold I feel. Your say on weather to run with the tale would be a great guidance to me.
Cheers Jemba.

:Y:

PREFACE.

A SHEARER NAMED TRITTON

IN next weeks Christmas number The Bulletin will begin publishing as a serial the autobiography of a shearer named Tritton. He is 72 years old and tall and tough as an ironbark ; and his writing might well be just as durable.

He is, really, Nancy Keesings discovery. She met him when she was searching for material for the Old Bush Songs anthology, heard some of his yarns, and liked them so much that she suggested he write them down. When she read the finished book she liked it so much that she passed it on to The Bulletin; and The Bulletin liked it so much that it starts next week. It is called, from a line of Henry Lawsons, Time Means Tucker. Like Alfred Joyces A Homestead History, published by the Melbourne University Press; like M. J. O'Reillys Bowyangs and Boomerangs, published by Oldham, Beddome and Meredith in Tasmania, and not nearly so well known as it should be; and, though the period is much later, like The Letters of Rachel Henning, Time Means Tucker is the sort of book which could well become a minor Australian classic; for not only does it set down an invaluable piece of the national story in clear and precise description, but it is also, without any pretensions, remarkably well written.

Tritton just sets down in direct and simple language what he has seen and heard ; and what he saw and heard happened to be an immortal part of the Australian legend, shearing and swagging outback. He may, in part, have learned his style from Henry Lawson, with whom he once had a daylong quiet session in the Miners Arms at Mudgee (N.S.W.); and certainly his reminiscences make a most valuable background to Lawsons short-stories, for all that life of shearing, swagging, fossicking, droving, fencing, rabbiting, bullock-driving and yarning around the campfire which Lawson described so brilliantly, Tritton really lived. Every yarn he tells, from the two old hatters fighting on the goldfields to the rogue ram that knocked the other old hatter down a hole and then tried to dig him out again, would have made wonderful material for Lawson ; and every one remains first-class reading as told by Tritton.

One of the greatest attractions of his book is that, if the great days of the blade-shears and the tucker-track have gone for ever, the stations where he worked all over New South Wales still remain, usually with the same names, often still owned by the same families; and so, too, with living bits of their history in these pages, do the towns remain where he camped under the bridges, was or was not kicked out by the sergeant, sang in the pubs or boxed with professionals (some famous) at the shows. But the best thing about the book is the spirit of youth and adventure in which it is written.

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Part One.

Time Means Tucker

By H. P. (DUKE) TRITTON

For time means tucker, and tramp you must, where the scrubs and plains are wide, With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain-peak to guide; All day long in the dust and heat when summer is on the track. With stinted stomachs and blistered feet, they carry their swags.

Out Back. Henry Lawson.

The year 1905 was the turning-point of my life. I was 19 years of age, and had never been farther from Sydney than Parramatta. Work was scarce and wages low, and conditions all round were tough, so when Dutchy Bishop suggested we try our luck around the shearing sheds I reckoned I would be in it. The fact that shearing did not start in N. S. Wales till June did not worry us in the least, though it was then early February. Another fact, that we knew nothing at all about shearing, didnt even enter our minds.

So, with the optimism of youth, we decided to start that night. As we had heard of the northern districts being one of the places where work was plentiful, we reckoned north would do us. Also we could get a good start by boarding the Sydney, a paddle-steamer, which sailed at midnight three times a week for Newcastle and Morpeth, and reached Newcastle at 6 a.m. The fare was two-and-six. When I broke the news to my family I met with a lot of opposition from my mother and sisters, but I managed to convince them that I was not going into unexplored country teeming with hostile blacks. Dad came home then, and said it would be a bit of an experience for me.

He had carried his swag to the Gulgong gold-rush in 1871, and he showed me how to roll a swag, and gave me a lot of advice, which I promptly forgot. Mum brought blankets, sheets, clothes, boots and even a pillow. I would have needed a camel to have carried them. She could not imagine how I was going to sleep without sheets. Of course all mums are like that. our sea-trip was uneventful, and we sighted Nobbys on time. I wasnt impressed by Newcastle, but few cities look very nice from the waterfront. We went to the Salvation Army building and had break fast, and when I asked for envelope and papers to write home, as I had promised, they were given freely. We left Newcastle at noon and reckoned we would get to Maitland that night. But, not used to walking, and with the shoulder - straps of the swags chafing, we only got as far as Hexham, where we camped by a nice-looking sheet of water. Little did we know what we had let ourselves in for, but we soon found out. Hexham swamps are the home of the famous Hexham Greys, the biggest and hungriest mosquitoes in Australia. And it is no exaggeration to say there were millions of them. They were like a thick grey cloud, and the buzzing was indescribable. As Banjo Paterson mentions in one of his poems, They could suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt. What they lived on, except for the swagman inexperienced enough to camp on those swamps, still has me beat. In all my travels I have never met anything like them. All night we lay awake with blankets over our faces, but their humming kept us from sleeping. We finally lit a ring of cowdung fires and crouched over them till daylight, choking and coughing with the fumes. Then, to make matters worse, homesickness set in.

We would both stare in the direction in which we thought Sydney lay, and it only needed one of us to say Lets go back, and our travels would have ended right there. Each knew what the other was thinking. Finally Dutchy sighed and said, Wed have to fight the lot of them, and I replied, Yes. Theyd jeer so much we would never live it down. So we rolled our swags and went north. My only recollection of the town of Maitland is one long street. Just as we came in, a policeman pulled us up and, after asking a lot of questions as to who we were, where we came from, etc., told us to keep going. To make sure we complied with his orders he followed us to the end of town. Our feet were blistered, our shoulders were sore and our spirits were very low. We limped along cursing all police men and wondering why we had ever left home. However, a few miles out we camped at a little creek, and after a feed and a swim we felt a lot better. There were plenty of leeches in the creek, but after the Hexham Greys they were a mere item. I slept like a log that night. There may have been mosquitoes around, but I wouldnt know. The sun was well up when we woke, and the world didnt seem a bad place. We had walked a couple of miles when we had a stroke of luck. A lady and gentleman in a buggy offered us a lift to Singleton.

Never heard who they were, but I have never forgotten them. They were very friendly, and talked and joked about our ambition to become big-gun shearers. When we parted at Singleton they waved away our thanks and wished us luck. We had a bad moment when a policeman pulled us up when we were halfway through the town. He asked the usual questions, noted them down in his book, then said: Well, boys, Im afraid there is not much chance of inexperienced lads getting a job around here just now, but you can camp at the bridge for a few days and have a try for one. Come up to the station about noon every day you are here, and I might be able to do something for you. Be careful with fire were a bit afraid of it with so much dry grass about. He then left us, and we went down to the river with our opinions on the police-force considerably altered. The people were friendly and helpful, but after two days we gave up hope of work in Singleton. Our friend the policeman told us of a teamster going to Aberdeen to pick up a load who would be glad to give us a lift. The wagon seemed a tremendous size when we climbed up on top. It was 40ft. long and 8ft. wide. One of the famous Bennett wagons built at St. Marys for wool-carrying, it was the pride of the district. Painted red and black, drawn by 12 well-matched bay horses, it was well kept. Horses were groomed, and the harness glittered with polish. I have never seen a better outfit on the roads. The teamster, a big man with a full beard, was worthy of his team. White corded-moleskin trousers, Wellington boots, Crimean-shirt and a cabbage tree hat made him a striking figure. Like all the good teamsters, horse or bullock, I have ever met, he carried no whip except a riding-crop, and depended on his voice, which was seldom raised above normal. But every horse was stepping-out and pulling its weight all the time. His name was Mr. Jamison, and he rode a saddle-pony for a few miles, then climbed on the wagon and yarned with us. We were surprised to learn that, though he was 50 years of age, he had never been in Sydney. He asked innumerable questions, and listened intently as we tried to describe the city to him.

When we told him it was many times bigger than New castle, I think he didnt quite believe us. We left Singleton late and camped at a village called Ravensworth. After fixing his horses Jamison invited us over to the pub to have a beer. I had never tasted strong drink of any kind, but, not wishing to offend, I dawdled along behind him. Dutchy had had a few beers, and walked unconcernedly into the bar. Both called for pints, and I croaked something the barman must have understood, for he handed me a pint also. Somebody said, Heres luck, and I took a gulp. I thought it the most horrible thing I had ever tasted, and wondered why men could ever crave for it. But I knew that I had to be a man among men, and had another go at it. It finally beat me, so I managed to dribble most of it down the side of the bar, while Mr. Jamison, Dutchy, the barman and several other men discoursed learnedly about good and bad beer. All were in perfect agreement that the beer under discussion was the king of all beers. I stood up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, in the best manner of the hardened drinker, Discoursed learnedly about good and bad beer. out my chest, and assured the company that it was the best beer I had ever tasted. Which was the absolute truth. We reached Aberdeen next afternoon. I saw Musweil brook from the top of the wagon, so my recollections are somewhat vague. Aberdeen meatworks, where Mr. Jamison was to load, were full-handed, so we regretfully said good-bye to him, and tramped off. We were offered jobs at Wingen at twelve-and-six a week, which we scornfully refused. We had heard a lot about the burning mountain at Wingen, and went to have a look at it, but it wouldnt demonstrate for us and we were somewhat disappointed. Murrurundi was our next town.

At the junction of the Liverpool and Moonbi ranges, it is a pretty little town. It seems to be in a hollow, but actually it is very high. Nice place, nice people, but no work, so we kept on. Four miles north we crossed the Great Dividing Range for the first time in our lives. On the exact line where the waters split stood a white post. It was hard to realise that the water flowing into the Hunter would reach the sea in a little over 100 miles, while that flowing into the Mooki would have nearly 2000 miles to go. It was a wonderful view. To the east and south were the coastal ranges, heavily timbered and jugged. Murrurundi, looking like a collection of dolls houses, seemed to be directly under us. A few hundred feet below was the railway-tunnel and the railway running along the mountainside. As the train came out of the tunnel it appeared to be running into a cliff, on which was painted in letters 10ft. high the words: Prepare ye to meet thy God. It must have been startling to the passengers to be confronted with a sign such as this. To the north-west, where I had expected great wide open plains, it was still hilly country, but lacking the ruggedness of the south-eastern aspect. There was a suggestion of size some thing like looking over the ocean. We were both silent, staring out over the low hills, wondering what lay ahead. We went on to Ardglen, once as Doughboy Hollow, where Peter Clarke was killed by the bushranger Harry Wilson. A monument to Clarke stands by the roadside. Thunderbolt (Fred Ward) was also well known in that district. We yarned with a couple of old chaps, one of whom was reputed to have been a mate of Thunderbolts at one stage of his career. Both agreed that Thunderbolt was a very fine man, and was more sinned against than sinning. lust out of Ardglen we met a young couple who were on their way back to Sydney. The man was carrying a swag and the woman was pushing a pram with a six-months-old baby girl. The baby was thriving, and her parents were not worrying about the trip in front of them. They had enough money to see them to Sydney, and could have gone by train had they wished. They had been working on a station on the Liverpool Plains, but left for some reason. With 70 miles behind them and 200 to go, their only worry was the wheels of the pram. They doubted if the tyres would see the journey out. The woman, a pleasant faced, quiet type, said she was enjoying the trip, and she would be happy so long as the weather stayed fine.
We camped near them, and after tea went over to their fire for a yarn. We both had a wonderful time nursing the baby. Till now we had met very few swagmen, but at Quirindi over 50 were camped under the one bridge. We soon found the reason for all these men being here. All were looking for burr cutting, which was a seasonal occupation on the Liverpool Plains, as wheat harvesting is in other districts. Many of these men never left the Plains, but between burr cutting and work in the shearing sheds managed to exist. The regulars were known as Plain Turkeys. Most of them were well up in years. Among them was one I knew by sight, Cocker Tweedie, who had been a professional boxer (and a very good one) a few years before. He was still a tough man, and was treated with respect by all the swagmen. We heard of burr cutters being wanted at Pine Ridge, 15 miles west of Quirindi, so out we went. About halfway there were several bends in the road, which followed a creek, and tucked away in one of these bends was a pub. It was hidden from sight till one turned the sharp corner, then in 50yds. it was lost to view. The signboard fascinated me ; it was faded, but still legible:

The Whod Ha Thought It; John Clarke, Proprietor. No doubt it was the surprise of finding a pub in such an unexpected position that inspired the name. I was informed in March, 1957, that the building, delicensed many years ago, is still standing, and is used as a machine shed. Also, it is still referred to by the locals who knew it in their young days as The Whod Ha Thought it. We got the jobs, and were soon initiated into the art of burr cutting, at a pound a week and tucker, 10 hours a day and six days a week, the tucker being mutton and damper, post and rail tea and brown sugar. Post and rail tea might need some explanation. There were no leaves, but all stems. I have heard it suggested that these stems were soaked in nicotine for three weeks before being dried out and sold to the squatters, to be issued by them in the station rations. Probably my informant was being sarcastic .On Sundays, as a special treat, we got a boiled duff, which we could sprinkle with brown sugar to make it a little more palatable. Fortunately we had only two Sundays at Pine Ridge. At that time, and for many years after, Bathurst burrs were the biggest problem the squatters of the Liverpool Plains had to solve. The burrs Crowded out all the native grasses, and, apart from being useless as feed, the seeds got in the wool, and no treatment in the processing would get them out. This made burr infested wool practically worth less. Only by keeping at them could they be controlled. In the rich soil of the plains they grew fast, so burr-cutting was a full-time job, apart from shearing. There were twelve of us in the gang and we cut and burned burrs for nearly three weeks.

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It grew terribly monotonous, and even Dutchys cheerful optimism wore out, so we collected our cheques and made off. we went across to Werris Creek, the junction of the north and north-west railways. Too many swagmen. So we went out to The Gap, eight miles on the Moree line. Dutchy and I had decided to keep to ourselves as much as possible, so we avoided the usual camping places, where the mob camped. There were always a few thieves, drunkards and bullies among them. We had both been taught how to take care of ourselves, but we had also been taught to avoid trouble unless forced on us. Breeza, on the Mooki, was reached at noon the next day. It was beautiful country, flat for miles, with the Mooki like ! a silver streak running through it. The grass was green and high, with fat cattle, sheep and horses spread over it. Breeza homestead, the home of the Clift family, was one of the showplaces of the interior, and I would always give it first place. Everything about it was attractive. On a low hill overlooking the famous Breeza Plains, fences painted, paths gravelled, gardens both flower and vegetable, all buildings seeming to be in their right places, and well kept. We spoke to a young lady, whom we found to be Miss Clift. She was very pleasant, and took us in to the manager, but he said they seldom employed any casual labor, and there was nothing available at the time. Then Miss Clift took us to the home stead kitchen and asked the cook to fill our bags. When this was done, we went to the station store, where she issued the travellers rations. Still not satisfied, she led us to the mens cook and asked if he wanted any wood cut. He was an immensely fat man, and I dont think he could have swung an axe. We were at it bright and early next morning. As soon as the cook heard the axes he came waddling out to inquire anxiously whether we had had breakfast. Though we assured him we had, he insisted on us having another feed. Even when we did get a decent start he would come out with tea and brownies, and plead with us not to work so bleedin hard.

We finished the stack at Three oclock, despite his efforts to detain us, and were paid eight-bob each. Miss Clift then told us to come up and cut a supply for the homestead. We had two days at this job, which was also held-up quite a bit with cups of tea (not the post and-rail blend). Then, our tucker-bags bulging, and 245 each in our pockets, we left Breeza with regret. when we got back to our camp there were two young swaggies from Sydney. They were decent chaps, and we enjoyed yarning with them and getting the news of Sydney, which they had left only the week before. Not seeing any sense in walking, they had jumped the rattler all the way. The only walking they had done was from Werris Creek to Breeza. They had heard in Werris Creek that a goods-train would stop to water at Breeza that night at about 10-oclock, and they were going to board it at the tanks. We reckoned wed be in that. Walking is a good way to see the country, but it is hard after a few hundred miles. We saw the headlight when it was 10 miles away, then made our way to the tanks. As it drew-up, we saw it was made-up entirely of sheep trucks, two-decker jobs, which are open to the view of every one ; therefore not looked on with favor by jumpers. We decided to take a chance, and climbed into the top deck of one. When the train moved off we started to make our selves comfortable, and we all agreed that it wasnt too bad. But at Curlewis the train pulled-up, with our truck right in front of the only light, and the guard, engine driver, fireman and a policeman gathered under the lamp, laughing and joking. We crouched in the farthest corner like frightened animals, scarcely daring to breathe. I had wild ideas of making a break, but we had already discovered that the door opposite the station was locked. I wondered what it would be like in jail, and if they would knock me about when arresting me. It seemed years, but was probably 10 minutes, I sat there sweating, and I know none of us could have lasted much longer. At last the group broke up, and the puffing of the engine and the rattling of the couplings sounded like music to me. How they missed seeing us is some thing I have never been able to work-out. Perhaps they did not want to see us. I never see animals in a cage even now without remembering Curlewis. Talking it over, I found the other lads had been in the same state of panic as I had been. Ximn reached Gunnedah with out any further incidents. The town is on the Namoi River, and had a new bridge, said to be the first concrete bridge built in N.S.W.

The Annual Races and Show were starting the next day, and the town was crowded. The races were on Saturday and the Show on Monday. As Dutchy and myself were both fair boxers, we reckoned on picking up a few bob at the boxing show. We had no trouble in getting opponents; Dutchy was to box four rounds with a lad from the show and I was to take on a young aboriginal who was travelling through with a mob of cattle from Queensland.

Mostly these boxing-tent affairs are supposed to be exhibitions of skill, in which neither man gets hurt. Some times you meet a man who can fight, and likes to build his reputation by beating one of the showmen. My opponent was one of this type. I was under the impression that we were to spar, but when the bell went he came at me from taws. The surprise attack tangled me up in the first round. In the second we stood up and swapped punches till the bell went, and, as neither of us heard it, we were dragged apart. I knew that I had held my own that round. One good thing, we were pleasing the crowd, and, I think, we shared the cheers equally. The third round I boxed him, but soon realised that he knew as much of the finer points as I did. The referee told us we were level on points, and the fourth, and last, round would decide the winner. There were no punches barred in that round, and we had to be pulled apart at the finish. Then, somewhat to my My opponent said his name was Jerry Jerome. Above is Jerry, as Harry Julius later saw him, in a scrap with Tim Sullivan. A five-minute corroboree ended in Sullivan being dispatched to oblivion surprise, the referee declared a draw. I was quite satisfied with the decision, because I thought I had lost.

The spectators were pleased, and there was a nice shower of coins. Altogether I got 34 - bob, the hardest-earned money of my life. My opponent said his name was Jerry Jerome. I didnt go to the races; all was quite content to stay in camp and lick my wounds. On the Sunday night, we went round the streets, Dutchy singing, while I took the hat around. At the Catholic Church there was a big crowd, and Dutchy sang Ave Maria ; then some one asked for Mother Machree. We got nearly a pound in the hat before we left. From there we went to the Church of England and got another good collection with Abide with Me, and Lead Kindly Light.

On Monday, Charlie Prince, the boxing-show proprietor, wanted me to have another go, but I was in no condition for boxing. Ernie Bell, the star heavyweight of the show, was the older brother of Colin Bell, who was to be the heavyweight champion of Australia for several years. I saw very little of the Gunnedah Show. But I saw the entry of the Willsallen family into town.

This was always one of the main events of Gunnedah. An old-fashioned coach, imported from London, four high-stepping bay horses, coachman, one footman on the box-seat and another on the back step, all in silver-braided livery, complete with top-hats and cockades. It was an imposing sight. The locals did not spare a second glance, as this was a weekly feature, but the visitors were greatly impressed. Unfortunately, most of their remarks were not very respectful, the working-man of that time being of the opinion that he was as good as any other man.

Willsallen, of Gunnible, a fairly big station a few miles out of Gunnedah towards Tamworth, was a pompous man who spoke with an affected Oxford accent. He was firm in his belief that the working-man and the rabbits were the worst plagues in Australia, in that order. YX/Lx jumped the rattler at 11- oclock, and woke-up at Narrabri in daylight. The train pulled-up half-a-mile from West Narrabri, and men climbed out of every truck. The train crew waved to us as we walked past the engine. There was nothing they could do about it. The banks of the Namoi were crowded with swagmen.

There was a railway under construction from Narrabri to Walgett and Collerenibri, and another was rumored to be starting to Coonabarabran. So men were flocking from all quarters to Narrabri. There were over 200 men there at one time, and most of them were broke. They lived by going around the stations and collecting the travellers rations. Then, back into town for fear they might miss a job. An explanation of travellers rations will not be out of place here. Most of the outback stations issued rations to travellers, not as a charity probably charity would be the last thing in their minds but as a means of ensuring a plentiful supply of casual labor. To their credit, most of the squatters did not stick strictly to the bare issue as prescribed by the Pastoralists Union (which was 10 lb. of flour, 10 lb. of meat, 2 1b. of sugar and a -fib. of tea), but would hand out a few items such as a tin of jam.

The business has been expanding. baking-powder. Any station that was noted for a generous handout always had plenty of men to choose from, but the tight ones were avoided by any self-respecting swagman. We didnt intend to stay, but at nine-oclock a fire broke-out in the main street. There was no fire-brigade, so we formed a double line of buckets to two wells, and managed to keep it from crossing the street, though it was touch-and-go a few times. All the places burnt were of timber, except the hotel, which was the last to go. When the fire reached the pub it had steadied-up a bit, and gave us a chance to drench the building next in line. The pub yard made the break we needed. Fourteen buildings went up in smoke, several men were severely burned and one man fell down a well and broke his arm. All the injured men were swagmen.

Had not so many men been available, Narrabri would have been wiped out. Shopkeepers were rushing in when their shops were well alight, dragging furniture, boxes and junk of all kinds onto the footpaths, and impeding the work of the bucket-brigade. It looked as though it would develop into a panic until a few clear-headed men took charge. The police had to forcibly restrain people from rushing in to save their possessions, when to do so would have meant certain death. We patrolled the burnt area till daylight, dousing embers here and there. There were a couple of men arrested for looting, and I was pleased to know they were not swagmen.

{To be continued)

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The bulletin.Vol. 79 No. 4113 (10 Dec 1958)

https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-686994361
 
Continued from post #110 Part 2

Time Means Tucker

By H. P. (DUKE) TRITTON

Both of them 19-year-olds, the writer and his mate Dutchy have set out from Sydney in 1905 on a breezily adventurous wander about the N.S.W. outback, learning to become shearers, doing fencing contracts .and having a go at gold digging, singing and taking the hat round in the towns, boxing in show booths, meeting picturesque characters, and generally getting to know the bush and bush folk, and taking life as they find it. They have gone by boat to Newcastle, headed west from there, jumped the rattler to Narrabri, and, characteristically, have done their share with other volunteer firefighters in saving that town from being burnt down. After shearing at Charlton and a bit of fighting in George Ruenalfs boxing-show, they have headed further west through flood-rains, and have just completed a tough fencing-contract in rough country along the boundary between Gumin and Goorianawa stations.

WE knew we could always get a few quid without much. trouble, so we went to Coonamble, and met George Ruen a if again. He was pleased to see us. We joined up with him, and went with him to Gulargambone, Gilgandra, Dubbo, Wellington, Gulgong and Mudgee, boxing and singing. At Mudgee we gave the boxing-game away. George was paying us two-quid a week, with tucker and transport. Boxing with the members of the show was easy, but on the way down from Coonamble we had met some of the local lads, who had been tough. And some of these round armers had plenty of sting. It was impossible to dodge all' of them, and when we met five or six in the one day it was a bit strenuous. We got the gold-fever. Once bitten by the gold-bug there is no cure, and after 50 years I am still subject to periodical attacks. The only relief I can get is to make for the goldfields, shift a few hundred tons of earth, get a couple of weights, and come back cured. But the germ is still in my blood, and 1 dont want to be cured.

We met an old chap, Tom Henqesy, who was willing to give his experience in return for our strength. We went out to Havilah, once the property of Nicholas Bayley, but then (and still) occupied by the Hunter White family. Nicholas Bayley had taken Havilah in 183517 years before gold was officially discovered in N.S.W. He must have known something of gold, as Havilah is mentioned in the Bible as The home *of gold, or A place where there is gold. There are several good leads on HavilahMount Knowles, Bara Creek, Raggedy Gully, Cross Roads, Budgee and Pipeclay Creek. All these runs were rich in the yellow metal, but Bayley would not allow these to be worked till 1871, when Gulgong field was discovered and the rush was so great that he was forced to let the diggers on his land. Bayley was one of the first men to grow fine wool in Australia. By systematic crossing he built-up the best flock, at the time,- in the country. The White family have carried on in the same tradition, with the addition of cattle and horses. Nicholas Bayley was buried, at his own request, on a hill over looking most of Havilah (said to be buried standing upright). On his way out from England Bayleys ship called in at St. Helena, and he cut several slips from the willows at Napoleons grave. All survived the voyage, and were planted on Havilah, where they thrived, and spread up and down Lawsons Creek and the Cudgegong River. I have heard that these willows were the first to be grown in N.S.W., but do not know if it is true.

Tom Hennesy was well versed in the art of chasing the nimble weight. Under his tuition we soon became experts with a gold-dish, and learned how to sink a straight hole, and arch-out the drive. In a week we learned the jargon of the goldfields, and spoke wisely of holes, drives, bottoms, gutters, mullock, colors, specks, slugs and nuggets. We found we were diggers, not miners, mining being the work of the reefers; and we never sank shafts, but put down holes. We never spoke of rock, but always stone ; 'and cradles, long-Toms, banjos, puddlers, sluice-boxes, races, California- and spear-pumps all came into our everyday speech. A bout 20 men were on the lead, mostly old chaps who would be pensioners to day. They were friendly, but very secretive when gold was mentioned. It wasnt good manners to ask too closely if a digger was on gold. The nearest approach was to say casually, Getting a bit? And the reply was almost invariably, Oh, yes, a few colors. But some were so obvious that they might just as well have advertised when they were on gold.

We usually washed our prospects at the same place, where* there was a little beach in the creek, and would have a smoke and yarn with any of the diggers who happened to be there. It was the general meeting-place; we swapped opinions, cursed the Government and our luck, and went back to work feeling much better. So when we would see one of the old chaps sneaking furtively with a sugar-bag of washdirt on his shoulder and a dish under his arm, making for a place further down the creek, we knew he was on a bit of gold. Most of the old diggers were fiercely independent, though many of them had sons or daughters with whom they could have lived in comfort, but they preferred to scratch a somewhat precarious living out of the ground. One of the nicest of them was Jim Hill. About 70 years old, a little over 5ft. tall, gentle in his ways, and liked by all, he had his claim in shallow ground, not deep enough to drive, so it had to be stripped. One day, seeing him feebly scratching with his pick, I offered to strip a bit of ground for him. His wrath rocked me to the toes. He cursed me up and down, and wanted to know What the bloody hell I thought he was? Did I think he was a bloody cripple? What right had a bloody kid to tell him what to do?

Under the glare of his blazing eyes I retreated in disorder, much to the joy of Dutchy. He said I ran, but I was too shocked to know. Dutchy lost no time in spreading the story, adding some thing every time, and Dutchy had a very fertile brain, plus a strong sense of dramatics. He swore he would never let me live it down, and he has kept his word. A couple of days later we were passing old Jims camp, and he called us over to have a mug of tea and a hunk of brownie. The incident wasnt mentioned, and to show that I was his friend, and one to be trusted, he produced a slug of six. - pennyweights he had washed that day. No greater proof of friendship could be offered than this from these secretive old men. It was the largest piece of virgin gold we had seen. It was about the size of an ordinary marble, and we admired it and congratulated him on his good luck. When leaving him, he said, Keep it under your hats, boys. We did.

Our luck had not been so good, so Tom Hennesy suggested we give it away for the winter and have a go at the rabbits. Tom had a light springcart and a good horse, so we were set for transport. At Tongy, 60 miles from Mudgee and on the Talbragar River, we had no trouble getting paddocks. Tongy was owned by Robert Marsden Fitzgerald (Bob Fitzgerald at the Dabee Rocks) and managed by a chap named Griffiths. Fitzgerald visited Tongy once while I was there. I saw him close, sitting in the buggy when Griffiths pulled-up to see how we were getting on. He was a very old man, and was wrapped to the chin in rugs. He spoke in a squeaky voice, and his eyes seemed to be the only, part of him alive. He died about a year later. Tongy was 40,000 acres, all beautiful rich black soil, and ran one sheep to the acre, besides round about 1000- head of cattle, all Herefords.

Two wars have taken 30,000 acres in soldier-settlements. We used jam and strychnine on the bunnies, and, after the pollard and phosphorus of the poison-carts, 1 was surprised at the way it acted. It killed almost instantly, and seldom did a rabbit get more than 20yds. off the trail. The bait laying was very slow and could not be done on such a scale as with the poison-carts, though I think the results were much better, because we worked only the proved feeding-grounds, instead of baiting the entire paddock. We were soon expert skinners; Dutchy was exceptionally fast. None of the work was hard, but we never had any spare time. As we had written again to Young and Co., and had three sheds to go to, we had only six weeks on Tongy.

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Tenandra was our next shed. On the western side of the Warrumbungles, its northern boundary was Goorianawa and its eastern was Gumin. Small by the western standard, there were 20 shearers, and about the same number of shed-hands. About 40,000 sheep; so, with fine weather, we would cut-out in three weeks. It had a new shed and huts, and this was their second year of the machines. Owned by O. E. Friend, it was managed by a chap named Woodward. Friend, a Scotsman, lived in Sydney, and was seldom at the station. But when he was at Mount Tenandra he was always an object of curiosity, and many comments, as he always wore a kilt. When he came to the shed on the second day of shearing every man looked at him in awe. He walked up and down the board a few times, apparently unaware of the sensation he was creating, spoke to Woodward, and marched out again. Then the boss was deluged with questions: What the flamin' hell does he dress up like that for? Is he right in the head? Where does he come from? The boss explained patiently that it was the Scottish national costume, and the wearer was the owner of Mount Tenandra, the man they were working for, so he had to be treated with respect. Several shearers swore that when the season ended they would go to Sydney and buy the full regalia. Brummy Field asked: Does he wear anything under that skirt? This stumped all of us, even Woodward, who replied : I really dont know, Brum. Brummy considered for a while, then remarked: Well, boss, I dont reckon Ill be getting one of them. A man couldn't shear in one of those things, if he wasn't wearing something under it. Friend never interfered with the running of the station, but left everything to Woodward. He was said to be very wealthy, and Mount Tenandra was just a hobby. His daily stroll, up and down, was always looked forward to with interest. Most of the men had spent all their lives in the bush, and their only knowledge of the kilts had been from pictures, which gave no idea of the vivid colors which made-up the full dress.

At Brewon I had been going along quietly, building up my tallies steadily, and now decided I would go for a century or the sack. I didn't get either. The first time I tried I was caught on the bell with 96. Four days in the nineties, and then I got the coveted century. I watched the boss as he counted-out my pen, and asked him: Are they all right? I was proud and elated, and damned anxious, as he took his time going over them. When he replied: All well done ; if you always shear as well as this you can always get a pen here. I know 1 blushed, for praise from the boss of the board is the only thing that ever makes a shearer blush.

Mendooran, was owned by D. J. Watt, who also owned Ulinda and Digilah stations. It was one of the oldest stations in the district, having been taken-up in the early part of 1830, and was noted as having more kurrajong-trees per acre than any place in N.S.W. It was also famous as a camp for the wool-teams, coming in from the north-west. As this was the middle of the season there were usually a few teams camped on the creek every night. I noticed the teams always crossed the creek before camping, and wondered at it. I was given the explanation that if the creek or river rose during the night they would not be stranded on the wrong side in the morning. 1 found that all teamsters made this a rule wherever they might be. It could be dry at any crossing, but a storm 50 miles upstream could hold-up a team for days.

During the 1902 strike the teamsters refused to handle wool shorn by non-union labor. A few decided to carry black" wool from Calga, and got along nicely until Yarragrin Creek was reached. There the union carriers met them, and tried to persuade them to drop the wool. They refused, and the argument got very heated, till revolvers were produced by the teamsters, and the unionists retired. But that night the linchpins were taken from the axles of all the wagons, and before any had travelled 100yds. they were flat on the ground. Troopers were brought from Mendooran, but the unionists had faded into the scrub. It took all day to get the wagons ready to travel again, and in the night the ropes were cut, and this was not discovered until the bales were falling off. All the way to Mudgee they were harassed, till in the final stages they were escorted by troopers. When they reached Yarragrin on the return journey they saw hanging from a tall gum four effigies, each bearing a placard with one of their names.

There is also a story of Yarragrin Creek which seems a bit far-fetched. A bullock team, with a big load of wool, bogged at the crossing, and four teams, each of 20 bullocks, were hooked on. As the teams tightened the bar-chain the wagon came up the bank, but the bed of the creek came up with it. Teamsters are noted for their veracity, but the bed of Yarragrin Creek seemed to be still in position. Perhaps it was pulled back again, but the teamster who told the yarn forgot to mention this. Shearing went on smoothly.

I was keeping round the century with the wethers, and when the ewes came in I bolted: 120 the first day, 134 the next. I kept over the 120- mark till the cut-out. My best tally still stands as 134; certainly not a big-gun shearer, but I gained the reputation of a good, clean shearer, which counts more than a fast, rough man. Fast, clean shearers are born, not made. I saw Dick Hinton shear 274 at Uliman in 1908, and every sheep was pinked. I class Dick as the best shearer 1 have seen at any time.

The gold-fever was torment, so we made for Mudgee. At Cobborah we met a cocky who wanted two shearers. He had about 4000 sheep, and a four-stand shed. A very decent old bloke, Sam Craig by name. He drove us out to his place, and we met the other two shearers, Dave Williams and Jack Burnett. Both were in their fifties, and had only a couple of seasons with machines. We tuckered at the house, and Mrs. Craig fed us till we couldn't eat another mouthful, and then accused us of having poor appetites.

The sheep were a mixed lot, not having been classed, so we took them as they came. Two young chaps acted as pickers up, piece-pickers, wool-rollers, and did the pressing after knock-off. Sam was expert, boss of the board, tar-boy and broomie. Dave was my pen-mate, and we were fairly well matched as far as shearing went, but I had the advantage of youth, and after a few days I drew away. At the cut-out I was 150 in the lead, and had rung the shed. Jack and Dutchy had been battling away, taking advantage of every little point (and there are plenty in shearing) and enjoying every minute of it. They squabbled and cursed, and, as they were both masters of lurid repartee, the shed was always lively. Jack finished in front, and Dutchys only comment was: Ah, well, its not every man that is drummer in four sheds running. But he was proud of me, and never forgot to mention, when we were talking to shearers, that I had rung Craigielea. And he always spoke as though there had been 20 shearers, instead of four. The day of the cut-out was October 3, and my 21st birthday (Dutchys was two days later). So Mrs. Craig insisted on a party (no grog). There were about 20 people there, and we had a nice night. Dutchy sang all his saddest songs, and made all the women happy, which sounds peculiar, but is true, for the women of that time enjoyed nothing better than a good cry. A young abo. was very good on the kurrajong-leaf; Jack and Dave gave a couple of recitations ; and a girl, Mary Beck, sang The Ballad of the Drover in a nice clear voice. A German chap sang Watch on the Rhine, and I sang Hughie and Goorianawa.

Every item was well received, and at two-oclock we ended with Auld Lang Syne. We said good-bye to Sam and Mrs. Craig with regret. She gave us strict injunctions to take care of ourselves, and loaded our tucker-bags up to the neck. They were a fine old couple. We had to promise to come back next season, but promises like these are hard for wanderers such as we were to keep. I never saw them again. have had a sulky, and Jack had a bicycle, and both had pens at Guntawang. They had shorn there the previous year, and the boss of the board was a good friend of Jacks, so he thought he could get us in. We put all the swags in the sulky, and I got in with Dave. Jack rode the bike a couple of miles, then leaned it against a tree, and started walking. Dutchy hung on to the back of the sulky till we came to the bike; then he mounted it and rode on past Jack. When we caught Jack he got in the sulky, and I ran behind till we came to where Dutchy had left the bike ; then Jack took over again, and the performance was repeated. This method of travelling was used a lot in the bush. Two men with one bike could do 50 miles a day without any trouble. We reached Guntawang in plenty of time, but did not get on, despite Jacks efforts on our behalf. Pens had been promised, and the boss could not break his word. I could see his point, and agreed with him. When I saw the sheep I was not sorry to have missed out. They were big and rough, and I couldnt see any big tallies being cut with them. was -then called Eumeralla. Richard Rouse had taken it up in 1830, being one of the first settlers in the Cudgegong Valley, and his holdings were enormous. After the Gulgong gold-rush they were cut down by the influx of immigrants, who had come for gold and found the land a surer way of making a living. The descendants of Richard Rouse sold what was left, in 1903, to Sir Hugh Denison, who changed the name to Eumeralla. When he resold if 10 years later the old name was used again. The old hands of the district never spoke of Eumeralla, but always of Guntawang.

During Rouses time it was one of the best-known stations in the country. For many years it was worked by convict labor. The convict-barracks were still in good order, with a punishment post set up in front of the main door. An ironbark post 8ft. high, with shackles for hands and feet, it made my back twitch as I looked at it and thought of a man trussed-up and helpless, screaming, as the cat cut his back to pieces. In my schooldays I had known an old lag who when he was drunk would pull off his shirt and show what a flogger could do. His back was ridged from shoulders to loins.) Rouse was famous as a horse- breeder, and any horse wearing the crooked R was prized all over the country. His cattle were also well known, and his sheep were noted for their fine wool. But it was through his pigs that I first heard of him. Pigs were his hobby. He had some hundreds of pigs, and several men were kept busy attending to them. Sties had to be spotlessly clean. All food was cooked, and this was the particular job of one man. At Charlton several men were discussing cooks and their capabilities. When a well-known shearers cook was mentioned, one of the shearers snorted, Cook? Him cook! Why, that blankard was cookin for Rouses pigs, an got the sack for being too flamin dirty. Once a cook got the reputation of being unfit to cook for Rouses pigs it was the end of him in the sheds, ringbarking gangs or burning-off camps.

Five miles towards Mudgee was the Belinfante bridge over the Cudgegong River, named after a doctor who was drowned at the crossing some years before the bridge was built. Dr. Belinfante was attempting the ford at half flood when his horses panicked and the buggy overturned. He was tangled-up in the reins and drowned, but his wife managed to struggle to the bank and save herself. On the Mudgee side of the bridge the remains of Stewarts store were to be seen. Stewarts store was the scene of the shooting of Angel and Thurston, in 1885. The two men had been cattle-duffing in the Coonamble district, and had been captured and lodged in jail. While awaiting trial they had broken out, and the lockup-keeper was killed in the process. Though leg-ironed and handcuffed, they managed to reach Mungerie station, where, at a timbergetters camp, they got rid of their irons. Working for Cuthbert Featherstonhaugh, senr., who then owned Mungerie, in 1908 I was digging out rabbit burrows when I came across an old morticing-axe and a pair of handcuffs. When Featherstonhaugh saw these he told me that the other irons had been found a few years before near the same spot, and, though buried for over 20 years, were identified by the police as the irons worn by Angel and Thurston. I gave them to Featherstonhaugh, and he had them, with the other pieces, on the wall of his office some years afterwards when I called in at Mungerie. From Mungerie the two men made for the Warrumbungles, and hid in a rough place, where they could watch for any pursuers. Having friends at Box Ridge, a small village at the foot of the mountains, they were always warned if the police were about, by smoke signals in the day and fires at night. The hideout was known for many years after as Angels Lookout. Thurston was hoping to contact a relative and get enough money to get to America. By this time the men were outlawed, and 5OO dead or alive was on each of them. The money proved too great a temptation. They were given away, and were shot by the police at Charlie Stewarts store at Cullenbone.

{To be continued )

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The bulletin.Vol. 79 No. 4117 (7 Jan 1959)

https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-672856964
 
Continued from post #110 Part 3

Time Means Tucker

By H. P. (DUKE) TRITTON

Both of them 19-year-olds, the writer and his mate Dutchy have set out from Sydney in 1905 on a breezily adventurous wander about the N.S.W. outback, learning to become shearers, doing fencing contracts and having a go at gold digging, singing and taking the hat round in the towns, boxing in show booths, meeting picturesque characters, and generally getting to know the bush and bush folk, and taking life as they find it. They have gone by boat to Newcastle, headed west from there, jumped the rattler to Narrabri, and, characteristically, have done their share with other volunteer firefighters in saving that town from being burnt down. Having learnt the shearers art at Charlton, they have tramped west through flood-rains, done a tough fencing-contract, travelled round the country with George Ruenalfs boxing-show, tried a hand at rabbit-poisoning, and have now arrived at Mudgee and the old Gulgong goldfields.

Cullenbone, part of the Gulgong field, still had a lot of diggers working. Most of them were the men who stayed behind after the rich leads had been worked out. A few were on good gold, though many were just fossicking in the old workings. Some were living on the gold they had won in the peak of the rushes. It was not unusual to see one of the old chaps, when at the pub, pull out a little leather bag and take out a pinch of fine gold to pay for his shout. They were very secretive about it when sober, but would flash their pokes when the grog was taking effect.

A year before, one of the old diggers, Jack Spence, living alone at Rats Castle, had been robbed and murdered. Several men had been arrested, and discharged for lack of evidence, and it is still an unsolved crime. The pub was kept by a jovial old chap, Sid Norris, who in his young days had been a blade-shearer. He was an easy touch for any hard luck story, but he said he seldom failed to get repaid in full. Every night there was a good crowd in the pub. Cards, mostly euchre or crib, were always on. Sometimes we would have a sing-song, with all hands joining in to the best of their ability. Often there would be a few teams camped for the night. The bullock-teams always fascinated me, and their drivers seemed to be remarkable men.

Ned Inglis, a little old man whose face was hidden behind a mass of whiskers, told of taking wool from Tondeburin to Circular Quay before the railway was built. His father had two teams, and Ned was driving one at 15 years of age. He was close to 70, and still driving bullocks. On the return-trip the wagons brought supplies for the diggers at Sofala, and also brought diggers and their outfits. Swags, etc., were carried on the wagons, while the men walked. Ned reckoned there was an unbroken line of teams from Penrith to Bathurst. The trip took nine days, which is extra good for bullocks.

Usually, the bullockies wore whatever they happened to have in the line of clothes, but travelling with Ned was a young man, Tommy Newman. He was about 25, tall, well built and good-looking. He wore Wellington-boots, white corduroy trousers, carpet snakeskin belt, red shirt and wide-brimmed Panama hat, and everything was spotlessly clean. Sid Norris had three good looking daughters, and Tommy was interested in one of them. But he spoilt his appeal by posing and strutting too much, and the girls jeered at him quite openly. It didnt discourage Tommy in the least. He took all insults with a cheerful grin and came back for more. Ned and Tommy camped at Belinfante bridge for nearly a week, to give their bullocks a spell on good feed before tackling the 170-mile trip to Baradine, their home-town. We went down for a yarn every night, and the time never dragged.

Dutchy, who had ideas of getting rich quick, thought he could make a heavyweight champion out of Tommy, but when he offered to take him in hand and make a fighting man of him Tommy refused point blank. No bloomin fear, he said. I know Im a good-lookin bloke, and I wouldnt like to get my face knocked about, like some of those pugs with flat noses and squashed ears that Ive seen. No blanky fear! No amount of persuasion could make him alter his mind. I dont think he was lacking in courage, but he was so wrapped-up in his good looks that it would have broken his heart to lose them. And it may have been just plain common sense, for the hardest way to make a living that I knew of then was boxing. In spite of his flashness, he was a nice bloke, and Ned Inglis was a great old chap.

Old Norris had lent us all the gear we needed, and we were getting enough gold to keep us going. The lead was hard to follow one of those runs of gold that go along for a few feet, then cut out completely, with no indication of where they make again. We would be on the point of giving it up when wed strike another nice patch. Sometimes it would be heavy gold, and then light, flaky stuff. We didnt care how fine it was, so long as it kept going so that we could follow it. The old diggers had a saying, Where theres nits, theres lice. And it proved to be right, for we struck several slugs, from two weights up to 12, and a nugget of one ounce, ten weights. But a few days later we ran into old ground that is, ground that had been worked-over previously, so we gave it away. This lead was known as Terrace Gully, if you were speaking to women, priests, parsons or little children. The diggers called it another name that sounded something like Terrace, but was not spelt the same way.

We returned the equipment we had borrowed from Sid, and went back to get our swags. We intended to stay at the pub, and see what a bed felt like after sleeping on gumleaves for so long. As we came over the bridge we saw a ram acting in an odd manner. He was on top of a mullock-heap, and walking round and round and occasionally scratching the dirt with his forefeet. (Dutchy swore afterwards that he was trying to fill-in the hole.) We knew this ram. He belonged to a family who lived a short distance from the bridge. They were a very nice family, but the ram was not a nice ram, either in looks or disposition. He had no pretensions as to breeding, and would have been a cobbler in any shed. Why he still remained a ram was a question never satisfactorily answered. Our curiosity was stirred, so we strolled over to see what had him so interested. So intent was he that we approached within 10ft. before he saw us. He never hesitated, but lowered his head and charged. Dutchy swerved to avoid him, but stumbled, and the rams head took him on the thigh, and brought him down. I dont know if a ram could kill a man, but I think Dutchy would have been killed that day had he been alone. The fall had winded him, and the ram was rearing and bringing his hoofs down on Dutchys ribs. He had been struck several times, before I reached him. I grabbed the ram by one horn, reached over and got a front leg, and tossed him on his back.

By this time several men had arrived from the pub, and we tied the rams legs with a bit of wire. Dutchy had a lot of bruises ; one on his thigh, where the ram first hit him, was a nasty one. We were cracking jokes at his expense, and moving towards the pub, to patch him up, when one of the men said: Wonder what the ram was interested in when you first saw him? We went back to the hole, and at the bottom was one of the old chaps, Jimmy Comerford. We thought he was dead, and were greatly relieved when he looked up and called for help. Ropes were brought, and we soon had him up. He was able to walk, with help, and said he wasnt hurt, except for a few scratches.

At the pub we heard his story. The ram had been noted for some time for his attacks on women and children ; after being shorn a month previously he had also attacked a man. Losing his heavy fleece had made him faster, and had not improved his temper. The owner, after receiving several complaints, had shaped a piece of tin and fastened it to the rams horns in such a way that it could see to feed and not do any damage. But Jimmy was a very kind-hearted old man, and, coming over to the pub to collect his mail, or whatever old gentlemen come over to pubs for, he had noticed the attachment, and thought the ram had got his head stuck in a tin. He went to a lot of trouble to remove it, and the ram promptly knocked him down. He managed to get on his feet again, and got hold of the horns, but the ram was stronger, and they went back wards, until Jimmy fell into the hole. It was about 15ft. deep, but he was lucky enough to fall on his feet. He said the ram never left the hole, and he was expecting it to join him any minute on the bottom. It would have been the end of Jimmy. After fixing his bruises and pouring a few rums into him a couple of the chaps took him to his camp and put him to bed, where he went to sleep at once. A tough man, Jimmy Comerford. And he was 80 years old.

At the pub every new arrival was regaled with the story of the fight between Dutchy and the ram. That young man was being well looked after by Mrs. Norris and her three daughters. He was laying back in an armchair, looking and acting like a wounded hero. I let him have his brief moment, but he knew what I would have to say later on. In the bar the subject of what to do about the ram was being hotly debated, and it was decided that the owner be ordered to destroy it. So a deputation, consisting of all hands except Sid, who could not leave the bar, and Dutchy, who was injured, strolled over to inform the owner of the decision, made by the leading citizens of Cullenbone.

Tom Buckley, who was about the drunkest man in the crowd, was elected spokesman. The owner, a quiet sober man, listened gravely to Toms oration, delivered while clinging to the gatepost, then nodded and said, Come with me, and led the way to the hole, where the ram lay dead on the bottom. I heard about him knocking Jimmy down this afternoon, so I shot him, he said. That remark left the deputation with nothing further to do but go back to the pub. The excitement was over. The married men went off to their homes, to relate the story to their wives and children, and the rest played euchre for a couple of hours, and then rolled into bed.

All were in agreement that it was one of the greatest days Cullenbone had ever known. Sid Norris was driving to Gulgong the next day, so we went with him. We had been in Gulgong earlier that year, with George Ruenalf, but were too busy to see much of the place. On the way in Sid pointed out the leads we crossed: the Magpie, Pig and Whistle, Engine Paddock and the Three Mile. These leads ran for several miles before joining-up with the fabulous Black Lead.

Gulgong is a strange little town. Its streets are narrow and winding, following the tracks that ran between the tents of the diggers. In the peak of the rush there had been over 30,000 people on the field. Now there might be 500. All the old hands, the left overs from the early days, were prepared to stake their lives that there was more gold under the town than had ever been taken out of the Black Lead. They could be right, for the town is in the middle of the field, and Gold is where you find it. I heard many stories of underground tanks and cellars showing good prospects, but the town council has a rigid ban on any form of mining within the town limits. So, if the old diggers are right, the gold is still under Gulgong township.

The discovery of Gulgong is said to have been accidental. A bullock-team was bogged at what was known later as Surface Hill, and after getting the wagon back onto solid ground the teamster was scraping the mud off the wheels when he saw a slug of gold. Knowing something of gold he investigated the bog, and soon realised he had found some thing worth while. But he could not have had the faintest idea that his find would lead to what is said by many geologists and. mining experts to have been the greatest alluvial goldfield the world has known. The official records of Gulgong show that 13?- tons of gold was bought by the banks in the town in the five years 1871-1876. The old hands laughed when I mentioned this seemingly huge quantity of gold. Bill Goodman and Ned Saunders, both ,of whom had been among the first on the field, were scornful. Said Bill: You could multiply that by ten, and you would still be a long way out. There were thousands of foreigners here, and they sold enough to live on, and took all they could carry back to their own country. And you could get 4 5s an ounce in Sydney, as against 3 16s. 6d. here. Gold sold in Sydney would not be recorded in Gulgong. Ned chipped-in: Every time the coach went out you would see men wearing as many as five gold-belts loaded up till they were waddling with the weight of them. These belts, made of leather or canvas, would hold about 81b. (avoirdupois) of gold. Incidentally, Bill or Ned always spoke of these alien men as either furriners or Rooshians. There were never any Chinese on Gulgong. After the riots at Lambing Flat (now Young), Chinese were barred from goldfields.

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Bill Goodman, with two mates, John Hunter and Stewart Dawson, had taken 6OOO from their claim on the Black Lead. His mates, both Sydney men, had gone back to the city and used their shares to build up big businesses. When I asked Bill what he had done with his share, he grinned ruefully and replied: I put it back into the ground, looking for more. Ned Saunders had done the same. Both men had the reputation of backing unlucky mining ventures.

Surface Hill, where the gold was among the grass roots, was near Happy Valley. The whole system of the Gulgong goldfields was like creeks coming together till they formed a river. Cross Roads, Pipeclay, Budgee, Eurunderee, Golden Gully, Log Paddock, Home Rule, Lindurn, Cooyal, Canadian Lead. Combandry, Happy Valley, Coming Event, Louisafia and Standard all came into Black Lead, above the town. Below, there were Coxs Paddock, Cullenbone, Slashers Flat, Beau Deair, Biraganbil, Guntawang, Spring field, Magpie, Three Mile, Yamble, Beryl and Stringy bark, and others with names I cant recall. I have mentioned these names to give some idea of the size of the field. All ran into Black Lead, which was a river of gold. Of the subsidiary leads, Happy Valley was the richest. So far I have relied entirely on memory for these notes, but they are close to the facts. A few official figures, from an article published in the Mudgee Guardian in 1954, will not be out of place. Happy Valley, No. 4 claim, cleaned-up 27450 z. for 179 loads of wash dirt, averaging per load. (A load would be about three quarters of a ton.) This was on October 4, 1871. The area of payable washdirt along Happy Valley is approximately 680 acres, with an average thickness of 15in. The yield from this field proves it to be the richest lead ever opened in N.S.W. The average yield over the entire area was 40z., ? grns. One nugget of 90oz. and one of 60 were found. Six men, working one claim, earned in 40 days 1741 per man, at 3 16s. 3d. per ounce ; September 28, 1871. The depth of sinking ranged from 35ft. near its head to 115 ft. near the Black Lead. These are but a few of the official figures ; they can be checked at the Mines Department.

Dlack Lead was even richer, and much greater in area, being three miles long and half-a-mile wide. When the rush started there were a lot of arguments, sometimes developing into fights, over overlapping of claims. A two man claim was 100 ft. square. T. A. Browne (Rolfe Boldrewood, of Robbery Under Arms) was the gold commissioner at the time. He called a meeting of the diggers, and worked-out a system of pegging which the majority agreed was fair. The area was surveyed in blocks, 100 ft. each way, and numbered. Each digger got the claim with the number corresponding with the one on his application form. (Every man had to have a miners right, and apply for permission, before he was allowed to dig.)

This method of adjusting the layout of a goldfield cut out a lot of abuses. Some men would apply for six mens ground, and then work it with two. Others would take-up several claims and shepherd themthat is, do no work on them until they were sure which way the lead was running or else sell them to others who had been late and found no vacant ground to peg. Browne made sure that each man got only the ground he was entitled to, and each claim had to be worked fully. If he was of the opinion that a claim was being shepherded it was declared vacant, and was given to the applicant whose number had just missed in the first draw. Browne dealt severely with the lawless element that flocked to Gulgong. Quite a few Americans wore revolvers strapped to their belts, but these were quickly confiscated, and their owners were warned not to offend again.

Many of the foreigner and Roo skinas carried knives, but never for very long. Mounted troopers were patrolling the tent-town and the field night and day. So Gulgong, despite its 30,000 people and its vast amount of gold, was practically free from crime. Gulgongs golden glory has faded into the past, and today there is little to show that it had been a famous gold field. Holes have been filled in, mullock-heaps levelled-off, and crops are being grown where the diggers toiled. It is a small town, but the district is extremely wealthy. Wheat and wool are showing that the topsoil is more profitable than washdirt in the long-run. Even the Black Lead shows only an isolated mullock-heap here and there as a reminder of the roaring days.

When the town was built, and the streets formed, all the material came from the mullock-heaps, so Gulgong is literally paved with gold. Many newchum miners did not know the washdirt when they came to it, so they hauled it to the top and dumped it on the heaps with the mullock. After every good rainstorm most of the citizens would be in the streets specking, and it was sometimes a very profitable pastime. Nuggets up to 6oz. and many nice slugs found their way into the pockets of people who had never sunk a hole in their lives. When the streets were tar-sealed this industry ceased. On the workings, fossicking and specking are still considered a pleasant way of spending a Sunday afternoon. Families will pack a basket of food, and spend a happy day rambling around a lead, with eyes on the ground. If a few specks are found they are proudly exhibited for weeks afterward. And it is seldom the sharp-eyed kids fail to find something to bring home.

No reefs, worth while, were ever found on the Gulgong field ; though many were tried, they all petered-out at shallow depths. Copper, silver and antimony showed promise on several shows, but none lasted. Kaolin and pipeclay are still being worked in several places. gold-diggers, including myself, are alike in one respect: all know of places where there must be gold. Ned Saunders and Bill Good man were first-class samples of this type. When we asked if they could lay us on to a likely spot, as we were young, strong and burning with gold-fever, we were an answer to their prayers.

They took us out to Log Paddock in a springcart loaded with - mining-gear - picks, shovels* dishes, windlass, ropes, bucket, hammer, drills and gympies. We also had two tents, cooking utensils, bunks and plenty of straw for our beds. At Home Rule we pulled-up for a drink ; rum for the old chaps, light shandies for us. Both reckoned we were softies when we knocked back the rum. They took theirs straight. We saw the remains of an old fire-engine, nearly hidden with weeds and grass, marked a.d. 1806. Bill said it had been brought up on a bullock wagon when Gulgong was still a tent-town. Home Rule had been the most densely populated part of the field in the early days. (Today there is little left of it, but it is still well known because of its kaolin deposits, which are said to be among the worlds greatest and of a very high quality. About 30 men are employed in the pits all the year.).

Log Paddock, three miles on, had been a huge lead. Henry Lawsons father had worked here, and it was from the old diggers who had stayed after the lead was worked-out that Henry got most of his mining stories. The Lawson home was in good order, and occupied. (Only the chimney and one post are standing now, though a memorial is nicely laid-out on the site.) The selection of the position to sink the hole led to a lot of controversy between Ned and Bill. Both got very heated; Ned called Bill A bloody old fool! and Bill said, A man orter knock yer bloody block off! As both were in their seventies we used a bit of diplomacy, and calmed them down. We pointed out that it was only a matter of a few feet, and we suggested that they split the difference, which they did. I am pretty sure there would have been a few punches swung had we not interfered. Both were tough old blokes, and must have been mighty men in their younger days. So, good mates again, they squatted on their haunches, and with twigs sketched in the dust the layout of Log Paddock. They showed where the lead had swung, but the diggers had kept in a straight line, and missed the main run of gold.

As they had worked on the lead we conceded that they could be right. Another dust map was traced showing the various strata we should go through, and the depth was estimated at 80ft. With visions of nuggets as big as the Welcome Stranger we started to put her down, grudging the time we wasted in sleep. Our two mates came out twice a week with sharp picks and supplies, which they insisted on paying for. Ned said: You boys are doing the work, so well look after the expenses. They paid for our miners rights and registering of the claim in our four names. Dutchy suggested that the claim be named the Heres Luck, and this was adopted. As we went down we struck hard seams, which had to be shot with explosives. Bill and Ned showed us how to drill holes, load and fire them, After one lesson I reckoned I could manage the shooting, so when we came onto hard stuff again at 50ft. I drilled six holes 12in. deep, crimped the detonators (diggers called them caps) on the fuses, pushed them into the half-plugs of gelignite, slid them gently into the holes and tamped them down. 1 then tied the fuse ends together. All the fuses had been cut to the same length to ensure the six charges exploding at the same time. This was to avoid any possibility of a misfire, as firing in rotation in such a confined space is likely to cut a fuse or displace a charge.

I was confident and cool till the moment came for lighting-up. My hands started to shake when 1 got the matches out, for if anything went wrong there would be no time to get out. I called up to Dutchy Ready! and he answered, Under below! I put one foot in the hook, grasped the rope in my left hand, lit the match and bent down and put it on the group of fuses. It went out. 1 swore a few times, wiped the sweat out of my eyes, got the matches out again and lit another. This time the fuse spluttered at once, and I was so startled that l stood staring for a few seconds. Dutchy, whose nerves were as bad as mine, yelled, and woke me into action. He brought me up faster than ever before, and I sprawled over the logging, rolled down the mullock-heap, and sprinted for a tree. Dutchy was a better runner than me as a rule, but I kept with him that time. But we need not have worried. Fuse burns at the rate of 2ft. per minute, and to be on the safe side I had cut them 4ft. long. It seemed a long time until the explosion came. First a shower of stones, then a cloud of dust and a dull crump. As we walked back to the hole, Dutchy said, in a most professional manner, Sounded like a good shot. And I answered, Yes, she was a good one.

I have since worked as powder-monkey in quarries and railway-cuttings, where I have brought out hundreds of tons of spoil every shot, but I never got the same thrill as I did from those six plugs of gelignite, my first shot. It was half-an-hour before the dust settled sufficiently for me to go down. The fumes were thick, but had no effect on me, though most people get violent headaches after contact with them. Even handling the plugs affects some, and Dutchy was one of these. After loading and firing one set he was out of action for the rest of the day. He swore his skull was opening and shutting every time he moved. So I was appointed official powder-monkey of the Heres Luck. When we reached the 70ft.-level, and came to a seam of basalt, Bill and Ned camped with us, and took charge of the operations. They seemed to regain their lost youth, and insisted on doing all the bottom work, while we did the winding. We passed the 80ft.-level, and excitement was running high.

There were several of the left over men from the early days on the field, and there would always be a couple at the shaft, giving advice and commenting on our chances of getting gold, and all comments were favor able. Each one was lowered slowly down the hole to examine the strata. We heard one chap remark, Same country as the Nil Desperandum, and mentions of other famous mines of 40 years back. At 85ft. we broke through the basalt, and when the smoke and dust subsided there was 10ft. of water in the hole. By morning it was 50ft. So that was the end of the Heres Luck. It was a shock to all of us. Dutchy, the philosopher, shrugged and remarked, Just a mans luck, and I, not seeing much sense in words, nodded. But the two old men took it hard. They sagged visibly, and looked much older than their years. We had walked to Home Rule one night, and got a bottle of rum to celebrate the bottoming of the hole.- I poured a good stiff jolt into both of them, but I dont think either man tasted it. Usually rum-drinking was a ritual, with comments such as Thats the stuff! from Bill. Ned would smack his lips, roll his eyes, and say, Ah, snifter! But rum, and life, had lost all flavor for them. Goldmining is full of disappointments, and the greatest of these is to strike water in a deep hole. And we had found a strong stream, which was impossible to cope with. A duffer is bad enough, but at least you know there is no gold. But we will never know what we might have missed through not being able to bottom the Heres Luck. I am still of the opinion that we were on the right track though, as any old digger will tell you, One man can see through the ground as far as any other. We offered to try out any other place the old chaps fancied, but they were too dispirited to be interested. Two grand men, I was to be their friend for many years. (My wife is a niece of Bill Goodman.) Both men lived to be over 90, and I never heard any man speak ill of them.

{To be continued )

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Continued from post #110 Part 4

Time Means Tucker

By H. P. (DUKE) TRITTON

Both o them 19-year-olds, the writer and his mate Dutchy have set out from Sydney in 1905 on a breezily adventurous wander about the N.S.W. outback, learning to become shearers, doing fencing contracts and having a go at gold digging, singing and taking the hat round in the towns, boxing in show-booths, meeting picturesque characters, and generally getting to know the bush and bush folk, and taking life as they find it. They have gone by boat to Newcastle, headed west from there, travelled the country with George Ruenalfs boxing-show, tramped to shearing jobs at big and small stations, and have just had a go at gold-digging on the old Gulgong goldfields.

We rolled our drums, and took to the track once more. Two days late"' we reached Wellington. We thought we could make a few bob singing, but Wellington was noted for a very unpleasant copper. We had gathered a nice crowd, and everything looked rosy, when he came up and gave us an hour to get out of town. The crowd booed him, but we, knowing we would take the rap if a brawl started, gave it away. Parkes was our next town. A nice little town, with tree lined streets and a general appearance of neatness. It, like Gulgong, had been a great goldfield. Our financial position was, as my mate put it, Not broke, but badly bent. He, being a young man of many ideas, suggested we interview the sergeant of police and see if we could get permission to busk in the streets. At the police-station the sergeant listened attentively to our story, looked through a book, then said, Actually, there is no law against singing in the streets, but if you take the hat round it is classed as begging, which is an offence. I think if you put a hat on the ground, and people care to put money in it, that would be in order. However, it lays to my discretion to a certain extent, so if I think your singing is worth while Ill give you the nod, and you can take the hat round. We agreed that his offer was very fair, and for two hours we sang and recited, mainly requests, till we could do no more. The people of Parkes gave generously, and the sergeant, in plain clothes, contributed his share. We reckoned that the police on the whole were not bad chaps. Where we met one tough one, we usually met half-a-dozen good ones. Bogan Gate was a village of about 20 houses, including two pubs. We didnt find any gate, though we had often heard of the man who hung Bogan Gate. Possibly the same bloke who dug the Darling River.

Condobolin, on the Lachlan, was a fair town, and, with police permission, we had a nice collection. From there we went up through Nymagee and Mount Boppy to Cobar. Cobar, though a big town, seemed overshadowed by the huge mullock-heaps of the coppermines. The mines were on the decline, as the lodes were cutting-out, and many of the miners were idle. The general opinion among the men was that the mines had been worked badly. Murdered, said one old Cornishman. The share holders, mostly English, who had never seen the mines, were hungry for quick profits, and ignored the low-grade ore, insisting that only the rich leads be worked. Had they taken the low-grade with the high, Cobar would have been good for a hundred years. The history of mining throughout Australia seems to prove this theory to be true. Rip the guts out, and damn the future, was the slogan for most of the mines in those days. Again the policemen were friendly, and we had two successful nights in Cobar. Then, having an urge to travel the real outback and visit some of the stations made famous during the shearing strikes, we made for Louth, on the Darling. Here we got a job with a drover, taking a mob of sheep to Tilpa, 50 miles down. This took us past Winbar and Compadore. The pub at Compadore had been the scene of many fights during the strikes, so we went there and made a night of it, yarning and singing. I have often regretted being too young at that time to realise the value those stories would be to the historians of today. It is only those I have heard again, years after, that I have been able to recall to my mind.

After delivering the sheep at Tilpa, Tommy Vincent, our boss, picked-up another mob to take to Dunlop, on the western side of the river. It was only a two-day trip, but he said he expected to get a lot more work, and as we got on well with him he asked us to go with him. At Dunlop I had a look round the famous shed where shearing-machines were first used in full-scale shearing. The shearers had refused to use them at first, but gradually accepted the newfangled things, which are going to put a lot of men out of work. Also, a lot of time was being lost by the endless-rope (the means of delivering power to the machines) stretching and breaking. One man, an old sailor, had been constantly employed to splice the rope. When the shaft-pulley and friction-wheels were devised, the shearers were satisfied the machines had come to stay. (I met the old sailor, whose only name I heard was Sailor Jack. After a few rums he boasted that he had earned more money than the ringer at Dunlop. He got seven-and-six for each splice, and to be sure of plenty of splices he would cut a strand of the driving rope half-through. Two or three hours later Jacks services would be in demand again, while a mob of cursing shearers stood at their pens, holding half-shorn sheep, or sometimes finishing-off with blades. I remarked to Jack that he was lucky not to be caught at his trick. He laughed and replied, Id have finished-up in the Darling with a coupler dozen machines tied round me neck.)

From Dunlop we took 3000 wethers to Wanaaring, on the Paroo River. Wanaaring had been a big camp during the strike. Nocoleche shed, 10 miles south of the town, had shorn with non-union shearers, and as a result much fighting had ensued. Several attempts to burn the shed had been made, one attempt almost succeeding. Tommy Vincent had no more A droving, so we were on the track again. After those few weeks in the saddle we found padding the hoof a bit tough, but covered the 60 miles to Hungerford in three days.

Henry Lawson mentions Hungerford as a town with a rabbitproof fence, and rabbits on both sides. I agree with Henry that the only feature Hungerford is noted for is the fact that it is situated on the boundary-fence between New South Wales and Queensland. But to me Hungerford always remains clearly fixed in my memory as the place where I first met the Reverend Feetham, afterwards the Bishop of Carpentaria. Feetham was one of a group of young men who had formed a society known as the Bush Brothers, with headquarters at Dubbo. They went hundreds of miles in all directions holding religious services- wherever they could get half-a-dozen people together ; camping with swagmen one night, sharing tucker with them, and dining with a squatter the next night. As all the Bush Brothers were fully ordained, they could marry, christen and bury people. Most of them were Englishmen who had taken Orders, only to find there were no churches for them in the Old Country, so many came to Australia to carry on the job for which they were trained. Around the back country they travelled on horse back, and were always alone.

There were 10 of us camped on the Paroo, and about four oclock we saw a cloud of dust on the road, then a horse and rider came into view, pounding along at a fast canter. The rider saw our camp, and swung off the road. He dismounted and came forward with out stretched hand. Im Feetham, he said, of the Bush Brothers. After shaking hands with the 10 of us, he went on to say: Im holding a service in the town tonight, and Id like to see all you men come along. It doesnt matter what your religion is, just come along and Im sure you will enjoy it. Ill give a short sermon, and well sing a lot of hymns. We promised to go to the service, and he mounted and rode off at a fast rate. A tall, angular man, he rode with arms and legs flapping, in the typical English style. His dress did not improve his appearance on a horse. White pith helmet, coat which seemed too small for him, and baggy riding-breeches stuffed into concertina leggings, made-up an outfit which seemed out of place on the outback tracks. His horse was a huge animal, more of the coaching than saddle-type, built for strength, not speed. But the sincerity and good-fellowship of the man made him loved and respected all over the western districts. His heart and soul were in his work, and many a down-and out swagman had cause to thank him for assistance given when badly needed. He had been known to nurse a man for over a week through a bad bout of the horrors. At the service, which was held in the open, he began with a short prayer, then spoke for 10 minutes in a clear and simple manner on the value of doing unto others as you would have them do unto you. He did not ask for converts, nor was there any collection. He suggested Rock of Ages for the first hymn. Then we got a shock, as he was absolutely tone-deaf, and was bliss fully unaware of it. He sang in a loud voice, and halfway through the first verse he was the only singer left. It was impossible to follow him, as there was no rhythm or tune in it, so all present gave-up. This went on through five or six of the best-known hymns, till Dutchy could stand it no longer. He offered to sing Abide With Me, but insisted that he sing solo. Feetham agreed, and Dutchy did a wonderful job. His clear tenor had the crowd fascinated, and they could not help applauding when he finished. Being mercenary-minded, I regretted that I could not take the hat round. Feetham thanked him, spoke for about 10 minutes again, then asked Dutchy to sing Lead Kindly Light. The meeting closed, after a short prayer. Though Feetham had several offers of a nights lodging, he camped with us on the bank of the Paroo. We sat a long time yarning, and he asked many questions about our experiences on the track, and told many stories of his own adventures in the outback. He rode off next morning, with the good wishes of every one, the big horse pounding along in a cloud of red dust. One of the chaps commented: He cant ride, and he cant sing, but hes a damned fine man. With which we all agreed.

To Barringun, along the boundary-fence, was our next trip. The country was arid, sandy soil. Spinifex, a tough grass with every blade a needle-point, and low brigalow scrub were the only vegetation. Every step kicked-up a spurt of fine red dust, which hung in the air behind us. Our clothes and bodies were covered with it, and the flies swarmed in clouds all the time. We had been advised to carry waterbags, and had also filled our billies. But with a water bag in one hand and a billy in the other, we were defenseless against the flies, so the billies were emptied, and with a bunch of twigs constantly waving we managed to keep most of them off. The moment the switching stopped, they settled back like a mask on our faces. At midday we met six camel-teams making for God knows where. Great, lumbering brutes, plodding along, with their large loads swaying. With their queer, rolling gait they looked like prehistoric monsters as they went past in a cloud of dust. They were mangy, slobbering brutes, covered with sores, and swarms of flies. I think camels are the most unlovable animals in the world. Apart from a couple at the zoo, we had never seen them before, and were not impressed
with these, except unfavorably. Their drivers tall, dark, bearded men looked straight ahead, and did not cast a glance in our direction, though we were barely 20ft. from them. I called out, Good-day, mate, to the chap with the leading team, but he didn't answer. I remarked to Dutchy: Friendly lot of blankards, arent they? He replied: Wouldnt like to meet any of them on my own, unless I had a shotgun.

Barringun, on the Warrego River and also on the boundary-fence, like Hunger ford was noted for nothing else except the usual flies, sand, spinifex and brigalow. So, reckoning we had seen enough of the Great Outback, we made for Bourke. The country was very dry, the stock in bad condition, and the squatters unfriendly. One chap whom we asked for rations replied curtly: Not giving any, and if this bloody drought keeps up much longer Ill be on the track myself. Dutchy, in his politest manner, said: Dear me, that would be a calamity! But we had lamb-chops for breakfast next morning. Mid night mutton. This was the country back of Bourke, also known as the land of long leads and short feeds. T'wenty-odd miles from Barringun, Enngonia was noted for its loneliness. The pub, store and post-office were all in one building, which was about the size of the usual boundary-riders hut gable and skillion, with the front veranda closed in to form the bar, and all built of galvanised iron. To enter, one had to duck ones head, and after a few pots of the brew served at Enngonia one was apt to forget to duck. The results were disastrous, and the ensuing language was, to say the least, lurid. There was a police-station, manned by a solitary trooper and a black-tracker. The tracker was picturesque. His uniform was the regular outfit, down to leggings and spurs, but no boots.

There were about a dozen other houses scattered around, but I never found out why people lived there. Enngonia is on the Warrego River, but the river is very hard to find in a dry time, though the locals swore they had seen water in it after heavy rains in Queensland. We were too polite to argue about it. However, if Enngonia had no scenic or architectural features, there was plenty of human interest. Being Saturday, there were men in from all the surrounding stations, with cheques to knock-down, and all seemed eager to be broke again in the shortest possible time. Old men, young men, middle - aged men, bearded, moustached and clean shaven, well-dressed and ragged, all seemed intent on getting drunk. Cheques were passed over the bar, with the words, Tell me when this is cut out, boss.

The bar was crowded-out, and drinks were being passed over heads to the men outside. Invitations to Come an have a drink were heard in all directions. Sheep were being shorn, buckjumpers ridden, dogs, trapped, fences put up, dams sunk, bullocks driven, and all kinds of bush-work was in full swing. Everyone seemed to be talking, but no one listened, except Dutchy and myself. Being swagmen, and broke, we had nothing to talk about. Also, we were waiting our chance to earn a few bob when the drinkers mellowed enough to be interested in listening to our songs. And when the chance finally arrived, and we were going nicely, trouble started.

A character known as Snaky Smith, who was as snakelike as his name suggested, insisted on joining in the singing. As his voice was something like a cross between a dingo and a crow, he was asked to shut-up. But he keep up a running-commentary on our. style, voices and songs, and he was very unflattering. Dutchy walked over to him and asked him to give us a fair go. Snaky answered with a punch, which Dutchy, being a good tradesman, easily avoided, and then calmly proceeded to chop Snaky up. Like most of his kind, he couldnt take it, and in less than two minutes he was a battered wreck on the ground. He was dragged outside, and left to recover. But just as we had the crowd in the right mood to take the hat round, Snaky reappeared with a bottle in his hand. He knocked the bottom out of it, and charged madly at Dutchy. Before he got within striking-distance he was borne down by half-a dozen men, and badly mauled. I reckon he was lucky to escape with his life. The bushman of those days was a great believer in fair play, and if you were unlucky enough to meet a man better than your self, and get a hidingwell, you had to grin and bear it. Bottles as weapons were not looked on with favor, even in a drunken brawl. All the men were in agreement that Snaky had brought the trouble on himself and deserved all he got. But our night was ruined. The trooper and the tracker came over and asked a lot of questions. They had a look at Snaky, then ordered the publican to close up. So the door was shut, and business went on as usual, though no noise was allowed. As we were passing the police-station the next morning the trooper pulled us up and warned us that if we met Snaky in the future to watch him closely. He remarked Its a pity the boys didnt kill him last night. He's a mongrel through and through, and I'd like to get something on him, to put him away for ten years.

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I met Alf Harvey, who was the publican at Enngonia at the time of which I write, again in 1935. We re-lived the night of the big brawl over and over again. Alf, who is into his eighties, is still able to get around, and his memory is still good. He is one of several men I know whose reminiscences should be collected. When in Mudgee I always spend a few hours yarning with him. Ten miles from Enngonia, at about two-oclock, we were plodding along fighting a ceaseless battle with the dies, too tired even to think. Though continually thirsty and with our watefbags nearly full, we had to resist the urge to drink, and content ourselves with occasional sips, having learnt the value of water and the need for conserving it on those dry tracks. The heat was terrific, as though coming from a bush fire, and there was absolutely no movement in the air. Birds had disappeared ; even the crows which seemed to be always with us, as though hoping for a feed of tasty Rabbits, which had been almost as thick as the flies, had gone down their burrows. Sheep were huddled in tight mobs, where they smothered in hundreds. Looking to the west we could see a reddish cloud rising to the sky, and wondered what it was. Then the sun was hidden behind a red pall, and a kind of twilight took-over. Five minutes later we looked west again, and perhaps half-a-mile away the red cloud was billowing along the ground.

We had no time to prepare a shelter of any kind ; not that any shelter would have stood. It struck with a roar, and in less than a minute it was dark. The air was filled with red dust, bindii, spinifex-needles and fine debris. We were in the open, over a mile from any timber, and took the full force of the wind. We could not stand against it, but lay flat, with arms over our heads. In a matter of minutes we were covered with debris ; then the wind seemed to come lower, and we were swept clean again. That is how it went on for three hours, as near as we could reckon. It was difficult to breathe, and apart from the air which scorched our throats the dust filled our mouths and nostrils. Any exposed part of our bodies was stung by sand particles and spinifex till it bled. It ended as quickly as it came. The wind stopped, a few drops of rain fell, and the Darling shower was over.

There wasn't enough rain to lay the dust, but it cooled the air. It left a scene of desolation in its wake. That part of the country is not noted for beauty at its best, but after the storm it was like a desert. Trees were stripped of every leaf, many were blown down, and fences buried till the tops of the posts were just showing. Acres of soil were blown away, some times to a depth of eight or nine inches. Even the spinifex clumps had been torn out of the ground and sent rolling along like the roly-polys of the Liverpool Plains, till they piled up in great heaps at the timber that had managed to stand the force of the gale. Dead sheep were lying in heaps in fence-corners where they had run before the storm. The crows were enjoying them selves immensely, and probably hoping a Darling shower would come more often. Of course, the flies were back with us as soon as the wind dropped ; probably a fresh lot.

I doubt if even the western flies could have survived in that wind. We wasted no time in getting on the move again, For time means tucker, and tramp you must is very true in the outback. Fortunately we had plenty of water, although our food was well sanded. But, as we had no option, it was still edible. Swagmen have to develop good digestions, else it would be a waste of time on the part of the squatters to issue rations. We camped on the Darling, the grand old gutter, and met a few old friends at Bourke. Sid Bennett, who had been cook at Charlton, welcomed us heartily, and as he was in funds he got a feed ready while we had a much needed swim. Steve Field greeted us like long-lost sons. A great old bloke was Steve. We were then introduced to another famous cook, Jack without a shirt. No one seemed to know what his other name was.

The story is that he was cooking at Boorooma many years previously, and, wanting to give the shearers a special treat, had knocked-up a big duff, then discovered he didnt have a cloth big enough to hold it, so he used his shirt. At tea-time the shearers were praising the duff, and backing up for second helpings, when one of them, going into the galley for a mug of tea, noticed the shirt bearing evidence of its use as a pudding-cloth. Being a bit fussy, he complained, and there was an argument, during which the shirt was torn to pieces. And it was the only shirt Jack owned. So till the cut-out he went about his babbling stripped to the waist, and the name stuck. He didnt mind his nickname in the least; in fact, he seemed rather proud of it.

In Bourke the main topic of conversation was the storm. It had done a lot of damage in the town ; many roofs stripped, and several houses blown down. About 20 people had been injured, and there was a rumour that two swagmen had been killed by a falling tree. This was not verified while I was in Bourke. The stock losses had been very high. The wind velocity had been officially recorded at 84 miles, and the temperature at 114 degrees. The dust had gone hundreds of miles out to sea, and it was the worst storm ever recorded in Bourke. Like all western towns Bourke had a Royal Hotel. It was said to have been painted by Henry Lawson during his stay there, and I often speculated, as 1 sipped a shandy, on the originals of his characters. I think I picked one whom he called Awful Example, but who was known as Dead Finish by the locals. There were many who would have fitted the part of Macquarie, complete with dog. And Mitchells were plentiful.

All the people we met were very friendly, and we had three good nights busking. So good that we decided to become law-abiding citizens and pay our own fare to Nyngan. I have to admit that we came to this decision after we heard that the train-crews were very hard on jumpers; also, the police always inspected the trucks on every train leaving Bourke after .dark. In Nyngan, following our usual custom, we interviewed the sergeant, and he readily gave us permission to sing in the streets. (The long arm of coincidence must have been reaching out, for just 50 years later I was at a gathering of the Fellowship of Australian Writers when one who was a stranger to me sat at my table. He introduced himself as Joe Porter, which meant nothing to me. But each of us knew, at first sight, that the other was a bushman, so we were talking of the outback in a very short time. The climax came when he said that he had been a police-sergeant, and had been stationed at Nyngan for several years. In a flash, it all came back to me: Sergeant Porter was the man who gave Dutchy and myself permission to busk in the streets of Nyngan in 1907.

Naturally, he did not remember the incident, for, as he said, I tried to help any man on the track as much as possible, and if they were clean and tidy, and not full of booze, I never objected to them making a few bob. Joe Porter is Spinifex, the writer of many articles and pars, for The Bulletin and other papers. This is a long digression, but 50 years between meetings is a damn long time.) had taken a bashing by the storm, though not as bad as many of the western towns that had been in its path. We had a good spin with our singing, and our finances were very healthy. And we had another bit of luck. When shearing at Mount Tenandra the previous season we had met a young squatter, Frank Dowling, who owned. Walla, a property of about 8000 acres adjoining Mount Tenandra. He had been very interested in our singing, and, on a business trip to Nyngan, he recognised us and came over and shook hands. I mentioned that we were going to Coonamble, and lie said he would be glad of our company, as he was alone in a buggy and pair. Needless to say, we rushed his offer with ears back. He intended staying at Haddon Rig one night, Coonamble the next. Two days, and it would have taken us a week per boot, at the least, being over 100 miles. Frank saw that we were fixed-up at the men's hut for the night at Haddon Rig. We were quite happy about this, for we had not expected to dine with the Falkiner family at the homestead. Haddon Rig was then, and still is, famous for fine-woolled Merinos.

We went through Bullagreen, and stopped for lunch at Bourbah Hotel. This had been one of the notorious lambing down pubs in the west, but had grown respectable in old age. Four or five miles from Bourbah the road ran through a cypress-pine forest. It was like driving through a tunnel, with the tops of the pines meeting overhead. It was unique in another respect, being the only corduroy-road I had seen. Fine sand, in which the horses sank up to their fetlocks and wheels went down a foot, it had been almost impassable. So trees about 9in. in diameter bad been felled and laid side by side. Had the upper parts been squared it would have been a good job, but the round logs made the surface incredibly rough. His bump, bump, bump, was nerve shattering, and as the horses could not keep-up, except at a slow walk, it took over an hour to negotiate the four miles of its length. We all breathed a sigh of relief when we bumped for the last time.

Coonamble was reached in the early afternoon. Frank still had 20 miles ahead to Walla, so, after spelling his horses and washing the road dust down, he went on. Frank Dowling was the second son of Vincent Dowling, of Lue and Gumin stations, and was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He was just as happy and friendly with a swagman as with his fellow squatters. I last saw him in Gulargambone in 1952. He was then about 70, and looked good for a long time yet. we built-up our bank in the two nights we had in Coonamble ; then were offered jobs at Wingadee with a contractor. Burning-off dead timber is a hot game at any time, but in the summer it is hell. Apart from the heat we had snakes of all descriptions to contend with. There were 40 men on the job, made up of six axe men, 30 stick-pickers, or emu-bobbers whose job was to pack the timber in heaps, and four men who lit the fires, so the job was completed in one operation.

As the snakes were travelling in front of the fires, the further we went the thicker they became. As an axeman going ahead and cutting down the small timber I soon developed the habit of keeping my eyes on the ground, and could stop on the instant, with one foot in the air like a pointer dog, and leap sideways or back wards without thinking, as the occasion demanded. Ever since Wingadee. I have had a very casual approach to any reptile. The emu-bobbers had the worst job. A snake can look remarkably like a slender branch in long grass, and every day you could hear a string of curses and see one of the men jump back after just missing a Joe Blake. Emu-bobbing, for the benefit of those not versed in the slanguage of the bush, is picking up the fallen timber.

At a distance a group of men bending head-down and tails up look very much like a flock of emus. Dutchy was one of this gang. We had knocked-off for lunch, and had gathered in the shade of a wilga-tree, and Dutchy, who had been on the end of the line, was strolling casually towards us. Fifty yards from our tree he saw' a log that had been missed lying in some long grass, and, being of tidy nature, he hoisted it on his shoulder, and kept coming. The log was a mere shell, and we were horrified when 3ft. of brown snake slid out of the rear and waved wildly to and fro, apparently afraid to drop to the ground. Everyone yelled Snake! Dutchy, wondering what all the commotion was about, and puzzled by our behaviour, was getting closer. As it was evident he was going to drop the log on the fire nearest us we made off in all directions. Then the snake decided to reverse, and swung out of the front end.

He then seemed to realise he was in a worse position, and stiffened himself, and stared at Dutchy. For perhaps 10 seconds man and snake posed, with heads barely a foot apart. Then Dutchy heaved the log away, and the snake went for its life into the grass. When we came back, Dutchy grinned and said, Cripes, that cow was trying to mesmerise me. We were camped on a bore drain, and, like a lot of artesian bores, the water was hot and highly mineralised. An Indian hawker came to the camp, and I bought a pair of moleskin pants from him. Moleskin was great wearing stuff, but when new it was stiff with lime and glue, so had to be washed before wearing. Being averse to washing clothes, unless it was very necessary, I pegged the strides down in the bore-drain, reckoning the fast-flowing water would do a good job without any effort on my part. It did. In the morning when I went to retrieve my pants there were a few shreds of material still hooked on to the wire I had pegged them to. The soda and lime in the water had done their work too well.

(To be continued )

The bulletin.Vol. 80 No. 4119 (21 Jan 1959)

https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-672857116

Puddling machines, Gulgong

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https://digital.sl.nsw.gov.au/deliv...42.1561994486.1632203131-298927253.1632203131

Gulgong gold minehead and miners

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https://digital.sl.nsw.gov.au/deliv...00.1561994486.1632203131-298927253.1632203131

Gold mine head, Gulgong area

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https://digital.sl.nsw.gov.au/deliv...54.1561994486.1632203131-298927253.1632203131
 
Continued from post #110 Part 5

Time Means Tucker

By H. P. (DUKE) TRITTON

Both of them 19-year-olds, the writer and his mate Dutchy have set out from Sydney in 1905 on a breezily adventurous wander about the N.S.W. outback, learning to become shearers, doing fencing contracts and having a go at gold digging, singing and taking the hat round in the towns, boxing in show-booths, meeting picturesque characters, and generally getting to know the bush and bush folk, and taking life as they find it. They have gone by boat to Newcastle, headed west from there, jumped the rattler when convenient, tramped from station to station for shearing, travelled about the country with Ruenalfs boxing-show (and got into other fights), tried gold-digging at Gulgong, and a bit of emu-bobbing, and are now in the Warrumbungle country.

AS we intended to have a go at the rabbits we left Wingadee and made for Gumin. It was near the end of April, and skin prices were rising fast. On the way we called in at Calga, and signed-up for pens for the shearing. We had met Mr. Woodward, of Mount Tenandra, and he had signed us up, also recommending us to the manager of Calga. At Gumin we clicked again, and reckoned we were on top of the world, with three sheds, each of 2000 per man, and all adjoining. These are the runs shearers dream of. Owned by Willoughby Dowling and managed by Edward OConnor, Gumin took in half the Warrumbungle Range, and had a lot of flat country besides. About 40,000 sheep, but all the mountain country ran cattle and horses. Sheep in the hills had to be shepherded, owing to the dingoes. The horses were bred specially for the Indian Army. Known as walers, they were a cross, with blood sires and coach or hackney mares. Probably the hardiest horses in the world, they were in great demand as Army remounts.

Breaking-in time was a show on its own. One man would usually take-on the contract, and bring three or four buck jump-riders. Many famous ones had broken-in horses on Gumin ; Lance Skuthorpe, Harry Morant, Sydney Bob Brewster and Billy Waite are a few names that come to mind. Sydney Bob had been doing the job for a good many years, and was there in my time. He would be well into his sixties, and did no riding himself. He did the handling and had two good riders to do the roughing. The Indian buyers would come to Gumin whenever there were sufficient horses available, and would buy about 500 horses every year, which is a lot of horses when you see them in one mob.

We started on the rabbits with quince-jam and strychnine, and knocked-over 200 or 300 a night, but reckoned this wasnt good enough, considering the bunnies were so plentiful. We thought it would be a good idea to experiment. While at Tongy with Tom Hennesy the previous year Dutchy had noticed the rabbits had been doing a lot of scratching round the base of the ordinary black-thistles, and he thought it would be worth while trying one nights set. We dug up about 71b. of nice crisp roots, cut them into cubes half-an-inch long, mixed powdered strychnine through them, then laid our trail in the usual way. The results amazed us. We had laid out 1000 baits and picked up over 800 rabbits within 20ft. of the trail. The same happened the next night. This idea caught-on and spread rapidly. Rabbiters came to see our method, and, as there was no chance of keeping it secret, we told them all we knew. I wouldnt know if Dutchy and I were the first to use thistles, but we must have been close. We had heard of apples, carrots and turnips being used, but never thistles.

About the middle of June, rabbit-skin prices dropped, so we went after possums, wallabies and kangaroos. The fact that full protection had recently been placed on possums did not worry us unduly, though a fine of 1 per skin was. the penalty. We had one very narrow escape, when Sergeant Menarey, of Barradine, with his tracker, made a surprise visit to our camp. After searching through our scant possessions they rode in a circle round the camp, examining hollow trees and logs. I held my breath a couple of times, but they missed our plant. Returning to his camp, Menarey said: I've missed this time, but I know you have skins planted somewhere, and make no mistake, I'll get you sooner or later. He then rode off. The tracker lingered a moment, screwed his face up in an exaggerated wink, wheeled his horse and followed the sergeant. Dutchy turned to me and said: That tracker must have seen something, but he's on our side.

We stuck to kangaroos for a few days. We visited our plant, which was a huge box tree with a hollow big enough for a man to get into with no trouble, and room to stack a thousand possum-skins. Twenty-feet from the entrance were the tracks of the tracker's horse, and alongside them several perfect sets of foot prints. No tracker worthy of the name could have missed the plant. Peace to his bones. We had over 500 possum skins in that tree. Menarey's visit had taught us a lesson: When possum-poaching never have your skins in the one place. Always have several plants ; then, if you are copped for one lot, you have plenty of skins to pay the fine.

The farcical part of the protection was that the wool-and skin stores were handling possum-skins, and the news papers were quoting prices. The law stated that any person in possession of possum-skins would be prosecuted, yet the railways accepted them as freight, the local buyers bought them as a matter of course, and there was no embargo on the export of protected-animal skins. But the man who caught them was treated as a criminal of the lowest kind, and if he could not pay the fine he was sent to jail. It was 15 years later when the buyer was judged guilty equally with the trapper.

T'he Warrumbungle Range is worthy of a visit. Mount Exmouth, the highest point, is over 4000 ft. above sea-level. Moppera, the middle peak, is 3000, and Bulaway, where we had erected the fence, 3300. Not high as mountains go, but on the western side there are no foothills. Coming from Coonamble there is a rocky hill probably half-a-mile long and 100 ft. high. This is known as the Magometon. It looks like a boulder thrown off the Warrumbungles in the early days of the world. Rising straight out of the plain, it seemed very lonely as Dutchy remarked the first time we saw it: A calf that had strayed from its mother. Twenty miles of flat country again, and Mount Tenandra rose up in a similar way. The Magometon is very narrow, but Tenandra covered a few hundred acres. Another 10 miles, and the rise in the land could be noticed. From this point to the top of Mount Exmouth would be no more than 10 miles, which gave it the appearance of being likely to topple over at any moment. The real scenic beauty of the Warrumbungles lies in the Beladgery Valley. Following Beladgery Creek into the mountains one comes to a pass barely 50yds. wide. This pass runs a half-mile, with cliffs 500 ft. high, then gradually opens out into a fertile valley. Scores of small valleys run off the main one (each then inhabited by a bull and his harem), and each of these small valleys has a narrow entrance, similar to the main valley.

Alan Cunningham was the first to explore the Warrumbungles. He was reputed to be in the habit of carrying seed of various trees and plants, and planting them at different places along his route. On Beladgery Creek was a peach-tree, still bearing, which was known as Cunninghams Tree. As I saw it in 1907, that tree would be over 70 years old. It seems a mighty age for a peach-tree to bear fruit, but men who had been born on Gumin, and were well up in years, got very annoyed if one expressed any doubt about the age of the tree. I have no opinion on the matter, but they were very good peaches. In July we shore at Calga.

Taken up by De Mestre in 1835, it had been a big place, somewhere round the half million acres, but over the years it had been cut down considerably. Sheep were good, and some big tallies were cut. I stayed round the hundred-and-twenty, and Dutchy fought hard for the century but just failed. He was quite happy about it, as there were four men well below him, and in his previous sheds he had been drummer every time. We had a good run till near the cut-out. With only a couple of thousand to shear, Hughie answered the prayers of the loppies with a fairly heavy shower. Had it been a few days earlier the shearers would have knocked-off with out any hesitation, but with only a days shearing to cut out the flock most of the men were eager to finish and get away. The rep. called for a vote, and the majority voted dry.

Billy Dawson, one of the old blade-shearers, was very insistent that the sheep were too wet to shear. He reckoned that shearing wet sheep was the quickest way to acquire rheumatism that he knew of, but as the vote had been dry he was compelled to shear. His first sheep was rough and cranky, kicking and struggling all the time. As a result Bluey cut him. rather badly in several places. The boss of the board chipped him: Look here, Dawson, youll have to shear better than that. That sheep is covered in blood. Bluey snapped back: that aint sheeps blood. Its outer the frogs in the wool. The boss scratched his head, grinned, and walked away. I had voted dry, but never did so again if I considered the sheep wet. After the first three sheep I was soaked to the skin. The wool was doughy and continually clogged the combs and cutters.

We went to Mount Tenandra on the Sunday, and started shearing after lunch. O. E. Friend, whom we had met before in his Highland rigout, was in full regalia, and attracting a lot of attention from the newcomers. About a dozen men from Calga had shorn at Mount Tenandra the previous year, and those who had not seen him before had been eager to get the details from those of us who knew him. And the burning question was: Does he wear anything under that little skirt? (Fifty years later, I have to admit that I still cant answer that question.) But Friend wasnt a bad bloke. Dutchy and I were the first to arrive, and went up to the woolshed looking for Mr. Woodward. He was pleased to see us, and introduced us to Friend. He did not offer to shake hands, but on his; daily visit to the shed he always had a friendly smile and a nod for us. Brummy Field was with us again. His dry wit always kept the shed roaring with laughter during smoke-ohs. I asked him had he gone to Sydney after last shearing. No, he replied, I didnt make it, but added brightly: I nearly got there. I had sixty-quid, and I got to Mendooran, where I met a cobber who had a good thing for the races. Well, I reckoned Id build up the sixty a bit, and I put twenty on this moke, and it ran third. So, only having forty-quid left, I got on the booze and it didnt last long. For thirty years Brummy had worked and saved for that trip to Sydney, but he seldom got past the first pub. He was a type that was well known in the bush, in those times. A good shearer, stockman and all - round bushworker, he would live frugally, but not meanly, till he had a nice sum of money saved-up, then blue it up in one wild spree.

Woodward was a good boss, and popular with all hands, and the shearing went on smoothly. Good weather right through, and everyone was happy, except the rousies. They reckoned Hughie had let them down again. Dutchy broke the century, and after tea the rep. called all hands to attention, and made a speech praising Dutchy, and welcoming him to the ranks of the big-gun shearers. Dutchy replied in a neat little speech, and suggested the union should pass a law compelling all the rousies to address him as Mr. Bishop or at least Sir. This matter was solemnly discussed, and finally decided to be against all union principles, and Dutchy was fined four songs. We finished-up at midnight, and I think everyone had a sore throat. I know I did.

After Mount Tenandra, Gumin was a let-down. There were only six of us who went to Gumin from Tenandra. All the others were strangers, and a most unfriendly lot. In the first week there were two fights, both over trifles; in fact they were childish little squabbles that developed into bloody fights. We were lucky in avoiding trouble. One chap came up the second day, and said he had seen me boxing with George Ruenalf in Brewarrina. He said he thought 1 could have beaten George, and I agreed that I had the same opinion. He must have seen me when George was letting me show off a bit. But we had no further worry about getting into strife. We were treated with respect by all, and went about our shearing quietly, and had little to say.

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