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Dutchy refrained from his usual pranks with the rousies; there was no singing at night and gambling, mostly Napoleon, or Nap as it is usually called, was the only form of amusement. As we knew all the station-hands we would go over to the mens hut for a yarn, or visit one of the married mens homes, where we were always sure of a cup of tea and a slice of cake before we went back to the shed huts. The boss of the board, O'Connor, was also the manager of the station. A man with a great idea of his own importance, he was the only boss who ever faulted my shearing. We were shearing six-tooth wethers at the time, and they were fairly rough. I had a look round the other counting-pens and I couldnt see any sheep better shorn than mine. I told OConnor this, and he said: Im the judge of how sheep are shorn here. Never noted for a meek disposition, I replied: You wouldn't know the difference between a sheep and an emu. You probably wish we were back in the days of the raddle stick. He said: I would have used it freely on your sheep. And I said: No doubt, and Id have rammed it down your throat. After this pleasant little discussion, he gave me no further trouble.

Then we got the rain. It came down all night, and the sun was shining in the morning. The sheep that had been under cover were shorn in a couple of hours, and the rousies were jubilant, but not for long. The owners, if they wished, could compel them to work at any job on the station while it was not actually raining. Not many stations took advantage of this clause of the Shed hands Agreement, but Gumin was one of the few. It was really a farce, as none of the men would work. We went for a stroll, and watched a gang who were stick picking. Two men would pick up a branch no bigger than a broom-handle and, pretending to be bowed with the weight, carry it to a heap 100yds. away, while the station ganger stood grinning at them. Half-a dozen would gather round a log that any one of them could lift, and for half-an-hour would discuss ways and means of shifting it. Sometimes one would bend down and grasp the end of the log, grunting and straining to show the impossibility of moving it. Then the ganger would come, hoist it on his shoulder and carry it to a heap, while the rousies commented admiringly on his strength, comparing him with Donald Dinnie, Sandow and other strong men of the time. No matter how little work they did they could not be sacked while on station jobs. After advising them not to work too hard we went to our bunks and slept the afternoon away. It rained every night for a week, and altogether we lost eight days shearing. To several men this lost time meant they would miss-out on their next shed. There were always plenty of shearers to take the place of those who, for some reason or other, failed to turn-up for the roll-call. (Dutchy and I missed Calga, two seasons back, by one hour.) So tempers were frayed, and quarrels were frequent. We managed to avoid getting involved by keeping away from the huts as much as possible. When the last sheep went down the chute everyone was happy, and in two hours every man, shearer or shed-hand, was on his way home or to the nearest pub or another shed.

We went to Box Ridge, a village consisting of a store (which was also post-office), four houses and a dance-hall. No pub. Granny Ingles took in occasional boarders, and we decided to have a week with her and enjoy a bit of home cooking. It may be hard to believe, but for three months, we had not tasted butter, milk or green vegetables of any kind. Such things were never seen in shearers huts or camps; there was no way of keeping them. Our only luxuries were jam or, in a mean shed, treacle or golden - syrup (otherwise cockys joy"). Spuds were the only vegetable, and never too many of them. Granny showed us through the garden, where we swooped on a lettuce each. She reproved us gently: You boys wont be able to eat any tea. Dutchy stopped chewing long enough to say, Who wants any tea? But we did a very good job on the meal she set before us.

Granny Ingles was known and loved by every man, woman and child for 50 miles. The local midwife, she claimed anyone who was under 30 and had been born in the district as one of my babies. I think it was the third day of our stay with her when a worried-looking man, driving a pair of straggly horses, came to Grannys house and said his wife was having a baby. Granny asked a few questions, and then went into action. She took one look at the mans horses, standing with heads drooping and sides heaving; then ordered us to get her own horses in the buggy. In 10 minutes she was on her way to Salty Creek, which was 15 miles away, but rough tracks and dark nights held no terrors for Granny Ingles.

Neither of us slept very well that night. I heard Dutchy turn over and sigh deeply several times. I knew that he was following Granny on that trip, the same as I was. We had offered to accompany her, but she said she would travel faster with less weight. We were asleep when she returned. 1 heard the rattle of pots and pans in the kitchen and took no notice, thinking it was Polly, her daughter, getting breakfast for her brother Billy. He had not been home when Granny had left, but they were not worried about their mothers journey. Polly said: Ive got used to Mums trips. She has been rushing off in a hurry longer than I can remember. But it wasnt Polly in the kitchen. Granny put her head round the doorway, and said in her gentle voice: Dear me, are you boys going to stay in bed all day? We both spoke at once: Is everything all right? She answered: A beautiful girl, and the mother, is quite well. I know I had a lump in my throat, and Dutchys eyes were blinking, and his voice had a queer high note, with a gulp at the end. I drove out with Granny the next day. . The hut was the usual boundary-riders home, just about one class above the aboriginal guny ah. How people lived in them, and reared children, is beyond me.

We had camped at Salty Creek when building the fence between Goorianawa and Gumin, but another family had been living there then. The piesent family had been only six months in occupation. The nearest neighbor, Mrs. Bradley, whom I knew, was looking after the mother. She would drive eight miles to Salty Creek every day, look after Mrs. Sands till the husband came home, which was mostly sun down, then drive back to feed her own brood. Mrs. Sands had four children, besides the new baby. The eldest child was eight. As the baby had been born an hour after Granny arrived, I wondered what Mrs. Sands had been thinking of while her husband was away. Women would know. On the way back I did a lot of thinking, mainly about pioneers. I was really trying to answer my own question: Who are the real pioneers of this country? The women, like Granny Ingles, Mrs. Sands and Mrs. Bradley, will have my vote every time.

We had intended to stay only a week at Box Ridge, but Dutchy had an outbreak of boils, and Granny took charge of him. He was certainly in no condition to go on the track, and I reckoned he was lucky to be in such good hands. The mail-driver from Gulargambone to Baradine wanted a couple of weeks off, so I took the job. The mail coach was one of the famous Cobb and Co.s Probably 20 years old, it was still in good condition. Leather springs, known as through braces, were still used. It rolled, and 1 should imagine the passengers would get seasick on long trips. The original cushions were still in good' order, and 12 passengers could be seated comfortably. I had never driven four-in-hand before, but the horses knew their work, and I had no trouble with them. I picked up the mail at Gular at three in the afternoon, went back to Box Ridge, where I stayed the night, leaving at eight next morning. I dropped mail and parcels at Mount Tenandra and Wingedgeen; changed horses at Goorianawa; then on to Bugaldi and Baradine, reaching there at four. 1 stayed the night; then back to Box Ridge the next day.

The tripGular to Baradine was just 70 miles, and fresh horses were used on alternate trips. I did the journey twice a week, and found it somewhat boring unless I had a few passengers to yarn away the time. Perhaps if there had been bush rangers about to stick me up occasionally it would have been more interesting. Dick Knight, the regular driver, had driven on various runs for Cobb and Co. A little old man, close to 70, he had been driving coaches most of his life. Born in Bathurst, he had known many of the bush rangers well, but had never been bailed-up. He had been a close friend of Johnny Vane, who had died the year before (1906).

Dick told me the story of Jack Skellicorn, who had bet lOO that he could ride from Bathurst to Sydney between sunrise and sunset on the one horse. He completed the ride with an hour to spare, but the other chaps, who had followed him, with several changes of horses, refused to pay because a few times he had dismounted for some purpose or other, and before remounting had led his horse a few yards. Therefore, they argued, he had not ridden the horse all the way to Sydney. A dirty point, but, as Dick remarked, They saved their money, but were the most unpopular men in Bathurst for many years.

Dutchy being well again, and tired of loafing, we took on a fencing-contract for Frank Dowling at Walla, and became members of the employers class. We decided that the ruling wage of 25-bob and tucker for fencing was not enough, so we raised it to 30-bob. Our first man was Ben Bridge, a great worker. He had been to the Boer War, and had been one of Harry Morants Bushveldt Carabineers. Ben had been forced to watch the execution of Morant, and had a fierce hatred of Kitchener, and all British Army officers.

Our second man was Arthur. We were pitching camp when Arthur came along and asked for a job. He was a proper scarecrow tall, gaunt, clothes flapping in the wind, long hair and straggly whiskers. His swag was two wheat-bags tied up with bits of wire and rope. Definitely a bit gone in the head, I thought. Out of pity, I told him he could have a week, to earn a few bob for the track. I reckoned it would be 30-bob wasted. I was wrong. I asked his name, and he said, Arthur. I said, Arthur what? He repeated, Arthur. So I gave up then. It is not considered good form to ask too many questions about a mans name, or to probe into his past too deeply, among bushmen. So Arthur was near enough for us.

We started cutting posts next morning. There was plenty of good timber, mostly cypress pine. Ben worked with me, felling, while Dutchy and Arthur barked the logs and marked-off post lengths. When the first log was ready Arthur grabbed the saw and said, Ill cut em off. He drove the saw through the logs as if they were his personal enemies. Every time it went through he would give a yell of triumph, as though he had won a victory. He was the best single-handed sawyer any of us had ever seen. When he had a dozen lengths ready, he took the hammer and wedges, and started splitting, saying, It does a man good to have a change of work. He used the hammer with the same fury as he had the saw. I thought he would be beat in an hour, but at knock-off time he seemed to be as fit as ever.

Whatever his past might have been, he was certainly a timber-man and a toiler. At the camp he would seldom join the conversation, but would sit for an hour at a time staring at nothing, and his lips moving, as though talking to someone. He had a passion for cleanliness, and some of his rags would be hanging from a tree nearly every night. His age could have been anything from 30 to 50, and he never smoke, drank or swore. Dutchy had a very extensive repertoire of lurid words, and when he was having a session Arthur would shake his head and reprove him gently. And, strange to say, Dutchys language became very moderate when with Arthur. He never worried about Ben or me ; perhaps he thought we were too far gone to bother about.

Ben Bridge is worthy of further mention. Thirty five years of age, ex-soldier, shearer, drover and all-round bushman, he, too, was tireless. 1 fancied myself at putting up posts, but Ben always finished the day with a few ahead. At night he was always ready to sing a songhe had a very good baritone voiceor tell a yarn. He told many stories about his uncle, who was probably the last of the cattle-duffers. When finally arrested and lodged in Blackall (Queensland) Bens uncle had set fire to the jail and escaped, and had never been heard of again.

He had also been concerned with another man when they lifted 3000 sheep from Calga, Goorianawa and Warrina with the intention of droving them to Dubbo and there selling them. They nearly succeeded, but made the same mistake as did Starlight in Robbery Under Arms. On the stock-route near Gulargambone several prize rams joined the flock, and they took them along. These rams belonged to Miss Mary Ferguson, of. Gular station, and had recently been bought from a Victorian stud at a stiff price. A few miles from Dubbo, several buyers came out to inspect the sheep, and the stock-agent who took the prospective buyers out happened to be the man who had bought the rams for Miss Ferguson. He recognised them, and sent for the police. Bens uncle, realising the game was up, went for his life and got clean away. His mate tried to bluff it out, but got three years imprisonment. Ever after, he trod the straight and narrow path, but Bens uncle merely shifted his activities to Queensland, where for several years he was a thorn in the side of many a squatter, till finally yarded at Blackall.

{To be continued )

The bulletin.Vol. 80 No. 4120 (28 Jan 1959)

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Continued from post #110 Part 6

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, tramped from station to station for shearing jobs or travelled the country with Ruenalfs boxing-show, had a go at gold-digging and droving, and, with their track-mate Arthur, have now arrived in time for an occasion at Box Ridge.

ON Christmas Day and Boxing Day we were at Box Ridge. The picnic, which was combined with sports and finished with a dance at night, was an annual affair, and had been an attraction at Box Ridge for over 20 years. Visitors came from 50 miles around. Despite, or because of, the fact that there was no pub the event was always a great success. In those days we had to make our own sport, commercialised sports being unknown. So most people could do some thing in the athletic line that suited their age-group. We had the Toddlers Derby, the Married Womens Cup, the Old Buffers Sprint, and the Grand mothers Handicap. Granny Ingles said, The old buffers have always been great handicaps, to the grandmothers. All the women agreed that Granny was right. The more serious events were keenly contested. All events were based on one-shilling entry-fee and winner take the lot.

Tossing the caber; stepping 100yds. ; hop, step, and jump ; high-jump and broad-jump ; and foot-races at all distances, with so many entrants that they had to be run-off in heats. I won the high-jump, which was always a long-suit of mine, and was content to stroll around the rest of the day with my chest stuck out. Ben won the caber-tossing, after a hard contest, and Dutchy won the 120yds. foot-race. He and Ben had a crack at pretty well every event on the program, but won no more. We were satisfied that we had upheld the honor of Walla.

Arthur, whom we had persuaded to renew his wardrobe, took no part in anything, but was happy strolling about parading his new clothes, though no amount of dressing could improve Arthurs looks. And, though nearly all the people, went out of their way to treat him as one of their friends and give him a good time, we kept a close guard on him. There was always one of the three near him in case some of the young chaps who had brought along a bottle of grog might take it into their heads to poke fun at him. There was an incident in the late afternoon. Several young chaps from Coonamble, who had had a few drinks, were making a nuisance of themselves, in the manner of their kind, strutting around, hoping everyone would mistake them for full-grown, tough men. A few of them got Arthur away, and tried to make him have a drink of whisky. Ben saw them, and walked over. He said gently: This bloke is a mate of mine, and he dont drink. He then took the bottle, which was half-full, pulled out the cork, and poured the contents on the ground. Several of us had arrived by this time, and there were no protests from the owner of the whisky.

There were never any police at the Box Ridge picnics. The citizens had their own method of dealing with any man, be he squatter or swagman, who tried to disturb the friendly air of the picnic. He would be surrounded by a dozen men and given the option of fighting any one of them or behaving himself. If he chose to fight, and won, he would have to fight again till he had beaten the lot. So, as no one would care to take on these conditions, there was very little drunkenness, and few fights. Ben Bridge, a periodical drinker who would stay on the booze until he got the horrors, said afterwards: You know, I reckon the hardest thing Ive ever done was pouring that good whisky on the ground. Dont think Ill ever forget it. Im so flaming dry my skin is cracking. Dutchy misquoted, Greater love hath no man than he who wastes good grog for his mate.

The dance was the most popular event of the picnic. It put the finishing-touch to a perfect day. The hall was big enough to allow 30 couples to dance in comfort, and twice that number had to be accommodated. So the older people danced slow waltzes, polkas and the stately varsoviana in the hall, while the younger set did the lancers, quadrilles and waltz-cotillions out on the grass. The moon was nearly full, and there was plenty of light, but to make it more impressive hurricane-lanterns with colored paper tied around them added a nice touch to the scene. Several caught fire and burst, but no one worried about trifles like that, except, perhaps, the owners of the lamps. There was no lack of instruments or players, Accordions, concertinas, fiddles (they were never called violins) mouth-organs and tin-whistles, Sometimes one player would get out of tune and throw the dancers into confusion, but it only added to the fun. It was long after midnight when we stood in a circle and, clasping hands, sang Auld Lang Syne. And we all meant it.

We cut-out the Walla fence at the end of January. Several fencing-contracts were offered, but our gang broke up. Ben went to Queensland with a mob of bullocks, and Arthur reckoned hed be on the move again. When I asked casually where he thought of making, he answered, Dunno. 1 knew his answer was final, so did not press him to be more definite. He had l5 due to him, and I did not like giving it to him in a cheque, as he seemed to have no idea of the value of money. So I got Frank Dowling to give it to me in cash. I advised Arthur to put some in each pocket, as I thought this was the best way of ensuring that someone did not get the lot in one lump.

When he was ready to go he shook hands firmly, and said: Goodbye, boys, men may meet, though mountains never. This made Dutchy and I scratch our heads, because during the time he was with us his conversation had been limited to a few words, mostly concerned with the job in hand. Neither of us had heard the quotation before (and I have never heard it since), so we wondered where he had picked it up. He rolled his good clothes in his swag, and he left as he came, a gaunt, ragged figure, looking straight ahead, and keeping a direct line north. We expected him to turn and wave, but he kept going till he faded from view. We never saw or heard of him again.

Tooraweenah saw the end of our swag-carrying days. What with our successful rabbit and possum-season, followed by a good run of shearing, then topped-up by the fencing job, we were in a good financial position. We bought three horses two saddle and one packand went up a considerable way in the social scale of the bush. No longer were we swagmen depending on travellers rations, but men of substance. No longer did the police pull us up as we entered a town, and search our swags looking for a sewing-machine or a coil of barbed-wire that had been stolen the year before, but greeted us with a friendly nod. Even the squatters treated us as human-beings. Never were we refused a bit of grass for our horses, knowing that we would duff it in case of a refusal. Meat, which was the travellers big worry, owing to the difficulty of keeping it, was also given freely. They knew our views on meat, and also, if we were really offended, on leaving gates open, so that their stock would stray and get mixed-up with those of their neighbors.

Droving was plentiful, and well paid, so we looked round for stock to be moved. Woodward, of Mount Tenandra, gave us 405-head of cattle to drove to Angledool, a few miles east of the border. They were a mixed mob bullocks, cows and yearlings of every breed. Too many to be driven by two men, we gave a job to a young Englishman who called in at Mount Tenandra looking for work the day we were ready to leave. He had deserted his ship the week before, got on the booze, woke up on the Bourke Mail, was kicked off at Dubbo, jumped the Coonamble train, and was thrown off again at Gulargambone. Then he took the first road he came to after leaving the railway-station, and followed it, knowing it must lead somewhere. His only possessions were the clothes he was wearing. A good English tweed suit, good boots, and the inevitable tweed cap. He had called in at a hut, where he was given a feed, which was the only time he had eaten during his walk of 28 miles. While we did not think he would be much use as a cattle drover, after he told his story we reckoned he had plenty of guts, so took him on. This was a few years before the big flow of immigrants, so the term Pommy was yet to be coined. He said his name was Jack Smith (which was good enough for us) and that he came from London, so we called him cocky. Had he been from Scotland he would have been Scotty, from Ireland, Paddy, and from Wales, Taffy. He was careful to explain that the only true Cockney was one who was born within the sound of Bow Bells. All other Londoners who claimed to be Cockneys were, according to him, swankin borsteds.

We bought a buggy, and, as our packhorse was broken to harness, installed cocky as cook and buggy-driver. He was a fair cook, and as the horse knew his job, and jogged along quietly, all went well. Teaching him to ride was a bit difficult. He fell off a lot, but all the horses were quiet, and stood looking at him in a bored way till he climbed on again. When he finally mastered the art of balancing he seemed to think he was going for a doctor, and rode the horse at top speed, one hand clinging to the pommel, the other hand and his legs flapping, and his backside bumping up and down, in the traditional. English style. The second day on the track we camped on a small reserve four miles from Coonamble. I rode the fences to make sure they were in good order, turned the mob in to feed and roam at will, knowing they would not need to be watched that night, and we could sleep without any worries.

We were ready for tea when a man came across to the camp. We invited him to have a feed with us, and he accepted. He was a striking-looking man, tall, rawboned, full-bearded, hook-nosed, and with dark eyes that never blinked ; he looked every inch a fighting-man. He was leading a brown mare, and it was her load that attracted my attention, even more than the man. A pack saddle, with the usual swags, pots and pans, a horse-collar waterbag which would hold eight gallons round her neck, and smaller bags hanging from the pack-saddle all spoke of long, dry tracks. And topping her load was a diggers pick, shovel and gold-dish. While eating we yarned about various subjects, care fully avoiding anything that would make him think we were curious about him. Even cocky, whose bump of inquisitiveness was, according to Dutchy, remarkably well developed, forbore to ask any leading questions.

The stranger was the first to open-up. He asked, Where are the cattle going? 1 replied, Angledool. There was a moments silence before he spoke again: Is that any where near Lightning Ridge? 1 told him we would go within a few miles of The Ridge. He offered to travel with us, and help with the cattle. He said he would ask no pay and accept none. I protested against this, but he insisted on his own terms. I had taken a liking to him and wanted to know more of him. Dutchy felt the same way about him. Not till we accepted his offer did he mention his name, Frank Farrell. We introduced ourselves, and he solemnly shook hands all round. As this ceremony made us mates, questions could be asked without any fear of giving offence. He said he had come from Kalgoorlie, in West Australia, and was making for Lightning Ridge, where the black-opal field was booming. He had been a year-and-a-half on the trip, taking a job here and there, to get a few quid to carry him on his way. He had led the brown mare till she was so used to it that she followed him without a lead. Over the desert, for thousands of miles, she had plodded patiently behind him, tormented by flies and caked with dust, till they reached Adelaide. Then on to Melbourne, and to Wagga, where he had been born, and where some of his people still lived. A few weeks there, and he came up through Sydney, Lithgow, Mudgee, Gulgong and Tooraweenah, till he reached our camp at Coonamble, only about 150 miles from his destination. I never knew his age, but would reckon on over 50. He seemed to have a bit more than the average education, and would quote some of the poets, Australian and overseas, and could talk on almost any subject, and knew what he was talking about. Despite his fierce appearance, he was very gentle in most ways, and hated cruelty to animals, and humans, in any form. The only things he would get a bit heated over were the wrongs of Ireland and the Boer War. His father had left Ireland in a hurry, to avoid having his neck stretched, over one of the political discussions of the day, as many other Irishmen had been forced to do. As a member of the first Bushmans Contingent from W.A., he had gone right through the war, collecting two slight wounds and a bout of enteric fever. Like Ben Bridge, he had a very low opinion of the British generals, from Kitchener down. In his own words: If there was a hill to be taken, Kitchener would send five-thousand men, and if these were knocked back, as they most likely would be, he would send ten thousand. The Boers would kill this mob, till their ammunition ran out, then grab their horses and clear-out to the next hill. And the British soldiers wore white helmets, red coats, and white cross-belts. Again like Ben Bridge, he had been forced to witness the execution of Harry Morant. He said : They marched every available Australian soldier into Pretoria, and lined us up where we would have a grand stand view of how the British Army dealt with offenders against the rules of war. Harry refused to have his eyes bandaged, and gave the order to fire himself. He stuck his chest out, and said: Blast away, you bastards! The only time the British Army showed any sense was the day they murdered Harry Morant. They disarmed us, and it was a week before we got our rifles back. He rose to his feet and walked away. An hour later he came back and unrolled his blankets, and laid down. All the next day he was morose and had little to say.

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We. were on the road at day break, and went through Coonamble as the stores were opening. We laid-in supplies to carry us through to Walget, 75 miles on, while Frank bought a riding-saddle and dumped his pack and other gear in the buggy. Twelve miles further on was Tahrone, a little pub that seemed almost to weep with loneliness. Tucked away in a bend of the Castlereagh, in a clump of coolibah-trees, it reminded me of an orphan lamb. The publican was a decent bloke, or a good businessman. He had a paddock of about 30 acres, and he said he would be pleased to let us camp the cattle for the night. Needless to say his offer was not rejected. Camps like these are what drovers pray for, when drovers pray. After tea we were unanimous that one good turn deserved another, and went over to the pub. cocky and Frank were both drinking men, cocky especially. His manner of drinking fascinated me. His arm would go out in a sweeping movement, his hand close round the glass and come back to open mouth, and down it would go. He didnt seem to swallow, but just poured it down. Even Frank looked at him in amazement. As the glass touched the bar, cocky said: Fill em up again, choom!

Dutchy and I were still wary of the amber fluid, but were getting a bit gamer with it. There were a dozen men there, besides our gang, and it worked-up into a big night. Some were from Wingadee, some from Bullorora, and a few were travellers. All were hard drinkers, and all had money to spend. At about 10-oclock I suggested to cocky and Frank that we give it away, but was howled down. Pubs were open at that time from 6 a.m. till 11 p.m., so at closing-time I had another try. My three mates were then swearing eternal friendship with a character known as Curly Miles. He had a reputation as a fighting man, gained, I think, as a king hitter. He certainly knew nothing about boxing. He got very abusive, and I walked away. I was talking to the wife of the publican when he came over to me and wanted to fight. His language was very lurid, and I warned him to cut it out. He invited me to make him stop, so I slapped him across the mouth, openhanded. He went down, got up, and came again. 1 slapped him again, and he said: Come over in the morning when Im sober, and see if you can do it.

I didn't like hitting a drunken man, even though he had forced the trouble on him self. I knew I would have to fight him in the morning, otherwise I would be looked on as an easy mark if we met again. Having met so many of Curlys type when travelling with George Ruenalf I had no fear of the result. When we went over, Curly was ready, stripped to the waist, skipping around, shadow sparring, and telling his mates what he was going to do to me. It was all very official. A timekeeper was appointed, complete with stop-watch ; the publican was referee ; and we each had a second. When time was called, Curly rushed at me wide open, and I side-moved, and hit him as he went past. He went down flat on his face, and stayed there while the referee counted him out. I had not hit him hard enough to knock him out, so I came to the conclusion that he had no guts, but, having bought himself into a fight, he had to go on with it, and get out of it as quickly as possible, with no injury to him self.

Dutchy looked at me, and grinned. He knew that Curly wasn't hurt. But Curly lay on the ground, while his mates poured water on him and felt his pulse and heart, and the publican rushed out with a glass of brandy. Dutchy, who could never resist a chance like this, added to the general gloom by saying: You shouldnt have hit him like that, Duke. Remember that chap in Cobar, last year? He then added: Poor cow, his jaw was broken in three places. Couldnt eat for a month. He spoke in such a convincing manner that I almost believed him myself. Curly did not need much persuasion to swallow the brandy, and it revived him considerably. He was assisted to his feet and, supported by his mates, came over to" me, stuck out his hand, and said: It was a good fight, and the best man won. I said I was very sorry that it had happened, and we parted the best of friends. I lost nothing by the incident.

News travelled fast, and lost nothing in the telling. At Combogolong the station stockman, who was to escort the cattle through the property, was eager for details. He didnt even say Good-day. His first words were, Which is the cove who dropped Curly Miles in one hit? When I was pointed out, he shook hands vigorously, and said, Curly king-hit me in Walgett two years ago, and when I went down he put the flaming boot into me, so Im damn glad to meet a cove who walloped him. When I made light of the subject he put it down to modesty on my part, and went to Dutchy to get the story. He got it. Dutchy had no equal as a leg-puller in the outback, or any other place.' In a quiet, sincere way he would build a yarn up till, as he often said, I damn near believed it myself. And he always reckoned the Cambogolong stockman was the best audience he ever had. When we reached the boundary, late in the afternoon, the stockman shook hands all round, leaving me until last. He held my hand, and said: I knew you were a good fighter as soon as I looked at you. And that is how reputations are made, if you have a mate like Dutchy.

We had been six days on the road, and had travelled nearly 70 miles. Feed had been good and water plentiful, and the cattle were in good condition. Best of all, there were no rogues in the mob, as one cranky beast can make a drovers life very unhappy, day and night. So far we had been lucky enough to get good camps, where we could close a gate and sleep in peace. Now we were in the wide open spaces and had to watch the mob at night. Night-riding is a monotonous job. Though each man had only a two-hour shift, it always seemed twice that. Four hundred-and-five head of cattle is not a big mob, but when camped they cover a lot of ground. The riders job is to let any restless bullock know he is about without disturbing the remainder of the mob, so he must ride 50yds. or so away from them, and push the occasional straggler back. For the benefit of those who have seen -American-cowboy films and admired the hero dressed in gaudy clothes riding' a perfectly - groomed horse whose saddle and bridle are covered with silver ornaments flashing in the moonlight, no Australian drover has any frills, nor does he play a guitar or sing. In fact, he makes himself as inconspicuous as possible when night-riding. A flash of light from a buckle has been known to start a mad rush with nervous cattle. Therefore he does not smoke or make any unnecessary noise on his rounds, be cause he knows cattle need sleep, like any animal, and after a long days march dont need any lullaby. Or perhaps Australian cattle have no ear for music. We reached Walgett on the 10th day, and, though the railway from Narrabri had been completed, it was the same little town as on our visit a couple of years previously. At the Barwon, E. Rich and Cos, shed, where we had loaded the Wandering Jew in 1905, had been pulled down, the railway having put the finishing touches on the river boats.

The first night out from the Barwon it rained. It was good steady rain, welcomed by the squatters, cursed by drovers or anyone unlucky enough to be out in it. We had pitched the tent in time, and. cocky was able to give us a good feed. He was on first watch, and went off cheerfully. I was to follow him, and was not looking forward to it with pleasure. He had been out about an hour when Frank shook me awake, and said: I think theres something wrong. The mob is doing a lot of bellowing, and I heard cocky yell several times. He was right. We were saddled-up and away in a few minutes. When we caught-up with the mob they were over a mile from the camp, with cocky riding backward and forward trying to stop them. It was not a rush, but a drift. As cocky said: When Id go to one side to turn em back, the borsteds would go out on the other. We cheered him up by telling him he had done a good job and none of us could have done any better, which was a fact. When cattle rush, you can only follow them, hoping for the best, till they knock-up. No man accustomed to cattle would try to stop them, unless he was drunk or wanted to commit suicide. When they drift the only thing that can be done is try to turn them and get them circling, or ringing as the drover terms it. Frank suggested that, as they were going in the right direction, we let them go till they tired, steadying the leaders and keeping the stragglers up. We all knew there would be no sleep for us that night, so we took his advice.

Dutchy went back to bring up the buggy and gear, while we, with Frank on one wing, myself on the other and cocky bringing up the rear, kept the mob steady. At daylight came, with the rain falling steadily. Though we all had oilskin coats the rain had been so persistent that the dampness got through, and we were cold, wet and miserable. There was no point in changing into dry clothes ; in an hour they would be wet again, and we would still be in the same position. The cattle stood around in small groups, too weary to do more than petuna a mouthful of grass occasionally. Horses stood with backs humped and rumps turned to the rain. We carried chaff and oats, and had fed them all through the trip, as we had to keep them ready to mount at a moments notice, night or day. The only dry place was under the tarp. on the buggy, and two at a time we crawled in, and, despite our sodden clothes, managed to get some sleep. Midday, the rain eased off to occasional showers, and knowing they would come to a fence sooner or later we let them go, being too tired to worry any further. We caught up with them shortly after daylight at the Gooraway boundary, feeding. placidly along the fence. After a count showed a full tally of 405 we got a fire going, changed into dry clothes, and had a good feed, and the world didnt seem a bad place, after all. Dutchy even reckoned droving was a good game, as you could see the country and get paid for it.

T'ooraway homestead was in sight, about three miles from the boundary, and as we could not cross without reporting I rode over to the house. Actually we were supposed to give 24 hours notice of our intention to cross, but the manager, a big, jovial, red faced man, laughed-off my apologies. He said: Bring em through. Ive got no cattle here. Not even a blanky milking-cow. This was not unusual. Stations with thousands of cattle would never have milkers, but bought their milk in tins. Butter would be bought in town, and used up quickly, especially in summer-time. Many homesteads had a Cool gardie-safe, which was a frame covered with fiyproof netting. On top was a wide, flat pan, and strips of hessian hung from the pan to the floor. These strips would draw water and keep the air in the safe reasonably cool, and meat could be kept for a few days and butter would be fresh for a week. Even at some home steads on company stations, or at those of absentee owners, living-conditions were just as primitive as those of the station-hands. We dawdled through Goora way. revelling in the glorious sunshine, as happy as larks. At the turn-off to Lightmug Ridge a camping-reserve for travelling stock was available, so we had the night free from worry. As Frank was leaving us here we decided to escort him to the Ridge.

The pub there was much bigger than the usual run of pubs outback, and it was nearly full when we arrived. Frank was expecting to meet several old mates from W.A. He didnt have to wait long. A short, bull-necked man forced his way through the crowd, thrust his hand out, and said, Frank, you bloody old bastard! Hands clasped, left hands on shoulders, they stood for a few minutes, asking questions, not waiting for replies, till half-a-dozen more hard-bitten men literally fell on him. They pumped his hand, smacked him on the back, swore at him and each other, then took possession of a section of the bar. Frank held up his hand for silence: Wait a bit, lads. Theres some mates of mine here. The short man, whose only name 1 ever heard was Stumpy, roared: Mates of yours? Then theyre bloody mates of mine.* And we were pushed, pummelled and sworn at ; our hands were nearly torn off, so vigorous were their handclasps ; and beers were put in front of us, with instructions to Sink em down, and have another. All were men in their middle years, and having been vouched for by Frank Farrell we were accepted without any reservations as men worthy to be mates of a West Australian, despite our youth. Packets of opal were proudly exhibited ; slabs, splinters and drops. Even when not cut or polished black opal is the most beautiful gem in the world.

In the lamplight the flash of colored fire, black, green, blue. and red, was dazzling. After the stones had been examined all hands returned to the business of serious drinking. cocky was in first-class form, and attracted a lot of admiration by his method of drinking, also by the quantity he could drink. Some reckoned he must have hollow bones, else he would not be able to hold so much. He was modest about it. Cor blime, he said, you should see me ole pot-and-pan. He can drink twice as much as me. The Cockney rhyming-slang, which was new to Australia then, also amused them, and' was adopted at once. Requests were heard for A jack-scratch to light me cherry-ripe, or Breast the near-an'-far, an have a drop of oh-my-dear, and so on. cocky had bought working clothes in Walgett, but refused to part with his dreadful cap. It had been slept in, used to lift billies off the fire, trodden on, or kicked, and the wheels of the buggy had been over it.

The peak flopped up and down, and it looked like .a bit of rag perched on his head. Frank thought that cocky clung to his cap because it was his last remaining link with his homeland. Closing-time came with the entry of the sergeant and a constable. Two pints were drawn and set before them. The sergeant looked at his watch, and said, before drinking: Better close her up, Jim. The publican nodded, yelled Time, boys! closed the doors and got behind the bar, and the two policemen tucked their caps under their coats and the drinking went on, with the two holding their end up valiantly. The sergeant was introduced as Tom. Surnames never seemed to matter in the bush, even to policemen. I was fighting a losing battle with the beer, so refused to have any more. No one was offended, and my mates were also ready to go. Frank and Stumpy came out to help saddle our horses and see us safely off. Their handshakes were firm and long, and we promised to write to them occasionally. I kept my word on writing, and corresponded with Frank for several years. He did well at Lightning Ridge, but when the opal cut-out he went back to W.A., and we got out of touch. Three days, and we came to Angledool. Like most of the back-country villages it was supposed to be on a river, in this case the Narran. But though I saw several little depressions around Angledool I wouldnt know which was supposed to be the Narran River. As the locals are some what touchy on this subject, only foolish strangers, or those under the influence, ever make rude remarks about rivers when north or west of the Darling. We handed-over the cattle in good condition, tally correct, and cashed the cheque at the pub, in the traditional manner. The agent, who was pleased with the condition of the mob, offered us 3000 sheep to go from Walgett to Uliman, on the Liverpool Plains. Naturally, we jumped at the chance. We had been thinking of trying our luck in Queensland, but a bird in the hand is always better than 10 in the bush.

{To be concluded )

The bulletin.Vol. 80 No. 4121 (4 Feb 1959)

https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-672857280

Droving sheep

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'Half Moon Wine Shanty' I love the look of the old motorbike in the photo.

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https://collections.slsa.sa.gov.au/
 
Continued from post #110 Part 7

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. They are now well-seasoned bushmen; have been through the shearings at famous (and other) stations, earned a crust rabbit-poisoning, done tough fencing jobs, tried for gold on the old Outgoing field, travelled with a boxing-show, tramped out beyond Bourke, had a go at droving and other bush work with their Londoner track-mate Cock, and are now to learn something of the gentle art of lambing-down as they head homeward.

Having time to spare, we took a different route back to Walgett, and would go past the Grawin Hotel, probably the most notorious lambing-down joint in N.S.W. It stood in a clump of coolibah - trees, surrounded by plains, and I doubt if there was any other building within 20 miles of it in any direction. Why pubs were built in such lonely places is still a mystery to me. Grawin was not unique in this respect. There were scores of such pubs scattered here and there over all the States, though I think Grawin was the loneliest of all I have seen. It was run by a woman. A good-looking woman, round 40, she seemed to be of what was then known as the superior type. Her voice was well modulated, and she spoke grammatically and in a refined manner, and was, as Cock put it, a perfect lady. To me she appeared to overdo it a little, but I was always a bit suspicious of a too-hearty welcome. Especially as I had heard stories of her lambing-down activities in every shed or camp wherever 1 had been. No doubt a lot of the yarns were exaggerated, but there must have been some basis of truth in them. - Pubs such as this could exist only by robbing the occasional traveller, in a more-or-less legal manner. And few of the men thus robbed seemed to worry about it, but took it all as a matter of course, and some thing to boast about later on.

I knew a drover who would tell the story of how he had called in at the Shingle Hut with a big cheque and walked away two days later broke, leaving his horse, saddle, bridle, swag and dog behind, and nothing but a bottle of rum to show for the lot. When I remarked that hed had a tough deal, he grinned: Served me right for being such a blanky fool. The only time I saw lambing down in operation was in 1905. When. Dutchy and I were waiting for Rockedgiel to start, and with nearly a week to go, we camped with several other shearers near The Flags, a shanty on the Coolah- Gunnedah road. Five men had completed a ringbarking contract on Bomera, and Carson (of Winchcombe Carson) had given each man a cheque for 32.

At The Flags each cheque was presented, but only two were cashed, there not being sufficient money in the house to cash the five. But the cheques were retained by the publican, and the three men" were told to order what they wanted, and an account would be kept. A heavy drinking-session went on till midnight, but the next day none of the five put in an appearance. On the second day, when the mail-coach bound for Coolah pulled-up, the publican led three shambling wrecks of men out, shoved them in the coach, and said to the driver, Drop them at Coolah, Bill, and handed him a pound-note. Bill nodded, and drove off, as though it was a common occurrence. The two men whose cheques had been cashed had another day, but as the coach was on the return-trip to Gunnedah they were put aboard with instructions to Bill to drop them at Tambar Springs. None of the five had made any protest. The rotgut liquor, and what had been added to it, seemed to have completely robbed them of their manhood. It was the most casual and cold-blooded act I saw in my many years in the bush. One hundred-and-sixty pounds in three days. It would have bought the pub and all the grog in it.

All the yarns, songs and recitations told and written about lambing-down have had a touch of wry humor in them. In 1907 I wrote a song detailing the experiences of a drover who had been stripped to his spurs at the Shingle Hut, a shanty at the junction of the Merri Merri and the Marthaguy Rivers. Built-up of the many yarns I had heard of lambing-down, it always got a good reception when 1 sang it. And today I can still get plenty of applause from any audience, mainly because of the humorous twist in it.

At Grawin we had a very good time ; food was well cooked and served, beds were clean and comfortable. It was paradise after the track, with hard beds and the eternal mutton and damper. Our landlady was on her best behaviour, probably taking pity on our youth, or, more likely, thinking we were not worth it. We played cards ; then she and Dutchy sang duets, mostly the old favourites. She had a very pleasant voice, easy to listen to, and she played the piano very well. The evening had the air of a family gathering, and it went on till midnight. Besides us three, there was her husband, whom she called Charlie. I think he was German, by his accent. Four strangers made-up the party. There was not one word out of place, and, while all were merry, none had too much to drink. I found it hard to believe that this friendly, smiling woman could be the cold-blooded harpy about whom so many stories had been told of men drugged, robbed and sent wandering into the scrub, to live or die for all she cared.

It was the next year (1909) she came to her end. Two swagmen came to the shanty, walked into the bar, and, after failing to get attention, decided to investigate. They found her in a bedroom, with her head smashed in. She had been dead several hours, an in another room was a man, killed in the same manner. The theory was that one of her previous victims had returned and got square, or that some man undergoing the treatment had recovered sufficiently to realise what was being done to him, and had got out of control. No one was arrested, and the coroners verdict was: Murder by some person or persons unknown. Lambing-down was an evil chapter in the history of the outback. With the coming of the motor-car the isolated grog shanties were gradually wiped out, and now it is only when a group of old-timers meet that you will hear such names as Grawin,- The Shingle Hut, Tahrone, Boorooma, The Whod Ha Thought It, The Flags, The Black Stump and a few more of the notorious pubs of the old days.

We picked-up our sheep at Walgett stockyards. It was an uneventful trip, plenty of feed, good weather, and we generally managed to find a good camp. Cock was fast becoming a good bushman, and loved the life. Dutchy and he were blood-brothers by this time. Both were quick-witted and enjoyed arguing the point, no matter what the subject might be. It was a point of honor between them that no outsider should be allowed to express an opinion or interfere in any of their discussions. On one occasion when 1 tried to air my views both told me in a very lurid manner that I didnt know what I was talking about. So I sat back and listened.

At Come-by-Chance we were well into the Pilliga Scrub. The road was a cleared line a chain wide, with huge cypress-pines and ironbarks 3ft. in diameter and 80ft. to the first limb. At that time, to the best of my knowledge, there was not one sawmill in the whole area of the Pilliga. There were a few sleeper-cutters camps along the route, and sleeper-cutting seemed to be the only effort to make use of one of the biggest timber areas in the State. The land could be taken-up by free selection by practically anyone who cared to do so, and the timber could be ring barked and burnt, as though it were so much valueless rubbish. The soil was sandy, and looked on as not worth clearing, which was indeed a costly, heart-breaking job, and little of it had been selected. It was the end of the First War that the Pilliga Scrub was used for soldier-settlement, and millions of acres of timber were destroyed to grow wheat. Probably the greatest example of short-sightedness ever shown by any Government in Australia. We went on through Pilliga, Gwabegar, Baradine, Bugaldi, Coonabarabran, Purlewaugh, to Uliman, where we handed the mob over in good condition, and all accounted for.

Sheep-droving is not as romantic or glamorous as droving cattle. Cattlemen look down on the sheepmen with scorn (that is, if the cattleman happens to be bigger than the drover). But sheep will do me all the time. They are certainly stubborn, thick headed brutes, with a remark able capacity for getting into trouble, such as getting tangled up in scrub or falling down holes. To stroll along, leading your horse, behind a mob of good-travelling sheep is the most peaceful occupation I know. Of course, they have their moments, especially newly-shorn sheep. They can be somewhat trying. Uliman was of about 30,000 acres, and ran a sheep to the acre. Owned and managed by John Henderson, it was one of the few stations which realised that it paid to grow and store feed for stock against a dry time. Coming to the home stead was like - entering a village. All the buildings were grouped round the homestead in neat, orderly rows, all painted, each cottage fenced and with water laid-on. To the station-hands who had been living in the hovels on the western stations it must have seemed a paradise, especially to the women. All homes had a garden and a few fowls. Half-a-dozen cows were milked by the station groom, and milk and butter were always available.

John Henderson was 6ft. 3in. in height, and very thin. Dutchy reckoned he would have to stand up twice in the one place to cast a shadow. I think he would have been close to 70 then, but he was still an active man. To go to the outer paddock he used a buggy and pair, but would ride the home-paddocks on horseback. His hack was a half-draught known as Bess. She was very fat and pot bellied, and he looked queer with his long legs stuck out. A very religious man, he held church every Sunday in the homestead, where he would deliver a sermon, and hymns would be sung. Cups of tea and biscuits would then be handed round; quite a good idea. Swearing was absolutely barred, and cruelty to animals meant the sack. Booze was not allowed, though I have an idea John was not averse to a little Scotch whisky himself. Perhaps the doctor had ordered it.

Harry Hartless, who had been on Uliman for many years, told me this story: Two years ago, just as shearing started, two women came along in a covered van and asked permission of me to camp for a week or two. I recognised them for what they were at once. Of course, I had no authority to let them camp, and referred them to the boss. He was about a hundred yards away, and I couldnt hear what he said, but I could see he wasnt very friendly towards them. They went off in a hurry, and presently he came over to where I was working. His face was red, and he was breathing heavily. I said in a casual way, who were the ladies, Mr. Henderson? He turned on me with his eyes flashing. Ladies, ladies, Hartless? They are no ladies. They are prostitutes. Then stalked away. I had never seen him so angry before.

But John Henderson was a good man. As soon as we delivered the sheep he offered us jobs. Having nothing of view in the droving line we told him we would take on contract work, but were not interested in working for station-hands wages, and also stipulated that Dutchy and I get pens and Cock wool-rolling at shearing-time. He agreed to our terms, and, after seeing our references, said he would see Carson at Bomera and get us in for the shearing there. He kept his word, and with a two-mile fencing-contract and two adjoining sheds to shear at we were set for at least three months. The fence was finished in good time, and we started shearing at Bomera. The sheep were good cutters, and I kept round the 120-mark. Dutchy got close to me, but could not quite catch-up. Cock got on well at wool-rolling, and at the bell we always had a sheep half-shorn for him to finish-off.

A good lot of men to work with, there were very few arguments. The only incident of note was caused by a chap singing a song which he Hear the humorous Duke Tritton singing Goorianawa and Shearing In The Bar. For free list of songs about claimed to have written. It was called Shearing in a Bar. He had a good voice, sang it well, and got a lot of applause, but I had composed the song two years previously, and was not pleased. So 1 told him I liked the way he had sung it, but he was very wrong in saying he wrote it. He got very hostile at my remarks, and a few harsh words were exchanged. Never liking to quarrel with workmates, I dropped the subject, and considered the matter ended. Next night the argument flared up again as we lined-up for tea. Bomera mess-hut and the kitchen or galley, as it was calledwere in the one building, divided by a partition. We had to line-up and walk past an opening about 2ft. square, and the food was handed out as we passed.

Shearers cooks were never famous for variety in their meals. One night it would be roast mutton, the next stew. This night it was stew. The chap, whose name was Billy West, was in front of me in the tucker-line, and he looked over his shoulder and said:

I still say I wrote that song.
I replied : I still say youre a liar.

We swapped a few more remarks of this kind as we moved along, and the atmosphere was not friendly. He reached the glory-hole, grabbed his plate of stew, slammed it in my face, and followed it up with his fists. I went back, trying to clear my eyes, while he was whaling hell out of me. Dutchy stepped in, and hit him scientifically behind the ear, and gave me a chance to recover. We adjourned to the grass in front of the hut. Dutchy wanted to take my place, but I reckoned the matter was too personal for anyone but myself to deal with. In my professional fights I had never felt any animosity toward my opponents, but in this case 1 had been attacked in a cowardly way, and having a plate of hot stew shoved in my face had hurt my dignity.

It look me two rounds to put him down. I didn't have it all my own way. Had he known anything about boxing I think he would have beaten me, but he was very crude, swinging wildly and wasting a lot of punches. He didnt waste all of them, and those that didnt miss had a lot of weight behind them. And l was glad when he said he'd had enough. I lost two days shearing through this scrap. Both eyes were scalded with the hot stew, and they were very painful. Carson came to the hut and brought a bottle of eye-lotion, which cleared-up my eyes quickly. I was happier when Dutchy and Cock informed me that Billy, who usually had been shearing over the hundred, was having trouble in getting 50.

Vertebrally all the Bomera team went to Uliman. Among the strangers was Dick Hinton, of Gunnedah. A big man, always smiling, always ready for a joke whether it was on him or somebody else, he was the fastest and best shearer I have known. Every sheep was pinked, and seldom did he cut one. Most shearers pick their sheep, but Dick always grabbed the nearest to the pen gate. He never seemed to move fast, but no move was wasted. Dick was a very good man with his hands. He had a son, whose first name I can't recall, who fought professionally in Sydney a .few years later. I think one of his opponents was Harold Hardwick. Don't remember how it went.

The Davis brothers, Joe and Darky, also shore at Uliman. Both were fast, clean men and kept close to Dick. (About 1914 Joe won the shearing championship of N.S.W., which would mean world's champion.) The rivalry between the brothers was fierce, and, having drawn the same pen, neither lost the chance of putting something over when they could. The pen had just been filled, and among the sheep were three rosellas. These are sheep with the wool falling off, and a shearers idea of paradise is a pen full of rosellas. First catch for both men was a rosella, and each had his eye on the other. Joe finished a blow ahead of Darky, pulled his machine out of gear, kicked his sheep down the chute, and put his hand on the gate, with a happy grin. But Darky wasnt going to be beaten so easily. He threw his sheep down, held his machine, still running, reached over the rail and grabbed the rosella, hoisted it on to the board, and had it half-shorn while Joe stood with his mouth open, too surprised to move.

Then he joined in the storm of laughter which swept the shed. Joe and Darky have farms of their own, each running about 3000 sheep. Comfortably, their only complaint is that they have to pay 7 .10s. per hundred to get their sheep shorn, and they never got more than 1; but they can still laugh when Uliman is mentioned. Three days before the cut out an event occurred which will always stick in my memory. We had finished a flock of ewes of about 2000 by four o'clock. and they had been put in the shed-paddock ready for the musterers to take away, it was a nice warm day, with a few fleecy clouds about, and no sign of any change. But .it came in the form of a hail storm, which, though it lasted barely 10 minutes, killed over 800 sheep. MacDonald, the boss of the board, and his men saw it coming and tried to get the sheep back in the pens, but as soon as the hail struck, the ewes formed-up in bunches and refused to move.

MacDonald stopped the engine, and every man was carrying sheep into the shed, and piling them together to try to warm them. Most of those we got to the shed survived, and the toughest of the others lived, I think, because they kept moving. The paddock was only of 10 acres, and it seemed to be covered with little white bodies. Had the hail been of any size the losses would have been trifling, but most of it was very fine, something like sago, and went right to the roots of the shorn wool, so that in the short period of the storm the sheep were practically encased in ice. It was a hard hit for Henderson, for like most of the squatters he was heavily mortgaged. (Till then, and for many years after, I had never received a cheque in the name of the man who was supposed to own the station. All were endorsed by the Australian Land Mortgage and Finance Company, New Zealand Loan, or one of the big woolbroking firms. Wool had to be good to bring a shilling a pound in the market, so the squatter had his troubles, the same as the shearer.) As the shearers had lost two hours' shearing, Henderson offered to make it up, according to each mans tally, but we turned it down. (Before leaving Henderson I would like to mention that before coming to Uliman he had managed Quantambone, west of Brewarrina, which employed the greatest number of shearers in any shed in Australia. Quantambone was a blade-shed, an had 105 shearers. Big Burrawang, on the Lachlan, had 104 machines. I have never been in either shed, so cant say anything about the layout.)

We made down towards Mudgee, calling at Wargundy for the roll-call. A full board there, so went to Meratherie, on the Talbragar. Fifty men were there, but only 10 stands. As Henry Lawson said, Men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the towns was slack. Up the river to Tongy, passing the Ivy Rock on the way. The Ivy Rock is one of the strange rock - formations scattered here and there around the country which are a puzzle to any but a geologist. Forty feet high and covering a quarter of an acre at the base. Some selector, many years before, had planted a sprig of English ivy, which had finally covered the entire rock, giving it the appearance of a large green mound. Tongy had started, so we made direct for Mudgee. Ten miles from Tongy we crossed the Dividing Range, and were back on eastern water again for the first time in nearly four years. Through Turill, Ulan, and at Cooks Gap we crossed to the west again. A few miles down the range we came to a strange sight. At the side of the road lay a huge, over-fat bull placidly chewing his cud. A man, hat over his face, was lying comfortably against him, sound asleep. Naturally, we had to look into this matter, so woke him up. He was pleased to have someone to yarn with, and told us the story. He introduced himself as Dave, and we gave him our names. Frederick McMaster, later to become Sir Frederick, of Cassilis, had paid a very high price for the bull in England, and had him shipped to Sydney. He had been pampered on the voyage out, and as a result was almost unable to walk, so fat was he. Trucked to Mudgee, Dave had been given the job of getting him to Dalkeith. Cattle floats being unknown then, it meant walking him the 50 miles. The bull had been taught to lead, via a nose-ring, and instructions were given that on no account must he be hurried, lest he knock-up.

The bull had an official name as long as a wet week, but Dave had christened him Bonser. He was a very amiable bull, and Dave reckoned he was the best bed-mate hed ever slept with. Only thing, he said, if he wakes up in the night and brings up a wad of cud to chew its like a flamin earth quake the way his blanky belly rumbles. Feed was green and plentiful on the roadside, and, according to Dave, Bonser was getting even fatter. It took 20 days for them to reach Dalkeith, an average of 21 miles per day. We left the two mates and went to Mudgee. The second settlement over the Dividing Range (Bathurst was the first), Mudgee has a lot of history to be written-up. Some of the most fertile country in the State, notably the Burrundulla flats, good wool-growing country and a good climate, Mudgee is my favourite district. According to several geologists of my acquaintance every known mineral in the world is to be found within 25 miles of the town. It is famed for having the only Chinese bushranger in history, and the story of the building of the gallows at Mudgee Jail has a very remarkable coincidence. A man named Pitt cut and carted the timber, and Rope erected the gallows.

These two men, and the Chinese bush ranger, were the only ones to die on it. The crimes all three were hung for would have brought 10 years, at the most, today. Pitt had been lambed-down at the Pig and Whistle shanty, near Guntawang, and in a drunken frenzy had killed the barmaid with an axe. Rope had been staying with his brother and sister-in-law at Mount Frame. Coming home drunk, he was ordered out of the house by the sister-in-law. He gathered his belongings, including a rifle, and left. A hundred yards away he looked back, and she was standing in the doorway watching him. He took his rifle and fired at a tree, with the intention of frightening her, but the bullet ricocheted and killed her instantly. The Chinese was bailing-up a few lonely travellers around Slapdash and Barneys Creek, and made the mistake of trying to rob Parson Lowe.

Lowe rode him down, marched him to Gulgong and handed him over to the police. Though Bathurst is said to be the first settlement west of the Dividing Range, I dont think there is much doubt that the Mudgee district was the first to be explored. While the official expedition was making preparations to try to cross the Mountains in a typical English manner, by tackling the toughest part of the rangeArchie Bell, whose father had a farm near Kurrajong, had been observing the abos. coming from the inland to the coast. He noticed a well defined track, and decided to ride along it for a few miles. It led him over the range, up through the Capertee Valley to Rylstone and across the water shed between the Cudgegong River and Lawson Creek, which he followed to its junction with the Cudgegong, where there was a long water hole called by the blacks Mudgee. When Mudgee was settled and the country right to Coonamble was thrown-open cattle were brought from Sydney along Bells Line up till the time the railway was opened in the seventies. Worn down by countless feet over the centuries, it needed no labor to put it in order to travel stock. No hills to climb and an easy grade all the way, it seems strange that it was overlooked by the early explorers. Traces of Bells Line are still to be seen in the Capertee Valley. Mudgee, though it had many attractions, was a very low wage town. It was noted for large families, mostly boys.

So every cocky had plenty of cheap labor, and the big stations drew their casual workers from the families of their employees ; strangers had no chance. got the gold-fever again, and, as usual, found an old chap who knew where there was a bit of gold. This character, Sloper Potts, had been mining all his life, and had made some big strikes, but, like most of the old diggers, had put it back in the ground looking for more. He knew the history of every field for 50 miles round, and could tell the depth, what the washdirt was like, how thick, how wide, and all the little details which are useful to the newcomer. We went with him to Kaludbah, and spent a day looking round and deciding on where to put a hole down. When the position of the hole was finally marked-out he shook hands, climbed into his sulky and went back to town. We had brought all our gear out in the buggy, so got our camp fixed-up that evening, ready for an early start the next morning. Sloper was right. We struck gold in the first hole. Not rich, but for three months we made better than wages ; then ran into the old workings. After putting down half-a dozen more holes without finding anything worth while we gave it away.

That night we intended to make plans for our next move, but neither of us had any suggestions. Cock was indifferent, anywhere suited him. After a long silence, I remarked: 1 know, I think we had better go home for a few weeks and see how the old people are doing. It was as simple as that. In Mudgee we made a clean sweep, selling horses and dogs and buggy. We got much higher prices than we expected. And we lost Cock. About two hours before the train was due to leave he was offered a job painting. As this had been his trade in London before he became a sailor he took it on. We were sorry to lose him, as he had been a damn good mate, and in his short time with us had learned the ways of the bush surprisingly well. And his quiet, dry humor never failed to raise a grin when things were not going well. So Dutchy and I were going home, after four years of battling round the bush. Wed had good times, and bad times. Everything that the outback had to offer in the way of hard ship had been tried on us, and we had come through, better men for all our trials. We had learned the value of a mate, and we had been lucky with casual mates who were with us for only a short while. We had quarreled, and cursed, and threatened each other, sulked for a while, then forgot about it. And now, Dutchy Bishop and Duke Tritton were going home, cashed-up for the first time in our lives. But we both knew we would never forget the days when our password was Time Means Tucker.

THE END.

The bulletin.Vol. 80 No. 4122 (11 Feb 1959)
https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-672857329
 
I do hope you have enjoyed this remarkably well written serial which runs from post #110 to post #124. The yarn shows Australia as it was, and I feel it would make one hell of a movie.
cheers Jemba

:Y:
 
Queensland DEPARTMENT OF MINES GEOLOGICAL SURVEY REPORT NO. 180.

REPORT ON A VISIT TO THE WEST COAST OF THE CAPE YORK PENINSULA AND SOME ISLANDS OF THE GULF OF CARPENTARIA.

THE HORN ISLAND GOLD FIELD.

The discovery of gold on Horn Island was made by Messrs. Smyth and * party in 1894, but for some years previously gold, though not found in payable quantities, had been known to occur on several of the other islands in Torres Straits adjacent to Thursday Island, notably Prince of Wales Island, where miners had, on and off, carried on a little desultory work. These islands, the Prince of Wales Group, lie to the north-west of Cape York, the Endeavour Strait, which has a width of from 10 to 12 miles, separating them from the mainland. Gold has been found on Horn Island, Possession Island, Prince of Wales Island, Hammond Island, and Thursday Island.
The whole of Horn Island was proclaimed a goldfield in September, 1894,, and since the date of this proclamation the returns have been as follows.

1894 320 oz. alluvial.
June, 1894, to June, 1895 ... ... ... 569 oz. alluvial.
1896 1,292 oz. from 1,311 tons. ( 110 oz. alluvial.
Xo97 ... ... ... 741 oz. from 1,180 tons.
1898 2,559 oz. from 3,794 tons.
1899 ... 329 oz. from 533 tons.
1900... ... ... 759 oz. from 9,8l9 tons.
1901 Nil.

Before the efforts were made to develop the field on a large scale, during the latter half of 1899 and 1900, operations were carried on by prospectors and, small syndicates, and the reef material was treated in a small 5-head battery and berdan pans. In a report by Mr. Bands in 1896 (No. 112 of the Geological Survey-Publications), the Horn Island workings are thus described :

The area of the field, on which mining was being carried on, is comparatively small; a rectangle of 50 chains in length by half-a-mile in breadth would include all the present workings. Rocks of the same character as those met with here extend over a large portion of the island, and it is therefore- highly probable that auriferous reefs will be found not to be confined solely to this small area.

The field is situated on ridgy, but not very rough, country to the south- of Spring Creek. The country is composed of granite, consisting of felspar and quartz, and often containing a light green and soft mineral, a product of decomposition. The felspar occurs in large porphyritic crystals, and is of a flesh colour. This rock occurs over a large portion of the north-eastern part of the island, but I had no opportunity of visiting the southern or western portions. Along Spring Creek there is a fringe of recent alluvial deposits, which has not been tried for alluvial gold, nor is it probable that payable gold would be found, as it would be too much distributed over a flat which averages 12 chains in width. Two or three gullies running into Spring Creek and Smyths Creek have been worked for alluvial gold; in fact, these were the only workings for several months after the discovery' of the field. I found it very difficult to ascertain, even approximately, what amount of alluvial had been won, but I understand that over 500 oz. were obtained from the gully in Smyths Reconstruction Claim.

Taken From

Queensland DEPARTMENT OF MINES GEOLOGICAL SURVEY REPORT NO. 180. REPORT ON A VISIT TO THE WEST COAST OF THE CAPE YORK PENINSULA AND SOME ISLANDS OF THE GULF OF CARPENTARIA.

ALSO

REPORTS ON THE HORN ISLAND AND POSSESSION ISLAND GOLD FIELDS, AND THE RECENT PROSPECTING OF THE CRETACEOUS COALS OF THE COOK DISTRICT
BY C . F V. JACKSON, B.E., Assoc. M. Inst. C.E. ASSISTANT GOVERNMENT GEOLOGIST
BRISBANE: BT AUTHOEITT: GEOE6E AETHUE VAUGHAN, GOVEENMENT PEINTEE, WILUAM STEBET. 1901

1641362117_1.jpg


1641362138_2.jpg


Down load full report at.

https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-52866038
 
Hi Folks. Apologies if these have been presented before. I had a look through the post and couldn't see them though.

Ever wanted to know how to make a gold washing cradle out of kerosene boxes? Need a puddling box but only have access to a hollow log? Instructions and plans are contained in the Prospector's Guide of NSW. Both are great although the 9th Edition from 1967 contains a lot more information. The 9th even contains full instructions on how to sink a shaft, build a windlass, blast, timber, and more. Also contains some good information for relative newbies such as myself on where gold and other minerals are likely to be found, geology information, prospecting in general, panning, loaming, assaying, and processing. There's even an intriguing method for using a potato and open fire to separate mercury and gold amalgam.

These books seem to be relatively easy to come by which was a nice surprise. I simply Googled the title and got multiple hits from sellers of vintage books (one's not much older than me so it's nice to know I'll be a collectible soon). Go for the later editions for a heap more info. Well worth a read, and the DIY plans might be worth a crack if you want to do some retro processing. Possibly don't follow the ones for building your own cyanide plant though...it's not big on health and safety. 😵

NSW Prospectors Guide 5th Edition - 1939.jpgNSW Prospectors Guide 9th Edition 1967.jpg
 
Couple of books here that I'm guessing will be familiar to most but they were new to me and provided a fascinating insight into the Queensland gold rushes of the late 1860's and 70's. Whilst I'd love to find the volumes of gold they were hauling back then, I'm not sure I fancy the life style overly. Tough times for sure.

Both books are by the late Hector Holthouse and must've taken an age to research given the level of detail they contain. Gympie Gold looks at the discovery of gold in the Mary River. River of Gold moves a long way north and details the gold discoveries in the famous/infamous Palmer River. I've always enjoyed reading about mining history anyway but I reckon even if that's not normally your thing, there's enough Wild West type content in these books (particularly River of Gold) to while away the time when it's too wet to prospect.

Both books are still available to buy new although Gympie Gold is now printed to order (didn't know that was a thing) so it can take a while before it's dispatched.

1. Gympie Gold.jpg2.Gympie Gold.jpg3.River of Gold.jpg4.River of Gold.jpg
 
Here are a few Books to keep an eye out for. :Y:

Gold & water : a history of Sofala and the Turon goldfield / Matthew Higgins.
Matthew Higgins
Bathurst, N.S.W. : Robstar : distributed by Timothy Carter Public Relations 1990

Ghosts of the goldfields : pioneer diggers and settlers on the Turon : a book of reminiscences / by Henry H. Neary.
Henry H Neary
Lakemba [N.S.W.] : Merritt 1940

Sofala and the gold rushes : events along the Turon, 1851-1852 / George Turnbull Dick.
George Dick 1921-
Glenbrook, N.S.W. : Adam Press 1994

Map of the Tambaroora and Turon mining district [cartographic material] : proclaimed 10th September 1884, New South Wales, shewing the mining divisions and goldfields / compiled at the Department of Mines, Sydney, N.S.W.
Author / Creator: New South Wales. Department of Mines.
Contributor(s): New South Wales. Government Printing Office.
Publisher: Sydney : Dept. of Mines
Date: 1894
Description: 1 map : col. ; 52 x 79 cm.
Map data: Scale [1:253 440]. 4 miles to an inch.

The great Turon mystery / by Arthur Crocker ; illustrated by Vernon Lorimer.
Arthur Crocker
Sydney : N.S.W. Bookstall 1923

Gold fossicking in Australia / compiled by Harvey Neese adapted by Ivan A. Mumme and Belinda Henwood.
I. A Mumme (Ivan A.)
North Ryde, N.S.W. : Angus & Robertson 1988

The prospector's handbook : a guide to panning, mining and detecting in Australasia / H.K. (Blue) Garland.
H. K Garland
Ringwood, Vic. : Penguin Books 1994

Gold is where you find it. Book 1 / Larry Robinson & Christine Frost.
Larry Robinson
Sydney : L. Robinson & C. Frost 1981

Index to miscellaneous records relating to the NSW gold field [electronic resource] : volumes 1-5 / compiled by Kaye Vernon and Billie Jacobsen.
Beacon Hill [N.S.W.] : Kaye Vernon and Billie Jacobsen 2009

Hill End : an historic Australian goldfields landscape / Alan Mayne.
A. J. C Mayne (Alan James Christian), 1955-

Mountains of gold : fine gold mining at Junction Reefs / Maurice Morrison.
Maurice Morrison
[Bathurst, N.S.W. : M. Morrison 1990

Hill End gold / Malcolm Drinkwater.
Malcolm Drinkwater author.
Hill End, New South Wales : Malcolm Drinkwater 2016

Historic Kiandra : a guide to the history of the district / prepared from material collected by the Cooma-Monaro Historical Society ; arranged and edited by D.G. Moye.
[Cooma] : Cooma-Monaro Historical Society 1959

The Australian gold rushes / Kimberley Webber.
Kimberley Webber
South Yarra, Vic. : Macmillan Education Australia 2001

Remembered with pride : the recollections of an Australian gold-digger / by Mark J. Hammond ; edited, introduced and annotated by Brian Hodge.
Mark J Hammond (Mark John) 1844-1908
Penshurst [N.S.W.] : Cambaroora Star Publications ; Ashfield [N.S.W.] : Ashfield Municipal Council 1988

Adjudication on the goldfields in New South Wales and Victoria in the 19th century / John P Hamilton ; foreword Justice Geoff Lindsay.
John P Hamilton (John Perry), author.
Annandale, NSW : The Federation Press 2015

The emigrants' guide to Port Curtis and the Canoona gold regions, on the Fitzroy river, N.S.W. with map / by Leonard Pearson.
Leonard Pearson
http://handle.slv.vic.gov.au/10381/246992

The Abercrombie caves, New South Wales : a guide to these remarkable caves near Bathurst, N.S.W. and a description of the surrounding gold bearing country of Tuena and Trunkey Creek / by Geoff Bates.
Geoff Bates
Waramanga : G. Bates [1982].

Plan of original claims at Hawkins Hill [cartographic material].
[Sydney] : New South Wales Geological Survey 1979
Available Phone 03 8664 7009 to arrange delivery from Maps Collection MAPS 812.22 GBFD 1918

Valleys of gold / [by Brian Hodge].
Brian Hodge
Penshurst, N.S.W. : Cambaroora Star Publications 1976

Map to accompany Golden journeys [cartographic material] : visits to the western goldfields of New South Wales 1852-1859 / Beatrice Brooks & Lorraine Purcell.
Carlton, N.S.W. : Hill End and Tambaroora Gathering Group 2012

On the formation of moss gold and silver / by Archibald Liversidge.
Archibald 1847-1927 Liversidge

Gold and people : recollections of Hill End, 1920s to 1960s / by Bruce Goodwin.
Bruce Goodwin
Frenchs Forest, N.S.W. : B. Goodwin
The Abercrombie caves, New South Wales : a guide to these remarkable caves near Bathurst, N.S.W. and a description of the surrounding gold bearing country of Tuena and Trunkey Creek / by Geoff Bates.

Geoff Bates

Waramanga : G. Bates [1982].


I bought this book on your recommendation, it's fantastic!!! I found a author signed copy so pretty happy with it. Cheers!
 
Earlier in the thread, someone was looking for Bungonia to Braidwood by Barry Mcgowan. I too would love to get a copy of this book. The only copy I have seen available is on eBay for $200 which is too much for me. Would anyone happen to a have a copy they want to part with or an ebook or scan or the book?

Thanks.
 
Earlier in the thread, someone was looking for Bungonia to Braidwood by Barry Mcgowan. I too would love to get a copy of this book. The only copy I have seen available is on eBay for $200 which is too much for me. Would anyone happen to a have a copy they want to part with or an ebook or scan or the book?
The Braidwood & District Historical Society website has it listed as available:
http://www.braidwoodmuseum.org.au/html/publications.html
 
Unfortunately that list of publications is outdated. Here is a link to the current list. https://www.braidwoodmuseum.org.au/publications.php
Thanks for the other but. I'll have a read. Mainly looking for info on the Mongarlowe area. Thanks.
Unfortunately, Mongarlowe has been reported as being very difficult to access:
https://www.prospectingaustralia.co...shed-at-oallen-forde.39698/page-2#post-649939https://www.prospectingaustralia.co...tecting-just-outside-of-can.36815/post-601304
Also:
https://www.prospectingaustralia.com/threads/trying-the-old-mongarlowe-diggings.25615/
 
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