Pales a 1 Trails By P.US*, F.R.0,5. Tales and Trails Of Austral Bush and Plain BY Christopher Mudd, F.L.S., F.R.G.S. Melbourne : Spectator Publishing Co.. 270 Post Office Place. CHRIS. MUDD, F.L.S., F.R.G.S. FOREWORD The continual dropping of small globules of water will wear away the hardest of stonts. Prolonged gales from any point of the compass cause trees to have a bend in a certain direction. Just so. Years of hints and urgings from the hearers of my talks and lectures have succeeded in disintegrating the barriers and given me a bend towards authorship. Some great writer declared that greatness was thrust upon some people. Authorship has been forced on me. To please my many friends in all the States, I send this little book forth. I do so without the slightest claim to literary gifts ; but with a strong desire that it will help to counteract the vile caricatures of Australian bush people too prevalent to-day. Also that this book will lead others to think more highly of our grand and glorious Great Australia. This first attempt at book writing has shown me the unlimited amount of material we have in this Giant Island for such books as "Tales and Trails." CHRIS. MUDD. 1671028 CONTENTS The Giant Island 7 On the Diamantina 17 Boiling the Billy . . . . f 31 Down to Rise 35 Proprietor of a Horse 43 Making a Damper 51 'Possum and Yabbie 57 Why is This Thus ? 65 God More Merciful Than Man 69 A Race for Life 79 Eve's Dad 89 The Lonely Man of the Plains 103 The Leg Irons 119 The Giant Island. REAT Australia is great indeed. It is the land of great plains, great forests, great trees, great rivers, great harbours, great flowers, great foliage, great fruits, great cattle, great mines, great nuggets, and great possibilities. This is the Giant Island, and individuals coming to Australia find themselves part of a people, possessing a continent all to themselves. One people, one language, one flag, one nation, with one destiny. This is indeed unique, being the only case in all history. Hitherto people have failed to grasp the size of this vast Southern Land. This is largely due to its insular nature; hence characterised and thought of as only an island. Captain Cook, who was practically the discoverer of Australia as an immense land, called it the Southern Continent. Had this designation been adhered to, the false notions so prevalent about this land would never have got into circulation. A glance at Meiklejohn's New Comparative Geo- graphy, 1909, will show the damaging nature of these false ideas. It is there stated that this country is "more African than Africa," and the The Giant Island most desolate and inhospitable looking country in the world." These remarks are applied to the great bulk of Australia. It is this ignorance in high places which has blocked this great country. For a few moments look at its size. Not by centering the attention on figures, for vastness can- not be truly grasped in that way but on com- parisons. This Giant Island, or Great Southern Continent, is larger than all the following countries put together: Spain, Portugal, France, Germany, Belgium, Holland, Denmark, Switzerland, Norway, Sweden, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Guate- mala, Mexico, West Indies, Natal, Transvaal, Orange River, Japan, Corea, Philippines, Java, Sumatra, Newfoundland, New Zealand, and Algeria. A comprehensive gaze at all these countries is the only true way to realise the vastness of Australia. A voyage round the coast of this Giant Island is longer than a voyage from London to Australia. This unlimited room and scope, combined under one people and one flag the Southern Cross should form the greatest of all reasons for men and women of grit and go to select Australia for their future homes. The great nations of the future will be in the Southern Hemisphere. What we now call the Argentine, Dominion of New Zealand, South Africa, and the Commonwealth, are sturdy infant nations. They are pregnant with every possibility, and their future greatnesses are guaranteed. That great natural law of cross-fertilisation is on the side of these countries. Mixed European nationalities must develop a progressive and multi- plying people. Hence, that man who chooses Aus- 8 The Giant Island tralia for the sphere of his life's work becomes a Nation-builder. Here we have not only a continent to develop, but to make and mould the greatest nation of the future. The old idea of Australia as an "Island Desert, with a fertile fringe" has been exploded. Why it was kept up and clung to is a mystery. Railway surveys, settlement, stock route finders, and gold prospectors have not yet found the "huge, howling, trackless waste of sand" which was for generations supposed to form the bulk of Australia. In the early days of settlement, it was customary to describe all scrub and low vegetation country as desert. The first people to wander away from the settle- ments of Port Jackson and Port Phillip the first two settlements of Australia were men of no geographical knowledge. They were free to give the places and things whatever names took their fancies or answered their purposes. Unfortunately the bulk of these names have been perpetuated. Hence numerous misleading blunders. The trees they called Cherries are more like Yews; their Gums are Myrtles; and their Wattles are Gum- trees. Their Oaks are Casuarinas; and their Honey- suckles are Banksias- which have not the slightest resemblance to the Honeysuckle. In lots of instances their valleys are vast undulat- ing plains; and their "howling desert" has yet to be found. Unfortunately these physical geographical errors got on to the maps, and the word "desert" was very conspicuous. A desert is a place devoid of vegeta- tion, as distinguished from prairies, steppes, and The Giant Island downs. Had these latter words been known and used by the first to talk and write about this country that idea of "Island Desert" would never have got into circulation. Only as recently as 1880 the residents of Mel- bourne, Sydney, and Brisbane looked upon Western Australia as a hopeless region of sand, sand, sand. The discovery of gold in large quantities in the West caused an inrush of people from the Eastern States, and at once the desert ideas vanished. Now the Western State is developing agricultural, pas- toral, and mining pursuits by leaps and bounds. It is now competing with the Eastern States in the markets of the world. A quarter of a century ago this possibility would have been ridiculed. Forty years ago the whole of what is known as the "Mallee" in the State of Victoria could have been bought for an old song. On every map the whole of the districts coming under "Mallee" were dubbed "Desert." It was looked upon as worse than useless a curse. Now it is the best asset possessed by the State. One of the richest parts of the continent, and second to none for quantity and quality of wheat. Originally the "Impassable Desert" was just over the Blue Mountains from Sydney. Later on it was said to be beyond where Dubbo and Coonamble are to-day. Failing to find the "Desert" there, it was located beyond the Darling River, and now it is supposed to be nobody knows exactly where. I will never forget the first time I visited the falsely called "Ninety-mile Desert." This runs through a part of North-Western Victoria into South IO The Giant Islana Australia. I had conjured up visions of shifting lifeless sand, exposing barren shingle and rock. Judge of my surprise at finding it a botanist's para- dise. Dozens of species of Acacias, Grevilleas, Banksias, and Goodenias, with scores of other representatives of plant life revelling in the so-called "Desert." Not only so, but Kangaroos and Emus, and small birds in great numbers. These things do not constitute deserts. From the centre to the circumference, this Giant Island Continent is capable of utilisation for beef, wool, and wheat production. Australia possesses hundreds of millions of acres of unused pastoral and agricultural areas. Over three hundred million of acres of cotton and rubber growing land facing the Indian Ocean; as well as millions of acres facing the North Pacific. On this great continent, surrounded by the Pacific, Indian, and Southern Oceans, there is land for all. The human constitutional product can find its counterpart here; for in Australia we have every climate, from the snows of Switzerland to the scorching rays of the Indian plains, Riviera zephyr breezes, and Ozone resort; Plateau atmospheric brightness and lightness; Jungle humidity, and West of Ireland moisture. Yea, every shade and degree of climatic conditions, from the sweltering heat of the tropics to the frost biting cold of the temperate regions. Geographical features and geological conditions and variations are endless. Swamps, bogs, plains, rolling downs, moors, prairies, steppes, plateau, valley, slopes, escarpments, crags, massives, ridge, peak, cliff, ledge, and spur are in endless profusion in every State of the Commonwealth. II The Giant Island Peats, loamy clays, calcareous, granitic, basaltic, and volcanic soils are everywhere. Silurian up- heavals and cretaceous tilts. Gigantic intrusions and ancient volcanic eruptions, and lava overflows, have resulted in mountain scenery of every con- ceivable contour. Lakes, rivers, cascades, rapids, waterfalls, and underground flows, with a rainfall varying from 5 inches to 100 inches in the year. There is no part of Australia without rain. Where the rainfall is the smallest, we have the greatest Artesian area in the world. About one-third of Australia and this the centre is an old Silurian Sea filled in with Cretaceous deposits. It is in this filled-in basin, and now ele- vated to a plateau, that we have an unlimited water supply. In this water-bearing area we have vast tracts of rich wheat-growing lands, as well as immense stock raising regions. Hence all that man has to do is bring this water to the surface where we have the richest of soils, and above the soil the most glorious of climates and Australia will become the richest and most popular country in the world. These geological and geographical facts make this continent the most desirable of lands for civil engineers, scientific agriculturists, and irriga- tionists. The magnitude of this field of operations should captivate the eyes and ambitions of such professions. Those in search of health, congenial surroundings, wealth, or outlets for capital and skill will find all they need in Australia. I am fully convinced that had it been possible for a true description of Australia and its natural resources, to have been in circulation from the start of its settlement, this country would to-day have a 12 The Giant Island larger population than the United States of America. At present we have a double task. Present a true description and combat the old fixed errors; especially those characterising Australia as almost waterless, almost riverless, and hopelessly drought cursed. This great South Sea Continent is the region of subterranean rivers with an unsurpassable water supply. Hundreds of bores have been put down, and at the present there is over 1,000,000,000 gallons of water brought to the surface from the underground flows and reservoirs every 24 hours. Strictly speaking, more than one-third of Australia is a huge reservoir of water. This is continually being replenished by the tropical downpour of the Northern and Eastern inland watersheds; and in all probability by the snow-capped mountains of New Guinea. A good guide to a true conception of Australia is its vegetation. Where plant lire thrives, man can flourish; no matter what type of plant that is. Also the nature of the plant life of a given locality indi- cates the best use to put the land to. Mallee, Bluebush, Mulga, Saltbush, and Box areas are for wheat. We have millions of acres of such land. Cypress, Pine, Casuarina, and Ironbark ridges and slopes point to the cultivation of grapes, figs, oranges, lemons, almonds, and olives. We have scores of millions of acres coming under these headings. Red-gum flats and Yellow Box rises, say millions of acres of Lucerne. This means millions of fat lambs and tons of cheese, besides wheat, which can be also grown on such lands. 13 The Giant Island Messmate, Peppermint, Gum rises and slopes, point to apples, pears, plums, peaches, and apricots. There are millions of acres of these lands waiting to be utilised. Hazel, Musk, Stringybark, and White Gum country of volcanic formation is equal to anything in the world for the growth of potatoes, carrots, onions, peas, cabbages, raspberries, gooseberries, currants, strawberries, and cherries. Every State in the Commonwealth is blessed with large areas of elevated volcanic soils. Blue Gum, Woolybutt, Karri Karri, Jarrah, Black- wood slopes, and mountain tops are clear indica- tions, when once cleared, of cocksfoot grass, rye- grass, and clover more than knee deep. To say there are millions of acres of this "big-tree" country is well within the mark. These grass and clover regions are for thousands and thousands of dairying farmers of the future. Jungle flats, Pandanus deltas, Palm rises, and Ficus reaches call for maize, sugar, rice, cotton, arrowroot, rubber, pineapple, coffee, and tea culture. The areas coming under these types of plant life are so vast that Australia has room for millions of planters, and those accustomed to tropical and sub-tropical cultivation; cotton and rubber in particular. From Rockhampton on the N.E. coast of Queens- land, right round to Shark's Bay on the N.W. of Australia, we have thousands of miles of tropical cultural possibilities. The poorest portions of the Commonwealth are the Heathlands near the coas f , and spinnifex sand- 14 The Giant Island ridges of the interior. The first by application of chemical manures is made equal to the best. The latter is soon brought under saltbush, and so becomes good beef raising country. Whilst the Granitic mountain ranges, too stoney for cultivation, are the pastoralists' ideal condition for sheep and wool. B, On the Diamantina. ACK in from Cairns, on the N.E. coast of Australia, and on a line with the head of the Gulf of Carpentaria, there is an elevated mass of Palaeozoic rocks of about 150 miles square. The whole has been cut, shattered, torn and tilted into thousands of ridges, valleys, and miniature plateaux. Un- doubtedly this is part of the remains of this world's oldest continent. These hills and valleys are more or less clothed with a scattering of Bloodwood, Spotted Gum, Mahogany, Ironbark, Stringybark, Apple Gum, Poplar Gum, Yellow Jacket all speci- mens of the Eucalypti with a mixture of Greviljeas, Banksias, Acacias, Mallaleucas, and Casuarinas. The undergrowth of these low growing forests forms a very interesting study for the botanist. It is also an ideal hunting ground for the Ornithologist and Butterfly man. During the rainy season, which is in the summer these innumerable valleys have running creeks working their ways into the main creeks; and these forming tributqries of the Mitchell, Palmer, Gilbert, and Flinders rivers. These fine winding streams all run into the Gulf of Carpentaria. From the southern parts of this jagged and tossed tableland we have the head waters of the Thomp- son, Diamantina, and Mulligan Rivers; all working to the Great Central Plains of Australia. These 17 On the Diamcmtina plains are teeming with possibilities in the line of beef, wool, and wheat production. The whole of this district where all these rivers originate is full of minerals. Gold, copper, tin, and lead. Tin ore seems to be the most abundant; but, on account of the scattered nature of its distribution, small claims or mines are the rule. "Tin scratchers' " camps in these valleys are very common. It is the usual thing to see two or three men getting tin ore from the side of a ridge. "Packers" men with teams of pack-horses come along at intervals, and take from each man or party the tin ore won from the little tunnels. This is taken to smelters' works often many miles away. These tin scratchers make splendid wages, and some of them accumulate little fortunes. Sometimes when a cluster of well paying mines exists, a little village comes into being. The merry voices of children gladden the hills and dales. Slab cottages with neat gardens add to nature's beauty and the presence of woman makes it home. It was near one of these woman and child blessed hamlets that a reserved citizen-dressed young man quietly walked up to a pair of "Tin Scratchers" who were having crib-midday meal. "Good day! Can you inform me as to any place where I could lodge for a few days? Yesterday I fell and put my wrist out. I want to be where I can attend to it for a time. Of course, I will pay whatever is charged." "A camp, you mean," said one of the miners. "Why, I suppose we can fix you up with a bit of a humpy amongst us. You're a stranger in these parts, I can tell that." 18 On the Diamantina) "Very much so. It is only ten days since I landed in Australia. I was wondering what you meant by a 'humpy.' ' "Oh, that's what we call a hut about here. There's an empty one near my place. The wife will give you hot water and rags for your hand." No more questions were asked by these mountain miners. Their continual contact with nature had made them careless and unconventional. They were as natural as nature. The little necessary trans- actions with the mining world in connection with the disposal of their tin ore caused them to think less of city people, and to feel kindly disposed to one who had escaped. It was in this light that they and the rest of the camp viewed Dan Hartog as the stranger dubbed himself. Weeks and months rolled along in a quiet happy way, and before the end of a year Dan was the favourite. He was known and liked by every woman and child in the camp. An unexplamable influence for good emanated from him. None knew why. He did not know him- self. To this day, the now grown-ups tell their children stories of his medical skill, nursing powers and kindness to little ones. He christened their children, buried their dead. Held a simple re- ligious service every fine Sunday afternoon under a large gum tree. Taught the children to sing and the men and women to respect God. Then he went as suddenly as he came. Not a word or trace as to how and why he went. He might have gone up to the "World above" for all they knew. Everybody in that camp missed him. When that mountain of gold Mount Morgan- was discovered by a roving miner and afterwards opened up, men in all directions were fired with 19 On the Diamatina zeal, and struck out m all directions. Reports of mineral-bearing ranges in the direction of the water divide, south of the Gulf country, led men into many of those charming valleys whence start the rivulets of the Thompson, Diamantina and Mul- ligan. These valleys are formed by the rounded ridges radiating from an east and west divide, tapering and branching until lost in the billowy plains ever on the horizon. The easy slopes of these rounded ridges merge and form fertile flats where we have those perfect natural parks so pecu- liarly Australian. Glorious parks of banksias, eucalypti and acacias fringed by the dense, tall dark green casuarinas marking the meanderings of the creek. It is difficult for one acquainted with parks of "Old Lands" to realize that these enchant- ing spots have not been planned and planted by the landscape gardener. Fording a tributary of the Thompson River where there was a gap in the Casuarina belt a party of prospectors came upon a never to be forgotten sylvan scene. A gently rising flat naturally planted with the large foliaged Poplar Gum. These, so unlike Eucalypt trees, were from 30 to 60 feet apart, on the grass-carpeted land. The grass, short in habit, and thus giving the appearance of being cut. This, with the absence of dead limbs and logs on the ground, created at once the idea of a well-kept park. The rich cream coloured bark, the smooth and irregularly moulded clean stems of from one to two feet in diameter, and not more than 12 feet without a branch. The branching and rebranching terminating in an ir- regular grotesque, contorted, undecided, open, light yet umbraceous head of leaf and branchlets free from stiffness. The creamy bark, light green, 20 On the Diamantina large, oval, thick, wavey and horizontal leaves created a perfect study in colour. In fact, a "Parpo Yellow Jacket" or Eucalyptus platyphylla in its own habitat, presents the idea of a clean, comfort- able, independent, permanent, not in a hurry tree. This tree is prophetic of the future Australian in contradistinction to the proverbial American, who, by the way, does not represent the majority. Half a mile from the centre of the valley and running almost parallel with the creek; the slope of the hills terminated. These, with their Ironbark and Spotted Gums of closer growth and with under- wood, gave the impression of cosyness. This closed in beautiful park said "Camp, Camp." Which they did, although it was not much past mid-day. Tent pitched, billy boiled; horses hobbled and belled; hunger satisfied, thirst quenched, nerves soothed and the prospectors luxuriated in a prolonged after- noon nap. Longer than wise, for on rising to get the billy on the boil again, their horses were not in sight. Fortunately they had only got round the bend of the valley. But Blake one of the pros- pectors who had gone in search of them, got one of the surprises of his life. A flock of goats, two horses, two Blacks, three dogs, a tent, and could it be possible? Dan Hartog. Four years had passed since they last met at the Tin Scratchers' Camp. Dan had not changed a bit. Blake had, so the re- cognition came from him at first. Hartog gripped his hand with the words: "I am right glad to see you, Blake. But whatever are you doing here?" "Oh, well, you recollect my mate, Collins, don't you? We've been trying to find another Mt. Morgan or Charters Towers, and we are now making for the 21 On the Diamanlma McGregor Range. Collins is here. We're just pitched half-a-mile back." "Right you are, Blake, I'll return with you. I would like to see Collins. In fact, some day I in- tend to give a surprise call at the 'Camp,' ' "I should think so. My word, the missis and kids will smile and dance when I tell them we ran bump into you. But now, look here, Dan. Why did you leave us so sudden like?" "That's right, Blake. I feel you ought to know; but I must bind you both over to secrecy," said Dan. That night the three of them sat yarning at the camp fire for hours. The two listening to Dan's story of how his father to prevent a fourth son gambling away all his inheritance stipulated in the will that none of the estate could be sold or mortgaged without the signatures of all the sons. The rent roll divided amongst the sons gave a com- fortable income to each. This, however, was not enough to satisfy the gambling cravings of 1.he fourth son. Yielding to the persistent pleadings of the gambler the other two signed. Dan refused. For the sake of his brother's wife and children he stood firm. As long as the properties were not sold, they were provided for. Realising that his brother would gamble the lot away, he made up his mind not to sign. At all costs, he would stand by the wishes and objects of his father. To do this effectively he cleared and became a wanderer. If proved dead they could proceed without his signa- ture. Thus, once a year, he communicated with his solicitor, and secured the monetary remittances. And whenever he found they were getting on to his tracks, he obliterated all traces by moving on. 22 On the Diamanima "Don't you recollect that flying trip I made to Cairns? That was to replenish my treasury. At the Bank I found enquiries were getting too close. In fact they had wired about me. "Nothing for it but to suddenly drop out of sight. According to letters a flaw had been dis- covered in the will by which they could compel me to sign. If they can catch me. Now you under- stand." Next day they parted. Blake and Collins on the way to the supposed mountains of mineral wealth. Dan to enjoy this "Park of Nature's planting" for a few more days. He felt safe now. That which led him to sacrifice the ease and comfort of civiliza- tion for the sake of others, now came along with its compensation. He had grown to like the life he had been forced into. Bit by bit experience had fitted him for the free life of the unbounded "Great Lone Lands" of Western Queensland. Nature had become his instructor and entertainer. Charm and wonder were on him all the time. After repeated trials he had secured two faithful Blacks who en- tered into his very life. His interests were theirs. Ostensibly he was a prospector and only moved on to fresh fields when feed got scarce for his goats. These were kept to supply the camp with milk; also with flesh when Kangaroos and Bush Turkey got scarce, or ammunition ran out. Dan had been put up to this "goat herd" style of slow exploration by an "old hand" he had nursed and helped in death at the "Tin Scratchers' Camp." The goats had solved the problem of travelling in unoccupied places, conditionally the traveller was not in a hurry, which, of course, Dan was not. 23 On the e Dtamantma At the time Blake and Collins left him he was heading for the Diamantina River, about 200 miles further west, Slowly skirting the foot of the low ranges running from the head of the Thompson River, and on to the Kirby Range, he eventually struck the Diamantina at its source. This he had to do for the sake of water for man and beast, as well as to give variety to travel. The journey rolled into months and would have gone into years had not thoughts of "a lawyer with papers" crept into his mind at intervals. These thoughts acted like the constable's "move on" to men loitering in the streets. The only touch with civilisation was the despatch of his "Darkies" to a cattle or sheep "station" for sugar, tea and flour; and the occa- sional sight of "Drovers." A party of these "Never Never Navigators" were taking a large mob of Salt Bush cattle north of Burketown. They camped in a feed-covered hollow to rest their beasts and give them a chance of filling their paunches. Dan spent several hours at their camp, listening to the merry yarns and songs of these wild rovers. One yarner interested him very much. There was something about this tall, wiry, iron-grey, skin-wrinkled and sun-tanned narrator which struck a long silent chord in Dan's heart. It was that of his college days and college chums at Cambridge. Amongst his fellow overlanders he was known as "The Duke," his nose being the fascimile of the Great Duke's nose. To please his drover mates he was always ready with a good yarn, carrying a good point, yet full of fire and fun. There was nothing of the blackguard about the Duke. Only the care- less adventurer. These tales took the place of 24 On the Diamantina books and magazines. Such articles are not picked up hundreds of miles away from booksellers' shops. Two days' rest and they were slowly on the move for another stage on the Gulf stock route. Dan was standing by, watching the packing of the horses and the marshalling of the cattle; when the Duke quietly strolled up to him. Taking off his tattered hat and extending his hand he said, "I did not ex- pect to meet an English gentleman here. You are one, I know. Let me have the pleasure of shaking hands with you?" Dan took the proffered hand, held it with a tight grasp, and looking him straight in the face he whispered: "Peter House; Dr. Cookson, Cambridge." "By Jove: Yes. Why dear me. It is R n, They were asking me about you the last time I put up at Menzies', Melbourne." Turning to his companions who were under way with the mob; he shouted: "All right, boys. I'll catch you up before you've got far." Ten minutes chat between the two and a com- pact was made. The Duke would return from the Gulf and meet Dan at Cloncurry, about a hundred miles from the Diamantina. They could then do some exploration worik which might be of some use to the Queensland authorities. For several days before reaching the Kirby Range, Dan and his cavalcade had to cross a water- less stretch of country. But for a solitary Boree and Gidgee it would have been treeless. Still there was an abundance of Mitchell grass. Undoubtedly this grass is one of the best in the world. Horses and bullocks are worked from it. Bran, chaff and 25 On the Diamantina oats are not required where there is plenty of Mitchell grass. The possibilities of this grass are great. It should receive the attention of the pas- toralists. Nearing the head of the Diamantina, one or two beautiful forest-clad gorges were seen. This led Dan to camp and put in a few days botanising. He had not forgotten the science cramming of his graduating days. The field work in connection with the Natural Sciences at Cambridge was his favourite form of study. It was handy now. He could enter more fully into the charm and mystery of nature. That which had been forgotten came back to him. Taking Jackie one of his darkies with him, he got near the top of a gully packed with jungle more like the rich vegetation of the Bellenden Kerr Range, just south of Cairns, than would be expected inside the Divide. Davallia ferns sprawled over the rocks displaying their rabbit-foot like stems. Polypodiums scaled the old tree trunks. Flower and berry yielding climbers rose above the undergrowth of Leptospermums, Mellaleuca, Hakeas, and Acacias into taller trees, there to festoon and connect the whole with living curtainlike folds of varied colours. Dan took it all in. A sight like this was now a feast to his soul. He was just on the point of re- tracing his steps when he noticed a most beautiful Orchid growing in the fork of a large tree. It was a species of Cymbidium with over a dozen long hanging sprays of white and delicately pink shaded flowers. Also, as Dan found afterwards, richly scented. He had seen orchids in English hothouses. A spray of this one must adorn his jumper. Not infrequently these plants seem to fix themselves 26 On the Diamantina beyond reach of man or beast. It was so in this case; but after a few trial feats at climbing Dan got within arm's length of the coveted blooms. He was just reaching out to grasp a spray, when a hiss and a dart from a snake coiled up on the other side of the Cymbidium sent the Orchid gatherer to the ground and the snake after him. Jackie, with one sweeping blow, finished the spiteful villain. But his master's arm was broken. Temporary splinters, bandages and slings were ap- plied; and at the end of hours of agony the camp was gained. Dan had to lay up for days, and then the time came for him to meet the "Duke" at Cloncurry. It was a bright, cool day at the "Tin Scratchers" Camp. A long run of torrential rains had caused domestic and mining affairs to become rather monotonous. This led the women and children to come out and welcome the bright blue sky. By and by the clatter of horses hoofs was heard. Nearer and nearer they came. Then two horsemen dis- mounted, and after disarming the villagers of their fear and suspicion, made inquiries about a man they were anxious to find. They described the man, showed his photograph, and told how they had let- ters from his brothers and brother's widow. Yes, they knew him. He lived with them for two years. Also two of the men had seen him about a year ago somewhere out west. Could they wait until dark, when the men would be home from their mines. Blake and Collins on reaching home were very cautious with the strangers at first. It was not until they saw the notice of the gambler brother's death, and read the reward of 250 offered by the 27 On the Diamantina widow for the finding of R n, that they unfolded their minds to the enquirers. Yielding to the pleadings of the women the two miners agreed for a certain sum of money to go on another prospecting expedition. Not to find a Mt. Morgan of gold; but to find a man whom they honoured, loved, and now pitied. The agreement was signed by all parties. Two returned to Cairns, and the other two packed up and next day were on the trailless track bound west. All information was to be forwarded to Sydney. When the two hardy prospectors returned from their "Mountain of Gold" search, they were poorer but wiser men. When they rode silently into the camp, from their months of search for Dan, their heads were down and their hearts sad. Reaching the Diamantina they discovered Dan's camp. The Darkies told how "The Boss went to Cloncurry for Chum, a long time ago." "When is Boss coming back?" On getting all particulars available from Dan's Blacks, they set out for Cloncurry. They got there and found out that two horsemen had left in the direction of Kirby Range weeks ago. Returning to Dan's camp they took the Blacks and tracked, the traces of Dan and the Duke. At last they discovered the two horses feeding on the Mitchell grass. They were hobbled; but no sign of bridles and saddles. Indications snowed that the horses had not been ridden for a long time. A long Coo-ee and shouts of Boss from the two Darkies brought Blake and Collins with a run to where the Blacks were looking at the fresh scratches of a Dingo. More scrapings and unearth- ings on the part of the four men revealed the fate 28 On the Diamantma of Dan and the Duke. They had become the victims of an old empty Billabong. Evidently on camping for the night after a long day's ride, they sought the shelter of a depression from a strong wind blowing at the time. For several days tropical rains had poured down and turned the chains of depressions into rivers. One near by had burst its bank and, with a silent rush, had buried the sleep- ing travellers with a mixture of sand, mud, leaves and water. Companions at college. Chums in death. Boiling the Billy UGUSTUS, or Gus, as he was often called, was a most obliging fellow. He had joined the prospecting party just to gain ^^ "roughing experience," as he termed it. Four months back he was the petted, delicate-skinned darling of a' London society family. As punishment for some semi-crime he had been banished from home for two years, with a monthly allowance of a few pounds to keep him from actual want. "Gus, old boy," said Hardy, the leader of the party, "we want you to tackle on to the kitchen to-day." "Kitchen," replied Gus. "There is no kitchen here." "Well, there's kitchen work, anyhow, and this is a good chance for a start in the Sally line." "Certainly, Hardy. I see what you mean now. Only tell me exactly what you want me to do." "Get the fire on the go about two hours before the sun goes down. See the sparks don't go on to the tent. Have the largest billy full of tea by the time she the sun sets. Think you can manage it, Gus?" "Delighted to do it, Hardy. It is high time I did as you often say 'earn my salt'; and there is nothing like experience." C 3 1 Boiling the Not being a good judge of the sun's march to the western horizon, Gus started with his boiling operations two hours to the good. For the first time in his life he had been set something to do on his own. He felt the importance of it and braced himself to do the work well and originally. He had often read and heard about camp life and camp fires. To him there was a halo of romance about it, and to think that "here he was in charge of a camp, and commissioned to boil the proverbial Billy." This should have his best skill, so putting on the thinking cap, he scientifically evolved the whole process. Placing two logs about three feet apart, he formed an elevated grating with three straight green sappy sticks. According to Gus and his inexperience "green sticks would not burn." But there are sticks and sticks, and he had cut his sticks from Myrtle Scrub- the bark of which is full of oil glands and will burn brighter when green than dry. Viewing the Billy on the elevated living bars, with the fire smoking and flaming beneath and around it, Gus said: "Now if my fellow travellers could see this, they would wonder why they had always searched about for three or four square stones to rest the Billy on." Again he thought "This is so simple, one big fire and it is done. No continual applying of fuel. They will think I am an old campaigner after all." Thus and thus he mused as he sat and held his burnt fingers in a pannikin of water. To get the fire on the go he had gone through a box of matches, half the leaves of a pocket book, one handkerchief, all available paper, burnt his mous- tache into a gap, and nearly choked himself with ashes when using his chest as a bellows. But the 32 Soiling th sight now before him, was worth all the time, pain and perspiration of lighting the fire. "Soon the water will boil," said Gus, "and then I will put the Hang it!" No wonder he stopped musing and went in for acclamations. The green sticks when burnt half through, broke with the weight of the Billy and water. Over went the utensil and out went the fire. This was no joke with the nearest water half a mile away. Overcoming his first anger he scraped together the burnt ends and charcoal with a little dried grass and leaves. This time he had better luck in getting up a blaze. Still sticking to the idea of an elevated Billy, he probed a hole near the outside of one of the logs. Into this he thrust the thick end of the stick, giving it a lean against the log and so brought the top of the stick perpen- dicularly over the fire. Tying a pi^re of rope to the end of the stick he soon had the Billy once more in contact with a good blazing fire. The sun had not set. He would after all have the tea ready before his mates returned. Steam was showing and the flames were mounting higher and higher. "Now, if I could remove the Billy from the fire," said Gus, "It would be done, and confound the Billy! Why do they have such stupid things for kettles?" The rope had caught fire and dropped the Billy into the centre of the burning embers, where it was nicely bedded. To rescue it and save the water Gus, with a long pole, poked all the embers away. More than half the water had spilt. Was there yet time to complete his work? The sun seemed in no hurry to set. He would fill the Billy and try again. 33 Boiling the Billy Smothering his original ideas, he looked round for stones. They were soon found and with the Billy firmly fixed the fire did its work; and just as Hardy marched into camp the measures of tea and sugar were placed in the Billy. They all declared Gus would make an excellent Billy boiler. He thought otherwise. That night, around the camp fire, Gus was plied with questions on his resemblance to a chimney sweep. One wanted to know "how many blacks had attacked the camp?" to account for the wreckage. 34 Down to Rise OSPITABLE, you say. Yes, too much so. Like others in these days, their hospitality was showered on those who needed not." "That's it, Dick. If ever you uttered a truth that's the one. The well-to-do spend on those who have. Even the church people have forgotten that Jesus Christ said we were to entertain the poor. They are just as bad as the world in their round of parties, presents and cliques." "Certainly, Bob. Look at that crowd we saw a few weeks back at the Manse grounds. The upper crust of the town. Not a poor man amongst them. So what can you expect from others." "Yes. It is sickening. And they tell me the poor old couple were once rich and moved in top society. Is that true, Dick?" "Too true. They were got at by others sharper than themselves and down they came. Mansion, carriages, servants and society, all had to go." And thus the conversation went on between two witnesses as they watched a funeral procession made up of the local undertaker's cheapest turn- out and the Methodist minister in his buggy. Fifteen years back from that lonely funeral, what a difference would have met the eye. Cabs and carriages were passing through the gates of a well- 35 'Down to Rise kept, flower-bordered drive and dropping their society occupants at the steps of a Melbourne suburban mansion. The two in these plain, cheap, wreathless and but for the parson's wife flower- less coffins, were then in the "Hall" receiving their guests. Servants to do their bidding and administer to the pleasure of their temporary friends. Flowers, music, laughter and chatter filled the place. What a change! One mid-day the gardener stepped into the kitchen and said to the cook: "Mrs. Rawlins told me I had better have dinner here as I haven't time to go home although the missus will be expecting me. You see, cook, it will take me until after dark to get the grounds ready for the moonlight party to-night." "Well, I never," said the cook. "What next. Why don't the master let you have another man to help you?" "He won't hear of it. Anyhow, I'm nearly run off my legs. I've been at it since six o'clock this morning." "An' ain't you getting sick of it, gardener? I am, anyway. Why, not one of the housemaids got to bed before near daylight. We're all thinking of chucking up our places. It's slavery." "It is worse than that, cook. If they'd only give us a bit of the fuss they make over the swells. It would be better for them. They tell me the Boss was only a digger, a miner in his early days. You'd think he would have a little consideration for us." "Look here, gardener!" said the cook. "As a rule they are the very worst. Good gracious, wasn't I once in a place where the mistress had been a housemaid. She was a tyrant I can tell you." 36 to Rise But there was no need for the cook and gardener to "chuck up their jobs." Rumours of "Bank smashes" were in the air. Suddenly the continual round of ball, garden and theatre parties stopped. Anxious, uneasy countenances took the place of music, laughter and flowers. Household staffs were reduced, gardener and coachmen were dismissed. Drives became avenues of weeds. Well-kept lawns developed into little fields of meadow hay. Choice flowers drooped and died in the struggle against thistles and docks. Roses went wild for want of the gardener's knife. Fruit trees and vines became tangled growths. Loud, fashionable dresses were hidden; blinds drawn to hide dirty windows, and rooms locked up to save labour. Frets, scowls, heart aches and regrets took the place of the dance and private theatricals. "Yes," as a widow said once, "I could show you the room where my poor, foolish husband stood to read a telegram. He never read it again. With the word 'awful' on his lips, he fell into an armchair, dead. We were rich one moment, the next poorer than paupers." The Rawlins fought hard against their losses. Hoping against hope that "things would right"; but things persisted in going from bad to worse, and then to worst. The great circle of friends shrunk, and more than once the cold shoulder was displayed. Fortunately they had no children to go down in their ruin, for ruined they were. "Wife, I've had enough of this," said Rawlins. "When all the papers are signed we clear out of this. We can fight poverty where nobody knows us; not here." "Alright, my dear. We have each other, and that's 37 to Rise a lot. But oh, I do wish we had acted differently." "That's alright. But it is no use crying over spilt milk. We will go back to the old diggings. I know where there is a gully not washed out. At first we will have to live in a tent until I knock up a bark hut. Anywhere and anything will be better than this." Years passed away. Time and death had healed or stopped broken hearts. Banks were re-con- structed. New and younger men appeared on the commercial surface. The rings of society started to whirl again. Faces and names of years ago were held in dim recollection, many forgotten. Occasionally it would be "I wonder what became of the Rawlins' "? Within a few miles of the "old diggin's," the tent had developed into a large bark hut. It had become almost hidden by a high rustic trellis covered with flowering climbers and fruit vines. Diggers' holes and heaps of tailings had been filled and levelled to make room for an acre of fruit trees and vege- tables. The trees had grown and gave an air of comfort and seclusion to the whole place. The cow shed, fowl run, pig sty and cart shed all built of bush material harmonised with the rest, and es- pecially with the old lady picking broad beans in the garden, and the old man getting Strawberry the cow into the bail. It was just one of those pleasant rural scenes so common in the mineral areas of Australia. A tree-packed gully spreading out on to a park-like sloping plain of deep, rich, reddish, quartz, clay loams. The debris of plutonic burnt silurian rocks. Ideal spots for fruit, vine, and vegetable growing. Water, fuel, rich soil and man's brains and muscle can soon produce a home. 38 Down to Rise In the goldfield areas and reserves of Australia there are possibilities for thousands of happy homes. The right to occupy these lands is very simple, and should be more than ever encouraged. It was on one of these sites, surrounded with red gums, box and ironbark gums and golden wattles that Rawlins and his wife had made another home. Being an old digger he managed to get a little of the precious metal by fossicking and cradling as in the early days. Blest with health and strength they wanted for nothing. About once a month Rawlins took his spare eggs, butter and bacon into the nearest town, about six miles away. These he exchanged into groceries, bits of drapery, and then returned home. No man could persuade him to remain in that town one minute longer than was necessary to contract his barter. He had developed a bitterness to his fellows as a result of past ex- periences. At first in the hours of rest after their unaccustomed toil, in carving out a home, they often talked of the past. Names of prominent figures, in their then circle of luxury, came up. Some to draw out expressions of pity, others to excite feelings and words of scorn. But as time wore on this habit of bringing up the past was dropped; names and persons were obliterated in feelings of disgust disgusted to think that they themselves had been such selfish fools as to get into their heads that others were simply made to contribute to their gratification. More than once the old man said: "Jane. We are justly punished. We forgot about those who were working for us. We only thought of ourselves and the idle rich who were associated with us." Apart from these regrets they were content to 39 to Rise live and die together, unknown and uncared for; their rise and fall only known to themselves. Old age told the tale. Rawlins' back was taking on the symptoms of lumbago. He could no longer drive into town with his products. The occasional mining was abandoned; but with the help of his faithful old wife, he could still manage the garden, fowls and cow. How to get the eggs and butter to the store in the town was the problem. Once a week the itinerating Methodist parson passed the old couple's home. All attempts at conversation were repelled by Rawlins' cold bluff and gruff Yes! No! So the backblock preacher in passing would simply shout out: "How are you? A fine day! Your cows are look- ing well;" or "You've got a fine lot of cabbages," or "Good day. Do you think we are going to get any rain?" To all these Rawlins never gave more than a Yes or No. But one day the storekeeper called at the parsonage with the request for the minister to ask Mr. Rawlins to send in his eggs and butter, as he was waiting for some. So the minister called and delivered the message. "Hah, that's the trouble," said the old man. "I've got the things, but you see I can't drive in now. Too old. They'll have to go to waste." "Waste," said the Methodist. "Indeed no. I will gladly take them in for you. I pass here once a week. It will be no trouble for me to leave them at the store." Looking up at the minister, Rawlins said, in astonishment: "You will. Do you really mean it?" "Mean it; of course I do. You try me." 40 n to tyse This broke the barrier down. The parson became a regular caller. Once a week his horse had a spell opposite that home and he himself relished a cup of tea with the old couple inside. They got to be very friendly, and the story of their rise and fall was often told. When the opportune time came the Celestial Pilot pointed out that they had simply come down to rise again. Had nothing blocked their worldly course they might have perished with their wealth. Gradually that ever new story of how "Jesus came from Glory and died that we might rise in Him and go to Glory," was told in all its simple charm. It took some time for this simple yet stupendous truth to become a fact in the hearts and minds of the old couple. When it did, and its consequent glow of peace and happiness settled on them; the old lady said: "My dear: How was it we were never told about this Jesus before?" "Jane, my old wife. Can't you see? It was because we wouldn't listen. I'm glad we lost our money." Four more years of close fellowship with Jesus in that rustic home; and senile decay prostrated them on the bed. Like two old candles burning out, they had got to the last half-inch. Their voices became whispers. The whisper was of Jesus: When whispers failed to sound; the eyes looked and told of Jesus. The preacher's prayer, as he knelt for the last time in that hut, was of "Jesus." The silence which fell upon the last scene was broken by the old man's "Jesus. Yes. I'm ready!" and later on the old lady's "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!" Then all was over. They rose together; leaving their old bodies of sin, pain and death, and passed from earth to Heaven, never to fall again. 41 Proprietor of a Horse, or Yorky's Yarn OW, not altogether in my line, except through the reasons of Natural History, we my mate and I were going to insti- tute a new order of things in the horse business in Australia. All this was the outcome of many a back and forward pace on the deck of an old Black Ball liner. Five months from land to land on that broad, big weather and storm- beaten old tub, gave us ample time to evolve big ideas and marvellous schemes. In fact we made the discovery that we could manage the ship better than the skipper. Yes, in less than a week on board we could have given advice to builders. "Why keep her so high out of the water? It must block her progress." One day we were trying to do our deckpace in a bit of a gale. The ship was labouring heavily. We had just remarked and agreed as to the foolishness of her build, when she shipped a sea. My next recollection was on the broad of my back, in the Sick-Bay, with a broken leg, wishing her hull had been much higher. Yes, we would astonish the Australians. I had seen horses, had been in donkey races, but never got away with the cup because I contracted the habit of sliding over their posteriors. He, my mate, 43 Proprietor of a Horse had seen, handled, ridden, and not fallen off horses. So he said. Our cash was limited, and on landing we were going to strike for the interior of Queens- land. We needed two horses to carry our belong- ings. Saddles and bridles were unnecessary. Only for show. So said my mate. In the old clipper days, passengers had to find their own kits. So he decided that our single bed ticks would make splendid pack saddles. Cut a hole in the middle, poke the goods and chattels to each end, sling the whole concern across the moke's back, nicely balanced it would ride without lashings. A shilling clothes line tied around each horse's neck and one of us at the other end would be our only expenditure apart from the horses. Splendid! My mate was a lost Commonwealth Treasurer. After a lot of enquiries we got to Tattersalls. Bid- ding was slow. The tall sun-shrivelled, skin-tanned auctioneer, roared out in rasping, cloggy tones: "How much for these two upstanding, high bred, outstepping cavalry remounts? Now's your chance, you judges of horse flesh. Ten shillings, ten shil- lings, ten shillings, I'm offered. Ten shillings apiece. What's the matter with you all to-day? Lost yer mother-in-law? Only ten shillings apiece for these extraordinary animals." "Thirty shil- lings," yells I, thinking in my innocence to scare any other buyer. "Thirty shillings, thirty shillings Pm offered," hilariously rasps the auctioneer. "Any advance on thirty shillings?" "Forty shillings," shrieks my mate. They were knocked down to him. Says I, afterwards, "Why didn't you let us have them for thirty shillings?" "Well," says he, "Don't you see I allowed sixty bob for the horses, we could have gone up to that." On the strength 44 Proprietor of a Horse of our bargain, and in honour of our first financial transaction, we crossed over to the pub (called hotels in Australia) always near at hand to help on the sales. "Two small pewters of the last brew, please mister," was my order. We had not then developed the power of swallowing quarts of old beer. "What's that? Guess it's 'She Oak' you're after. New chums, just landed, eh!" I had to correct the barman, and inform him that there were no she's and he's in Oaks. Simply species of Quercus. He corrected me by remarking some- thing about queer cusses and explaining the 'She Oak' was the colonial for beer. Over the 'She Oak' we chuckled, and wondered at men willing to let horses go for ten shillings. They must be very slow. And to call beer "She Oak." The idea. From the Oak place we entered a cluster of iron buildings, where, on the outside, we were told we could get every article, from a needle to an anchor, a cradle to a coffin. We had not started in the cradle line yet, and were not anticipating coffins, so we passed that part of the shoddy emporium. Two ropes, pick, shovel, billy, fryingpan, tin plates, pannikins, tomahawks, tea, sugar, candles, matches, soap, etc. etc., were purchased. Shot-gun and ammunition we had on our backs, and in pur belts, all brought from Eng- land. My mate shined at this shopping. His note- book was frequently in demand. Every article tested, not a penny wasted. With the exception of the pick and shovel, all were packed in the ends of our patent tick pack saddles. Spare pants and shirts were rolled up in blankets, making two little bundles to top the packs on each horse. This done, we had to see about catching and roping our steeds. 45 Proprietor of a Horse "Broken into anything." So said the auctioneer. Now, the difficulty to catch them was not the high kicking. Oh, no. Their hind legs were too stiff, or too tired for that. At least that is what my mate said. They stalked the yard with their long tails at right angles and their heads aloof, like two scared giraffes. Just here I would like to dilate on Natural History, by telling you about an awkward squad of those long-necked, long-tongued animals which I once tumbled across in Africa. Can't, as I'm on Australia now. At last we roped them, the horses, and he tied the knots; he knew how, I didn't. Shall I ever forget that day, when, as sole proprietors of the turnouts, we sailed out of that sale yard in great style! I named my quadruped Dick, in honour of King Dick, who offered to swap England for a horse. Not liking the look of the eyes, the cut of the teeth, and the set of the ears of my moke, I kept at the end of the rope, the end away from his mouth I mean. Thus equipped, we sailed forth to solve the mysteries of the bush. To the sorrow of some youngsters, our steeds came away like goats. Things went serenely until a dray laden with loose boards caused my animal to plunge, rear, and hang back. Fortunately I had a big knot at the end of the rope, and was thus able to hold on. This I did until my horse snorted, grunted, reared, and fell to the ground with his tongue out. One of the bystanders, witnessing our circus-like performances, a good-natured fellow, shouted out, "Chummie, you're choking your horse; cut the rope off his neck or you'll lose him." Poor brute, my mate had fixed a running knot. I managed to cut it just before he would have gasped his last breath. 46 Proprietor of a Horse After that bit of excitement. Dick came along like a forty-year-old donkey. The tick pack-saddles well, they did give us a time. We had to fix them at least a dozen times before we reached camp. I'd back our saddles against the world for sliding; but for the life of me I failed to see where the wisdom came in. However, my mate said they would adjust themselves in time. Yes, thought I, for ever on the ground. On deciding to camp, my mate started to think. I always knew that by the peculiar twist of his mouth, and the squint of his eyes. Says he: "The problem for us to solve to-night is: Devise the most simple method for fixing up horses when there is no stable." Now Yorky, longing to use the toma- hawks, suggested the hewing down of saplings, and the building of a circular wall of branches, stems, and leaves. Did I advise doing that every night? If so, where was the improvement? It would have been better to buy two halters and tie them up than to do that. So I left him evolving a new way of tethering horses. Returning to camp, I found him in great glee. "I've got it," says he; "hit upon a splendid idea. All we have to do is to tie one end of the rope to the horse's hind leg and the other to a sapling." The length of the rope, the hind leg, the horse's body, neck, head and tongue all added together, would give the animal a wide scope for feeding all night long. After a long fight with the mosquitos they prefer new chum's blood we fell asleep, rolled up in our blankets. Middle of the night we were brought to our feet by the kicking of our steeds. D 47 Proprietor of a Horse At first I thought we were being attacked by a regiment of blacks. Throwing some dry brushwood on to the fire, causing a blaze, we discovered the horses on their sides entangled in the ropes, kick- ing and sparring at each other. To liberate them, we had to cut the ropes with a sheath knife tied to the end of a pole. Once clear of the ropes, they cleared. One blunder spoilt our patent. We tied them too close together -that was all. We improved as we went along. To stop our patent packs from slipping, we bought a saddle each, and tied ours to them. Then we thought it would be better if we perched on the top amongst the picks and shovels. This was a great improvement. To each other we looked like Arab Sheikhs on camels, and our gait was as slow and unwieldy as those ships of the desert. Next day my mate, who was always improving on the past, suggested a trot. We did, and the horses improved on their trotting more and more until the trot had improved into a gallop. "Wheel Whoa! Arve! Whoa! Whop!" we shouted. They heeded not. Our pulling at the neck ropes was of no avail. The pots and pans in our patent saddles rattled and clattered as the horses sped along. It now developed into a race. The trees passed like the wind, as neck and neck we flew, each horse determined to win. Clutching the mane and the saddle, I held on like grim death, wondering when, where, and how it would all end. The long, straight bush track was coming to a turn. Would the brutes plunge madly into the forest? The other chap's horse shot ahead of mine, and, seeing he was beaten, my steed slackened his pace into an abrupt trot, and before I rounded the corner my mate's horse was returning full gallop, minus the 48 Proprietor of a Horse rider. Shall I ever forget that sight? The contents of the bed-tick had gone, and the two ends had become wings to the horse. It had the appearance of an extinct Pterodactlon (another good word), which I fancy means a thing after the style of a crocodile with wings. A few yards round the bend my inventive companion was insensible on his back, surrounded by the contents of the bed-tick. Recovering, he afterwards consoled himself by declaring that if we had bought bridles and saddles the clothes-lines and bed-ticks would have answered. So thought I, and we soon found out that Aus- tralians needed no lessons in the horse dressing line. 49 Making a Damper >-ES, of course, I will, as long as you give Yff me plenty of time." "Time. Look here, Pro., you can have all the morning to boil the corned beef, and in the afternoon you can make the damper. How will that suit you?" "Ample. It will be done in time for your return. Don't forget the mails and newspapers as you return through Burke. I am dying for news. For three days, Pro. was camp boss; head of the larder, and monarch of all he could survey. His mates had gone on a trip to purchase horses to take the places of two which had died through snake-bites. On the third day after their departure the corned beef was to be boiled and the damper made. Then the hungry travellers, on their return, would soon drive away the pangs of hunger. They calculated on having nothing to eat on the third day, as, after leaving Burke, it would be a straight run across country to reach camp. In the meantime, Pro. was revelling in the large number of plant species he was adding to his herbarium. What with pressing, changing, and drying the thick sheets or brown paper with which he preserved his specimens, he had very little spare time. Hence the loneliness of that camp never touched him. By day, the rich variety of Compositae and Leguminoseae absorbed his thoughts. At 51 a 'Damper night, the weird cry of the curlew and other amus- ing sounds of bird and animal, insect and frog life, made monotony impossible. Those who have never lived and rambled in the Great Australian Plains form strange ideas about that great feature of our Island Continent. The belts of Mulga, Brigalow, and Boree, with the open spaces dotted by Casua- rina and Widgees. The great stretches of Mallee, Blue Bush, interspersed with Pine ridges and Box flats. These, with the immense areas of grass land and salt bush stretches, create an atmosphere of freedom and vastness which enthralls the child of Nature. Then towards the Spring herbaceous plants of the Daisy and Pea order turn the flats and rises into veritable gardens of colour. It was in one of the natural parks and botanic gardens com- bined, that our party of wanderers were delayed through the death of their two best horses. Pro. secretly was delighted; to him the delay could not have happened in a better place, and he added con- siderably to his collection of botanical specimens. Like all scientists, he was absent-minded, and thus it was not until mid-day that his mind returned to the round of duties for that the third day. His instructions from the leader of the party were: "Boil the beef in the morning, and make a damper in the afternoon." Losing the morning, Pro. had to fly round and get both articles on the go at once. Being by nature rather slow, this "hurrying up" disconcerted him. He was all there in the plant line; but a thing might be done in his presence, and unless his direct attention was drawn, he practically knew nothing of the process. To put the beef in the boiling pot full of water whilst it was over the fire, and so extinguish it was nothing. In ten 52 Making a 'Damper minutes he had a blaze again. Pro., of course, had seen and not seen dampers prepared and baked. Knowing this, his mates had no misgivings on handing the cooking operations to him. Indeed, Pro. had no doubts about it himself, and set to work as though he had been cook on a back block run for years. "Make a damper!" Certainly. He was fond of damper. "Gentlemen, this is natural bread, free from germs, alum and potatoes," was his common ex- pression at the camp fire repasts. Articles and commodities are handy in camp. No bewildering cupboards, shelves, and larders to ransack. Pro. soon found the flour in a large billy- can, and the salt in an ex-cocoa tin. Then with water in another billy, he started on the process of damper making. Carefully emptying all the flour on to a clean sheet of bark, he, with the skill and glee of a child making mud-pies, shaped and rounded the whole of the white powder into a basin- shaped pond. Into this basin he poured water until it was full to the brim. Adding a little salt to the water, he then dexterously blended the flour and water without losing a drop of the fluid or a particle of starch. Then the first difficulty faced him. No, not the first, for he had already encountered two swamping out the fire, and when in the midst of his mixing process a strong burning essence told him the pot had boiled dry, and the beef was being roasted instead of boiled. But now a still greater difficulty his hands and fingers covered and draped with hanging shreds of paste. "How could he free his hands?" What had he seen others do? He thought and thought. 53 'ng a 'Damper "Ha, I've got it. Of course a little dry flour works it off." But he had used all the stock of flour. How thoughtless of me," he reprovingly muttered. Some other plan must be adopted. He would wash the sticky stuff from his fingers with water. So making a depression in the mass of dough to receive the dislodged portions, he put the watery idea into action. Then when too late he saw that the mass became too watery, and was spreading over the bark. With no more flour to stiffen the dough, it meant damper was out of the question. Pro. was getting tangled up. What about his hungry mates? How would they feel towards him with nothing to eat on their return? Pro.'s brain worked again. He had been accustomed in his earlier days to make botanical extracts of all consistencies. A splendid idea evolved. He would simply evaporate the sur- plus moisture. This would overcome the thin dough difficulty. The spreading paste was led into the big billy, which was placed on the fire, and Pro., whilst soothing his ruffled nerves with a few puffs of the weed, watched the reducing process. Down, down went the contents as the water passed into steam. At last the consistency was judged to be right. The bark once more received its burden of dough from the billy this time by the help of a spoon not fingers. The symmetrical eye and the trained hand soon shaped the damper stuff, which was stiffening more and more as it cooled. A look of satisfaction spread over Pro.'s face as he eyed the cooling, stiffening product of his labours. His companions would regale themselves on damper after all. It was moulded and made. Now to cook it. Using a bark-made shovel, he scraped from the fire a 54 Making a Damper splendid heap of hot ashes. This he had often seen done, so that with great complacency he formed a bed of ashes and charcoal to receive his wheel of stiffened dough. Pro. proceeded to lift the concern from the bark. It could not be done; the dough and bark had stuck. Not wanting to destroy the sym- metrical shape of the wheel, he tried several ways to separate them. Exasperation set in. He became desperate. In rashness he took the dough-laden sheet of bark to the heap of ashes, and buried the lot. When his mates returned, that fire evolved a peculiar looking object a solid wheel, 18 inches by 2 inches, black, smoky, and tough. As one said, "It would make a splendid wheel for a knife polisher." Damper making was knocked out of Pro.'s list of accomplishments, and he was dismissed from the culinary department of the camp. The corned beef had boiled to rags. 55 'Possum and Yabbie OOK here, Chummie, I don't know what you think about it, but I'm getting a bit sick of this here gum-chewing con- cern." "Well, now, Lanky, I am glad to hear you say that. The muscles of my neck are beginning to work in the opposite direction, as we used to say aboard ship." "Glad, you say. Why, I thought you'd pity me, ' said Lanky. "So I do," answered Chummie; "but I didn't want to chuck it up first. You're an old hand, and you know I am only a green-horn. The whiff of the briny is still on me." Lanky said something about "being a tough piece of green-horn," and with a morose, absent look fixed on his face, lapsed into silence. Their surroundings were not enviable. A few weeks back they had left the main track caused by wool waggons and struck across a wide, slightly undu- lating stretch of Blue Bush country. By doing this, they fully expected to reach the Lachlan River in at least two days' easy tramping. No doubt this would have been done had not Chummie made so many gyratic wanderings after the varied species of plants. Lanky put him down as "a crank got loose," until Chummie pointed out the endless 57 'Possum and Yabbie varieties of form and colour. Before this, "they were all the same" to him. The prevailing colour of this dwarf bush country is bluish-grey. Hence "Blue Bush" land. In this Island Continent there are vast areas covered with these rounded bushes, rarely exceeding four feet in height. Here and there great masses of silver white, coral-like bushes set up a charming contrast. Whilst to prevent an undue impression upon the mind of sombre grey, the rich translucent green of the Salicornia makes an appearance. Then the shades of colour in these unique plants change with the seasons. Thus add- ing another charm to these too often neglected lands. The peculiar flowers, with their foliage-like parts, and afterwards winged fruits, take on all shades, from deep red to yellow and white. Hence we have a rich blend of rolling, compact colour never to be forgotten. "Chummie, you're right. The Blue Bush country is up to Dick, and no mistake about it. Why, I've ridden through it for days, and thought it was all one." "That shows you have eyes and don't use them, Lanky." "Ditto, brother. Don't you recollect you would have it that sheep were all the same?" "Yes, Lank, I did make a blunder there; but you see, sheep are not in my line." New-found delight in Blue Bush caused the two wanderers to get bushed. The Lachlan was not where they expected to hit on it'. Fortunately they got into a narrow belt of timber, lining a creek, which had shrunk into a series of waterholes. Near the watercourse wattles flourished. These provided 53 'Possum and Yabbie the now provisionless wanderers with what Chummie called: "As delicious as stickjaw. We will fatten on this." "Yes," replied Lanky; "if we could only get something to mix with it." To add to their misfortunes, Lanky, whilst gum- hunting, got a thorn into his elbow from one of the Spiny Acacias so common on the fringe of Blue Bush land. With no material for the making of poultices on hand, a swelling ensued, which fairly winged Lanky. He could manage to gather a little gum; but now when their stomachs had rebelled, other sources of diet had to be discovered. "If I wasn't winged, we would soon have some 'possum. I've seen lots of their tracks, and with the bits of 'possum we can't eat, I'd show you how to catch yabbies. They are not to be despised." "Yabbies," said Chummie. "Why, whatever are they? I've heard of yabbers. They are chattering girls." Lankey put on his thinking cap. He was now the mate of a scientist, and feeling quite one himself. "Well, now, yes. Let me see," said he. "Yab- bies. Well, yabbies are not animals. They are not insects. Leastways I don't think so. They are like a glorified insect what lives in water and sleeps in mud. I should call a yabbie a grasshopper kind of a crab." "You mean a land crayfish a Crustacean. Are they good to eat?" eagerly questioned Chummie. "They just are. You'll like them. But we will have to get the 'possum first. Roast 'possum to 59 'Possum and Yabbie be followed by boiled what did you call the yabbie?" "Crustacean," said Chummie. "That's it. Now about the 'possum. Suppose I tell you what to do. Can you climb a tree?" "Yes, Lank. That is one of my accomplishments. As a lad I could climb almost as well as a monkey. In fact, I was considered the monkey of the family." "Good on you, Chummie. I thought as much by the way you prance about when looking at a new plant. I'll put you up to the secrets of bushcraft. Come on." Hollow trees and trees with hollow limbs were closely examined for any fresh scratches, bark disturbances, or 'possum hairs. At last one was found. Unmistakable 'possum trails on the tree trunk leading to a hollow branch. "If I'm not a Dutchman," said Lanky, "there's more than one bushy-tailed 'possum in that hole." Chummie cast his eyes up and along the limb of the tree. Could he manage to reach the 'possum's hiding place? Of course he could. "As easy as winking," said he. Armed with a hooked stick stuck in his belt, he scaled that tree like a bearded bear. Chummie grew whiskers. Clasping the limb with his legs, and holding on to a small branch, he soon got within easy reach of the hole. Following the directions given by Lanky, he inserted the straight end of the stick first. This was to locate the presence of an opossum. Feeling something soft and movable, indicated that the hirsute arboreal marsupial was at home. Reversing the stick according to orders from below, Chummie pulled out the 'possum's tail. 60 'Possum and Yabbie "Drop the stick and grab the tail," shouted Lanky. This was easier said than done. Chummie only had one arm to use. He needed the other to keep him from falling. "Now, what have I to do?" excitedly asked Chummie. "He will bite me." "Do? Why, pull him out. Bash him against the tree, and drop him; I'll finish him," laughingly said Lanky. Now came the tussle; a tug-o'-war; the 'possum pulling one way, Chummie the other. Thoughts of having a feed of flesh had set the man's gastric juice flowing, and made him more daring than ever. Chummie was determined to have the mar- supial. So screwing up all the muscular power he could command under his peculiar position, he gave an extra sudden pull just at the very moment the 'possum had let go its hold. Both fell to the ground, and the 'possum got away. "Never mind, Chummie," soothingly said Lanky. "The 'possum ought to have given you warning. It was too bad." "Bad. I think it was tricky. A 'possum shall not come that trick on me again." Fortunately Chummie fell on a soft part in a soft place. So in a very short time the arboreal hunt was resumed . This time with better luck. Two fat 'possums bagged from one hole. Lanky was an expert bush cook, and Chummie got his first lesson on "cooking without utensils." Stones were heated to cracking strain, and put in the place once occupied by the 'possum's entrails. The stones were fastened in with green skewers, bringing the skin together again. Tail, eyes, and entrails were discarded. A large heap of hot ashes 61 '"Possum and Yabbie and charcoal was formed, and the 'possum, with its new internals, was put out of sight buried in these ashes for about four hours. "Lanky, don't you think you'll turn the whole concern into a cinder?" anxiously queried Chummie. "A cinder! Yes, of course. But only the hide. You'll see when she's done. The skin will come away like a hard black crust." The cook was right. In removing the crust there was a sight of flesh more like chicken than duck. Chummie declared it was "Good enough for a King," and at the finish of the feast he declared, "He would not call the queen his grandmother." The intestines of the 'possum were saved for Crustacean bait. Boiled Yabbies were to be the chief article on the menu for the following days. Chummie was to have his first experience of Yabbie angling, or rather dangling. An Acacia sapling provided the rod; united boot laces the line, and 'possum sausage skins the bait. The angler perched himself on a huge log in the middle of a small billa- bong, whilst Lanky, like an inspector-general of fisheries, instructed from the bank facing the dangler. Matters went rather slow for a time. This led the angler to declare that his companion was mistaken about Crustaceans inhabiting such spas- modic pools of Eucalyptus decoction. "Why, Lanky, you could easily mistake this water for cold tea. It is full of tannin. Enough to turn my bait into leather. No wonder aquatic plants are absent." Lanky had gone to the "land of nod"; hence no reply came to his chum's remarks. But he partly heard what followed. Suddenly there came a pull at the line, and raising the rod high in the air, there 62 'Possum and Yabbie dangled a nine-inch Yabbie. Chummie, fearing the land lobster would drop into the water, lowered the line and grabbed the Crustacean. "I've got him, Lank. Look, look, Lank!" Before Lanky could take in all the bearings of the situation and thus give instructions, the Yabbie had returned the friendly squeeze, and soon had Chummie's forefinger in his vice-like claw. Shouts evolved into screams. In the excitement of surprise and pain Chummie lost his balance and fell into the water. The Crustacean must have thought he had got a fine morsel for dinner. He was still holding on to the finger when the angler waded out; groan- ing with agony. Lanky's sheath knife soon put an end to the Yabbie's squeeze. E 63 Why is This Thus ? HE flora of this Giant Island stands first in the world for uniqueness, variety and charm. This land is not a "Museum of Antiquities" as some have declared. It is the "Meeting House" of Indian, South American and African plant life. This wealth of variety puts us first also in insects and birds. Thus Australia is, of all places, the spot for the study of the "Law of Purpose," or co-adaptation between flower, insect and bird. This special line of stucfy brings man into touch with every branch of Nature and a threefold interest is added to life. Undoubtedly the unfolding of "Purpose" is the true road to the origin and end of all life and matter. It is also wonderful how Nature herself will answer the question, "Why is this thus?" Walking along the banks of the River Forth, in Tasmania, I was impressed by the appearance here and there of a Banksia tree with small, erect spikes of yellow flowers. These were almost hidden amongst pale green leaves and dark brown twigs. Yellow, green and brown. Why is this tree here, and why these colours? were just upon my tongue, when a Honeyeater Bird, with yellow, green and brown feathers, lit upon a flower spike and started to feast on the nectar. Protection and provision for bird life was the mission of that tree. When taking in the striking craggy and abrupt scenery of 65 Why is This Thus? the Victorian Grampians of Australia; I came across many species of plants; with adaptative forms, colours and habit. This mighty uplift and partly tilted granitic, silicious and upper tertiary forma- tion is in places very imposing. The rearing, over- hanging faces of Mt. Abrupt and Mt. Sturgeon are unique. It was on the western slopes of these mounts that I got into a heathlike belt of vegetation. Dwarf Eucalypts, Grevilleas and Papilionaceous shrubs abounded. These were enlivened by small bushes (Styphelias) covered with red flowers; and clumps of blue grass lilies and bright rose fringed Irids. Sitting on my heels, absorbed in watching the insect pollenation of a remarkable flower, I was suddenly disturbed by the sound of something thumping the ground. Not wishing to disturb the insect I was watching through the lens-magnifying glass, I quietly turned my head in the direction of the sound. To my amazement, there was a huge Old Man Kangaroo standing erect and gazing at me with large brown eyes. It was evidently wonder- ing which variety of Kangaroo it had come across. The expression on its face was certainly "What are you?" To solve the question, and not wanting the Kangaroo to jump on me, I slowly stood erect and displayed a taller frame, and a hairier face than his. The poor old chap got such a fright that he did not give himself time to turn round. He fell over, picked himself up and bounded away into the forest. No more "Why" for him. One of the queerest of flowers is the Stylidea common to all Australia. It is a grass-like plant with the pink flowers arranged on the top of a tall stalk. Hanging over the side of each flower there is a peculiar growth the shape of the human arm. 66 Why is This Thus? Elbow, wrist, and shoulder joints, with a perfect hand. This hand is a weld of the stamens and pistils the fertilising organs of the flower. When a bee lights on the top of the flower and inserts the proboscis in search of honey this arm comes up with lightning speed and slaps the insect on the back. It of course receives a scare, clears, and vows never to visit that flower again. Another species of insect with a tuft of fine hair on its back comes along, probes for honey, receives the slap without feeling. It then passes on to another flower and, unknown to itself, carries the pollen from flower to flower, and so ensures cross-fertilisation. The spring hand places the pollen on the tuft of hair. The next hand takes it off and is thus fecundated. These Stylideas were not made for bees. I have counted eighteen species of insects visiting these flowers, but only one species which really relished them. Sitting on top of a low log fence, watching a group of these Trigger plants with the aid of field glasses, I was lost in the fun of slaps, and scares of flower and insect. Suddenly my fun was changed into breathless fright and a tumbling fall. Un- known to me there was a ferocious old bull in the paddock formed by the fence. Something must have annoyed his bovine majesty; perhaps my peculiar perch; perhaps my laughter. Anyhow he objected to my presence, and made me acquainted with his presence by a bulloid grunt and jumping plunge. Looking behind to see what all the noise was about; aimed horns, snorting nostrils and flar- ing eyes met my gaze. Fortunately I tumbled to the other side of the fence. Regaining my breath I laid hold of a big stick and gave that 6; Why is This Thus P unscientific animal a good talking to. Of course, the fence was between us. In some of the driest parts of Australia we have shrubs and small growing trees of the Protean order of plants. They reyel in Central Australian conditions, and, with their dark green leathery leaves tufted on the ends of thick-barked contorted branches, add a charm to the landscape. These grotesque and interesting plants are not survivals of a struggle for existence. They and their sur- roundings are in perfect harmony, as can be seen in any of those falsely called "deserts," which are veritable botanical gardens and constitute ideal camping grounds for lovers of Nature. It was in one of these disintegrated sandstone patches that I was led to follow the tracks of Kangaroos young and old all trending in one direction. By the aid of field glasses I noticed these animals wandering amongst a lot of Protean bushes. On reaching the spot I found that the Kangaroos had been drinking the sweet liquid in the wonderful cup flowers of this plant. The florets composing the large terminal clusters or heads at the end of each branch, are so arranged as to form perfect cups of various sizes. These are erect and contain honey during the sum- mer season when water is scarce. The smaller flowers are lowest on the bushes and within reach of the little Kangaroos; the larger ones high up, for the "Old Man" Kangaroo. The pollen of the flowers is on the rim; thus the animal carries it on the hairs of its face, from flower to flower, and in return for a drink fertilizes the flowers. 68 God More Merciful Than Man Trf T was a beautiful home. There it stood on the outskirts of a busy manufacturing city in England, the suburban residence of a prosperous merchant. To look at the well-kept garden surrounding a well- appointed house was to envy the owner and occu- pants. But to see the merchant walking from his home to the street; hail a cab to take him to the city, was to create perplexing thoughts. The slight- ly bent head, scowled brow and compressed lips did not harmonise with the outward appearance of his home. There was a time when he used to have a chat with his gardener about the latest roses, bulbs and annuals before going to his business. This the gardener relished, for every man likes his employer to take some interest in his work But the ten minutes' talk dwindled to a cold "Fine day," or "Cold morning," and at last to riot even a nod of the head. In his city offices there was perfect har- mony. It was brisk methods all the time. Nothing allowed to interfere in the matter of money making. Going to and from the home he was a different man. Why? A drunken wife. After the Qod more Merciful than Man second child was born she developed the craving for alcohol. Some said it was because of her father having died drunk. Others attributed it to brandy given her after a painful operation. Many blamed the husband for being too absorbed in making money to pay much attention to his wife. But whatever the cause or causes, there it was. In that beautiful building one of the greatest curses a home can have a drunken mother. All efforts failed to stop her. Drink she would have. Home and child- ren were neglected, the husband ignored, until it seemed as though some fiend possessed her and was determined to ruin her body, blast her home, and damn her soul. As far as possible, the affair was kept from publicity. Only the immediate friends of the household and the servants knew. For his sake and that of the two children a boy and girl the gardener and servants often hid her away when visitors called. At last it became more than a cold busi- ness man could stand. Returning home from his office, after a harassing day's work, he found his wife rolling drunk in the dining- room. Crockery and silverware broken and scattered in all directions. The two children crying and being comforted by the housekeeper. That night and all next day he had her kept under close watch; then when it was dark he led her to the gate, after compelling her to dress in jacket, hat, gloves, etc. Putting a purse of money into her pocket he opened the gate, pushed her out, and said, "Go and never darken the door of this house again. The sooner you are dead the better." These were the last words she heard her husband utter. The poor wretched outcast, 70 Qod more Merciful than 'Man victim of alcohol, wandered out into the dark muttering to herself, "The sooner you are dead the better." A month later the husband received a letter from her asking for 30 to take her right away from England. That and more was sent. Years came and went. The children grew up. At first the poor worse than mother- less little ones cried for "mammy." Often it was "Where has mother gone?" Later on it was "Father hadn't we *a mother the same as other children?" To all these and other questions the father would say "never mind," or "don't bother," or "you are far better without a mother." But the lad never forgot his mother. All photo- graphs had been destroyed; but the face of his mother was indelibly fixed on his mind. On attain- ing the age of manhood he pleaded with his father to know something about her. It was then he heard the sad story of his alcoholic-smitten mother. A common case of a modern devil-possessed person. Then the son understood the cold, never-smiling, absorbed manner of the father. He pitied his father's cheerless, loveless life; but he pitied his mother the most. "Where did she go? Where is she now?" were questions often uttered by the son. Two years after the son was initiated into the firm's business, the father was killed in a railway smash. His death was instantaneous, not a moment for preparation, as every occupant of the sleeping car was suddenly crushed into eternity. God more Merciful than Man There are few places in this world to compare with the peaceful, charming scenery and life of our inland Australian rivers. The Goulburn, Murray, Murrumbidgee, Lachlan, Castlereagh, Uarling, Paroo and Barcoo Rivers present to the eye hun- dreds of delightful nooks, dells, sylvan slopes, natural parks, mysterious .bends and unsurpassed river reaches. As a rule these rivers are fringed with giant Eucalypti, and here and there a Cyprus Pine ridge. Often these Pine ridges are the sites of pastoralists' homes, or irrigation settlements and little townships. In the older settled districts lots of these small villages have developed into thriving towns trading centres. Some of these inland towns are very picturesque with their river situa- tions, extensive street tree plantings and surround- ing undulations. One of the most delightful of these is Billabong. Partly surrounded by low bush-covered hills; blessed with rich alluvial flats; the river near by; on a main stock and rail route; and at an altitude of 610 feet above sea level; there are few places with more advantages than Billabong. The streets have been judiciously laid out and planted with suitable trees, which, combined with the very creditable buildings, make a charming little city. Being the centre of a very large district of wool, beef, wheat and fruit production, business as a rule is brisk. Unfortunately on account of its being a centre to "Wayback" parts, it is also the centre of attraction to those who only work to get a cheque for the proverbial "knocking down" process, which simply means drink and women. Also it had in those days a "Chinese Camp," the resort of those who wanted to waft their sorrows on the fumes of opium. Thus, behind the scenes of this bonnie 72 God more Merciful than Man town, there were the desolating footprints of the Power of Evil man's enemy. It was in this Chinese Camp where Sunday after Sunday a small band of earnest Christians sang, spoke and prayed. More than one abandoned profligate and opium victim was influenced and rescued. Marvellous trophies of saving grace were won. Two were the sons of Presbyterian ministers in Scotland. One the son of a clergyman. No less than five were scholars with degrees. One had been an officer in the British Army. Several were once in good business positions. Many fallen sisters were put on to their feet again and restored to friends and ways of virtue. It was indeed a noble work carried on by men and women who worked during the week and devoted their Sundays to such a Christ-like work. They did indeed, by the help of their Master Christ, "cast out devils." Just on the precincts of the town and not so very far from this camp; one of these workers, with his wife and children, lived in a comfortable little cot- tage. Methodist blood flowed through their veins, hence it was their joy to help in this work of rescuing the perishing. This home was known by those who were down. Many a poor tramp had received a feed there; on principle never a coin. One fine afternoon Mrs. Barton was as usual sing- ing and humming the songs of Zion whilst at her household work. The little folk were away at school; the husband away in pursuit of his avoca- tion. A knock at the door stopped the sound of song, and on the kindly housewife opening it. there stood a tall, cleanly-looking woman, somewhere near 50 years of age. 73 God more Merciful than Man "Sorry to trouble you, madam; but hearing you singing those hymns, and feeling very unwell, I got courage to come and ask if you would kindly let me lie down on a bed or sofa. I feel about done." "Certainly, come in at once. I'll fix up a bed for you, then you can rest for as long as you like. You had better let me make you a cup of tea," said Mrs. Barton. "Oh, yes. If it is not asking too much. Such a sinking feeling has come over me. God pity me, I do try to fight against it." Mrs. Barton was greatly puzzled over her. The clean garments and neat appearance did not in- dicate a vagrant. The genteel manner, speech and well kept hair told of better days. There was a refinement about the woman which did not harmon- ize with the flabby skin and restless eyes. Who and what could she be? Every now and then Mrs. Barton had a peep in and could see that the poor woman was trying to sleep; but it was a restless effort. After watering some plants in the garden and think- ing the children would be returning from school, she went into the room to see how the poor creature was getting on. To her surprise she had gone. Past experience led her to look round the rooms and see if anything else had gone. Nothing had been touched and the woman had left her bag with a note asking her to keep the contents until she returned. The contents were very few only a change of under garments and a clean apron. On another piece of paper she had written "Many thanks for your kindness. I tried to sleep; but failed! No hope." All this more than mystified Mrs. Barton. The bag and its contents were put into a safe place, 74 God more Merciful than Man and quiet inquiries made of neighbours. The only information obtained was, a lady of that description had been seen for two or three days about the neighbourhood. Two days after this mysterious visit and de- parture, Mr. and Mrs. Barton were rather surprised to see a buggy pull up at the front gate and three gentlemen alight. Two strangers and the Captain of the local Salvation Army Corps. It did not take many minutes to explain how one of them, an English gentleman, was touring the world on rather a sad errand in search of his mother. "You see, Mrs. Barton," said the Salvation Army Captain, "he naturally called on us, for as you know we do a large work in the lost friend line. And in conversation I told him of your husband and his extensive travels." "And being a traveller," chimed in the English- man, "I expressed a wish to see Mr. Barton. Now have we the good fortune to catch him at home?' "Yes, for a wonder, you have. I'll call him." For about an hour the conversation ran on travels. Different countries were re-visited in imagination, and then the Englishman told the story of his poor, alcoholic cursed mother. Turning to Mr. Barton he said, with tears in his eyes: "If I could only know that my mother is dead, and not struggling in want and misery, I would be satisfied. This uncertainty is unbearable." "Where was the last trace of her?" questioned Mrs. Barton. "Sydney! She was there four years ago. At least there was a letter at the dead letter office for her. I got that letter and saw that it was in answer 75 God more Merciful than Man to an application for a position as 'elderly at- tendant.' ' "Have you a photograph or any of her writing?" eagerly asked Mrs. Barton. "Yes. See this. It was taken 22 years ago. That is what mother was then. I was about 10 at that time." Mrs. Barton scanned the photo. She had seen that face before. Where was it? "Was your mother tall?" "Yes, rather tall," he said. "And tell me. What was the colour of her eyes and hair?" "Brown. Both hair and eyes." "Her initials?" "Why Mrs. Barton, you are like a lawyer," said the Captain. "You are going into details." "Certainly I am, and that is why I want the name." "C. H." replied the son. Mrs. Barton went into the spare bedroom and returned with the bag and contents. On each clean garment there were the letters C.H. She then told them the story of the woman's desire for a rest, and unseen departure. The writing on the note in the bag was carefully compared with the handwriting of his mother's last letter to his father, which the son had got with him. It was the same. All English reserve was cast on one side. Right enough this woman whom Mrs. Barton had helped was his lost wandering mother. Now to find her. Poor fellow. Little did he know of the wretcEed, heart breaking, and mind disgusting sight there was awaiting the finish of his long mother search. 76 God more Merciful than Man Every hotel and boarding house was visited. En- quiries made in all directions. At last the Captain suggested the Opium Dens in the Chinese Camp. There, stretched on a couch, was his mother, lost to all her surroundings in the fumes of opium. An unfortunate slave to the stimulants and sudorifics. The son recognised her as his mother. All he could say was "My poor mother." Tears refused to flow, grief filled his heart; and then covering his eyes with both hands, to shut out the awful sight of his fallen mother, he quietly walked out and away back to the Bartons. Next day he made legal, financial arrangements with a respectable family of Salva- tionists to look after his mother as long as she lived. His mother was not to want under any circum- stance. Under the kindly care of these good people the devil-possessed slave was slowly weaned from drink and opium. A real heartfelt religion was brought to bear on her, and she sought pardon from the "Friend of Sinners." He forgave and forgot. A few short years of quiet Christian experience and trust, she passed away to that Home in the Skies where Evil has no power. The strong, world-ab- sorbed husband died without a chance of seeking pardon from Him who said, "If ye do not forgive others, neither will your Father forgive you." 77 The Race for a Jfe HE night was dark, and made darker still by the towering trees arching the track. Further on the black colour of the soil turned the darker dark into the darkest of darkness. Still, Shand, in spite of this blackness, did not slacken the speed of his horses. On passing from the open grass tree country into the forest depths, he changed his saddle on to the horse he knew was safest and surest in the dark. The stillness of those miles of forest, accustomed to be only slightly broken by the weird, mournful tones of the solitary-loving bird the Mopoke was now rent by the clanging of horses' hoofs. He needed no whip or spur. Shand and his horses were as one. They took it turn about to carry their master. He was a crack bushman not a born one, for he was reared in the city, and spent the first 13 years of his life amongst brick walls, asphalt paths and chimney stacks. But like thousands of others, when once in the bush, he took to bushcraft like a duck takes to water. In fact it was this love for the bush which led him to become a peripatetic back block preacher, to devote his life to Christian work in the heaviest forest district of Australia. More than once during holiday SF 79 The Race for a Life seasons Shand had penetrated the innermost re- cesses of these forest mountain depths. In doing so he had often received the rural, unconventional hospitality of the people carving out their homes fiom Nature's wildest wilderness, Struck with the naturalness, grit and independent bearing of these people, and coming across numerous instances of nobleness of character, he was led to become their friend, news agent, nurse, doctor, and missionary, all in one. On this occasion he was riding hard to save the life of a brave man who had been suddenly stricken with a terrible sickness. Shand, by a form of instinct, realised that if certain medicines were not procured and administered within three days, a widow and seven orphans would be mourning the death of a husband and father. To reach the nearest doctor and chemist meant a distance of 180 miles, there and back. Mountains, valleys, swamps, rivers and plains to be crossed. He could and would do it. After 90 miles' hard riding, he pulled up at a doctor's residence, a little after daylight. A few minutes of Shand's descriptions of the poor man's symptoms enabled the medico to grasp the case and give a prescription, with the statement that if the medicine was given within 34 hours and certain instructions carried out, there was a chance of sav- ing the man's life. The local chemist did the mixing, and after man and beast had stopped the pangs of hunger, the return journey was com- menced. For the first few miles they were exposed to the full fury of a North-Wester in having to cross a plain. Everything soon put on the appearance of being parched. Dust almost blinded them. So that it was a relief when they passed from the wind 80 The Race for a Life swept plains into the cool and shelter of the forest track. They had not gone far, when above the roar and rattle of wind in the high trees and falling of limbs there rang out the rough tones of a bushman: "Hello Parson! Whatever are you doing here?" "Why, my man, you almost scared me," said Shand. "I was half asleep. Oh, I see. Well, well, and it's Trewhella. Glad to see you. How's Bessie?" "Bess. Thanks to you bringing that mixture, she's better. But what job are you on now," ques- tioned the bushman. "The same. I'm just making tracks back to the Tyers Range with stuff for Laundry. You know he got blood poisoned and I'm hoping, for the sake of his wife and children, that he will hold out until I get back. Doctor says there is a chance for him." "What," said the bushman. "Do you mean to say that you have been into Woogong for medicine. You'll not get back before Friday." "Pardon me, Trewhella. Dead or alive, I'll be at Laundry's by a little after sundown to-morrow. My horses are in good fettle and they seem to know what the hurry is for. Good bye. Love to all the little Trewhellas." "Good luck, Parson. Hope you'll get through all right. Keep a look out for fires. If one gets a start to-day with this blazer on, it will be a blaze! So long." This hint about the bush fire set Shand thinking as he again got his horses on the gallop. He thought of the "New Hands" who had recently started at the Top Gully Saw Mills. A drunken, careless lot, not yet drilled into caution and guard by the dreaded fires. With the old hands the match was never thrown on to the ground until, by habit, it 81 The Race for a Life was blown out and rubbed in the hands. The in- creased force of the overhead gale caused limbs to fall crashing to the ground. This enspirited the horses and made them more than ever alert. For- tunately this was so, for a sudden plunge forward saved Shand's life. The branchlets of a falling tree knocked his hat off. A delay of a few seconds and he would have been crushed to death. When dark- ness crept on the gale slackened, and the falling of branches stopped. This enabled Shand to forge ahead all night long. By daylight the top of the "Divide" was reached and here, at the foot of one of Australia's giant trees, they rested and fed. At a spring near by Shand filled his billy and soon had it on the boil. Biscuits and tea refreshed the inner man and he was ready before the horses had finished their feed of bran, oats and chaff. Stretch- ing his limbs and shaking his whole frame to drive away the desire for sleep which every now and then crept upon him, he strolled to a knoll which gave him a view of the surrounding country. There with bared head he worshipped and thanked God. Turn- ing to make back to his horses he noticed a moving bank of smoke away to the west. A bush fire, lulled by the dropping of the gale. "What if the North-Wester sprang up again," thought he. His track would be blocked. Tyer's Range isolated and Laundry would have to die. Not another moment was lost. "Now boys, we've got to reach Laundry's or die in the attempt." On and on they went, crossing creeks, climbing mountain sides, negotiating ledges, jumping fallen trees and getting through brushwood and branches. An oppressive stillness filled the forest, causing 82 The Race for a Life horses and rider to drip with perspiration. This was, to Shand, the warning that hurricane forces were gathering to rush the fire fiend across the whole district. In the distance his expert ears de- tected the muffled roar of storm. Louder and louder it grew, until the muffle ceased and it became one crashing, rushing, howling sweep. Leaves, branches and bark carried along like feathers, were mixed with smoke. The already hot wind was doubly heated, and in less than an hour the crashing noise was developed into the roar and bang of a thousand cannons. The smoke, heat, rush, roar and wreck- age of a real Australian bush fire is simply in- describable. Still the Bush Parson and his faithful steeds pushed on in defiance of it all. The dense tall forest to windward prevented Shand seeing the raging fire; but he knew it was getting nearer. If he could only cross the Wombat Creek before it swept past there was a chance of getting through. Pieces of burning bark carried overhead by the gale, shattered all his hopes. The fiery monster was on them. The noise was now deafening. A mile on there was a water logged morass. If that could not be reached, man and horses must perish. They knew it. Through fire above and fire below, chocking and blinded with smoke they galloped and bounded along and over debris and burning limbs, until they buried themselves in three feet of mud, sand and water. Shand imitated the horses, by keeping his nose close to the water, thus enabling him to breathe. For two hours the fiery fury roared, rushed and thundered around them, like a mighty army trying to take a fort. The fiends failed. The sound of battle passed away to the east. A black, 83 The Race for a Life smouldering, ashy scene of desolation, death and wreckage left to tell the tale of a bush fire. When Shand and his horses got out on to dry land a feeling of exhaustion came over him, and to re- cover ne laid down on a piece of unburnt grass near the swamp. Looking at the horses, with their manes and tails destroyed by the fire, he passed his hand over his head and face to learn how he himself had fared. Hair and whiskers had got to crisp and patches. Then a faint gripped him and he fell back insensible. On returning to consciousness he felt something rubbing his arm. With a great effort he opened his eyes, and there was one of his horses trying to waken him. At Shand' s look and smile the poor animal gave a grunt and chuckle of delight. The atmosphere had cleared of its smoke, and after a wash in the creek, man and horses were winding in and out of smouldering logs. Ascending a slight slope he reached a small plateau of Messmate country which the fire had left a blackened mass. Something unusual attracted his notice, and making a slight deviation, he came up to four wagon wheel tyres standing erect, each in its place. Shand soon saw that one of Jackson's bullock wagons had been loaded with logs and abandoned on the approach of the fire. The pole, frame, spokes, naves, felloes and logs had gone to charcoal and ashes, leaving the tyres erect like four huge hoops. The rest of the ironwork was on the ground, and there, stretched ahead, were the pull chains and the iron of the yokes. The lot told the story of terrific and blasting heat. "Where are the men and the bullocks?" ques- tioned the Missionary's heart. "Where?" 84 The Race for a Life All traces obliterated. No smell of burning flesh or hide. Reaching an outcrop of sandstone he put his hands in trumpet shape to his mouth and sent a coo-ee ringing through the fire -blasted bush. Again and again he tried, but received no reply, save the die-away echo of his own voice. Shand's strong point was duty, and realising his first duty was to Laundry, he once more got into a bounding gallop, determined to reach his goal before dark. About two miles on, after descending to a deep gully and passing through a glade of Tree Ferns, shorn of their beauty by the fire, he had to make across a swamp similar to the one which saved him. Whilst his horses were drinking, faint noises of human voices came from the direction in which he was going. He coo-eed and his heart gave a thump when the thrilling answer came back. Riding on he was soon greeted by: "By jingo, it's the Parson!" "Wherever have you been?" "Who's your barber?" "I say, Mr. Shand, you have been in a hot place." "You're right, chaps," said Shand. "I've got through, so far, by God's help. But I was thinking about you fellows. I saw the tyres of your waggon standing up like ironwork round a family grave. I'm right glad to see you all alive." "And we're glad to see you. We've had a narrow shave. The fire doubled on us and then swung right round. We had just time to unhitch the bul- locks and run them through a belt of fire into this swamp. I suppose we must be thankful." Whilst joining in a cup of billy tea Shand related his experiences, and before resuming his journey he said: "Men. Let us be men and give thanks to God 85 The Race for a Life for sparing our lives. You who've still got hats take them off and I'll pray." He prayed, bade them good-bye, and went on his life-saving ride; but not before more than one man gripped him by the hand and said: "Thank you, Sir. We are a rough lot; but God knows we are grateful." On side-tracking the slope down to Musk Creek he noticed that the wind must have chopped round before the fire reached the bottom of the valley. The other side was in all the glory of its blend of Acacias, Eucalypt and Treeferns. How refreshing to the eye after all the miles of charcoal and ash through which he had ridden. It also told him that Tyers Range had escaped. Laundry's would not be burnt out. This cheered the Missionary's heart. Another half mile and he would be out of Inferno. Suddenly he was almost unseated by the rearing of his horse. In fact both animals snorted and swerved at a strange looking object moving up the track down which they were going. Shand looked and wondered. What could it be? Rounding a bend in the track the strange moving mass lengthened out, then Shand concluded it was two blackfellows leading peculiar animals. His horses became more restive than ever and not wishing to scare them too much, he swung off and left the track for the strange cavalcade. "Mate. What are you doing over there? There's no track that way. You'll get bushed as sure as a gun," rang out from one of the supposed blacks. "It's my horses I'm thinking about, not the track," replied Shand. "Why, you chaps have nearly scared the life out of theni and myself as 86 The Race for a Life well. I could not make you out. Whatever have you got there?" "Four sacks of dry grass, Mister. We left our home or rather where it used to be at daybreak to get grass to make a bed for mother and dad. The fire cleared everything. Only the twisted iron of the bedsteads to tell where the house stood. Poor mother and father lost their sight in fighting the fire. It'll be midnight before we get back to them." Four chaff bags filled and more than filled with grass sticking out high above the sacks. These >J were suspended on each side of the horses. Each lad with face and hands as black as ever black- fellow was leading a horse. No wonder Shand and his nags got a fright. "Good heavens! Why, you are Marston's boys. You don't mean to say that the fire crossed the Bottom Creek and got on to your ridge?" "Yes, Mr. Shand. Yesterday morning our place went into smoke, and we're afraid Dick's and Hardy's will have gone as well." "Good laddies to think of your mother. Push on home. Mother is home, you know. Tell her I'll be there day after to-morrow, if I can get a horse to take the place of old Tom here. He is nearly done for. This trip has been hard on him. Good old moke. So long boys." And the Missionary pushed on again. "Charlie. That's a man if you like. He calls us 'good lads'! His horse a 'good old moke.' What ought he to be called?" "That's it, Fred. Mother and Dad are fond of him. They think a lot of him. They call him their 'Preacher.' We'll call him the same, Fred." The Race for a Life "Good idea, Charlie. Never thought of that. Of course, a Preacher is a fellow who knocks about, talks to anybody, and does all sorts of good things. My word, Shand' s our all right Preacher." '"Course he is. Didn't we hear as how he'd gone right away to Woogong to save Laundry's life at the Tyers. But come on, Fred. Let's get home. He said mother was home. Come on." Two or three hours before the two brave lads made a bed for their parents, Shand slipped into Laundry's house. The face of the heart-broken wife was gladdened and the fever-racked body of the delirious husband relieved. Before daylight the temperature was greatly reduced. Laundry started to mend. Shand then slept. His horses rested and regaled themselves on dry feed with alternate feasts of rich green grass and clover. Next day, and for four days after, our noble self-denying Bush Preacher was not only the mes- senger of hope and comfort to the homeless forest people; but the dispenser of ointments, plasters, lotions, bandages, food and clothing. 88 Freedom; or Eve's Dad Y jingo, I can't stand this. And what's more, I won't try." Down went his foot. The jaws were tightly shut. The mind calmed and then Ted settled the matter of his life. At school and in the home manliness had been taught as the highest aim in life. From school he went into the office of a manufacturer who could be all things just as it suited him. Saint, sinner, gentleman, blackguard, toady and bully; or honest, cheat, philanthropic, mean, angelic and devilish, all in one day. Unfortunately, this is not a rare species of employer. I have met them my- self. Ted was puzzled at first. Then amazed, and at last disgusted, to find such an unmanly human being in existence. His first question to himself was, "Why do these people put up with such a brute?" He heard him talk to his employees as though they were dogs made to do his bidding. Creatures brought into existence to make money for him. When Ted got to know the circumstances of his fellow employees, he found it was only those who were too poor to be independent who received the outbursts of his temper. Sometimes this modern slaver would make a mistake by venting his venom on a freeman. Then it was, "Do your own work yourself. I'm not your dog." Thus hands were 89 Freedom; or, Eve's Dad coming and going; whilst the poor slaves to some hard circumstance such as "keeping a mother/' or being the "only support of the family," had to grin and bear the curses and insults of this polished hypocrite. One day a clergyman called. For several minutes the office took on the atmosphere of church vestry. The sanctimonious smile veneered the employer's rotund face, as he spoke about his dear departed wife. "I wish you had known her. She was such an indefatigable church worker." He did not mention that he married another within three months of her death. "Yes. Oh, of course," he would see that a sub- scription list for funds to buy a pipe organ was posted up in the factory and office. He would see that all gave to "such a noble cause." "You are good," said the clergyman. "No, no, my dear sir. That is nothing. We must do all the good we can." And then the villain smiled. This was the last straw to Ted's back. It was this which brought the determined exclamation from him. Within a few weeks Ted's opportunity came. His employer was ropable. Tenders in a particular line had been called for, and a com- peting manufacturer had secured the contract. When this was known on the works, "We'll cop out to-day" was passed along. And so they would, had not the tyrant started in the office. His language was awful on this particular morning. To him all the office hands "were worse than fools." Why he employed "such a lot of mongrels" was a mystery to him. Down went Ted's pen, and with four steps he faced the bully. 90 Freedom; or, Eve's T)ad "I dare you to say that I am a mongrel. Young as I am I can use my fists. Say that again if you dare." The big cowardly bully turned pale, trembled, and walked out of the' office. Ted went to his desk. Wrote out his resignation, with a clear statement as to why, and then marched out himself. He did not forget to say as he passed out, "Chaps, I am sorry for you." Ted's father was very angry when he learned for the first time of this modern tyranny. Visiting a few of the operatives' friends, and finding it was all too true, he consulted his solicitors, with the result that the tyrant manufacturer Had to forward a letter of apology to his son. When once a human being begins to think that his fellow beings are targets for the bullets of his temper, and prey for his octopus greed, he ought to be branded as an enemy of his race. Ted's inherent love of nature and independent spirit made him totally unsuited for any life which demanded servility. Snobbery and tyranny were his pet dislikes, and whenever they came his way, resentment took place. Hence he was always in trouble. He lacked the power to bottle his feelings. After repeated trials at various occupations, rie approached his father with the not unexpected request, "It's no good, father. I'm not made for these lines of life. I must have freedom. What is the good of living in this big country if we cannot be free? I want to get out-back and on to the land; and I want to do it myself. How much money can you spare me?" "My lad, I was expecting this. I can let you have "250. So if you will go to the land, you are Freedom; or, Eve's 'Dad welcome to that sum. Only remember when that is gone there is no more. Not another penny." "That is more than enough, father. You'll see I will carve my way to independence on that." In less than a month Ted was on the hunt for land. Plans and maps had been consulted. Land offices invaded, and now he was seeing for himself. His father said, "Don't buy a pig in a poke." He was following out that advice, and had got into a locality of great promise. The whole scene smacked of freedom. Nature was unshackled, and all her sub- jects and objects were revelling in life. Myrtles, Palms, Hoop Pines, and Aralias were free to display their different habits of growth and foliage. Myriads of erect, supple, eucalypt saplings, aspiring to take the place of their towering parents. Climbers of every hue and form, too weak in themselves to stand erect, receiving the friendly help from trees young and old. High on the old limbs, above the tangled growth, staghorn ferns and orchids thrived in and on places provided by the trees. The feathered beings of these sylvan vales and slopes flit and flew, hopped and perched, chirped, croaked, twitted, shrieked, piped, whistled, sawed, cawed, groaned, and howled just as they pleased or fancied. Honey, fruit, seed, insect, and grub were theirs to eat just when, where, and how they liked. Bees hummed, flies buzzed, and butterflies jerked and darted on their jaunty, careless inspection of flower, leaf and bark. This all-pervading spirit of freedom laid hold of Ted as he was riding along the bullock- waggon made track. "Why should I hurry?" thought he. "This is all right. I'll rest here, and give the horse a chance to feed," 92 Freedom; or, Eve's Dad To be on the safe side, Ted hobbled the horse. It could then feast on the grass, whilst he was taking in the glorious surroundings. Suddenly the birds stopped their merry chatter. Ted's dog growled a quiet, wondering growl. On and on the narrow track a rider and horse came at full possible speed. The rider bent forward, and with whip and spur urged the foaming, snorting steed with all his might. He was so eager in his flight that he passed Ted and the dog unheeded. Another minute, and to the horror of Ted, the rider and horse plunged heavily to the ground. The hobbled nag feeding behind a clump of wattles, frightened by the noise, sprang on to the track just as the galloping horse reached the spot. The already over-excited and over-urged animal swerved to avoid a collision. In doing so, it slipped and fell headlong with a terrible crash. The rider was dead. His neck broken. The horse crippled, and doomed to be shot. Hearing the sound of more riders, Ted hastily lit a fire on the track. This had the effect of pulling up four riders who were coming on at tip-top speed. Later on, when the crippled horse was put out of its misery, and the dead man searched, and explana- tions made, the leader of the four riders a magis- trate said to Ted, "Your horse Has robbed the hangman of a job. That villain shot one of the best old men in this district last night. Shot him for 10. The poor old chap sold a horse for that sum, and the wretch there saw him being paid. These are the two $ notes. We got their numbers from the auctioneers." "Well, that's awful," said Ted. "A man's life not worth 10. " 93 Freedom; or, Eve's Dad "Ten pounds. There are animals we call men who place no value on the lives of others. Anyhow, we have got one less of such brutes in the world. If there is a hell, that cove will get it hot. He deserves a hell." Ted listening to this, naturally thought of the manufacturers who placed no value on human lives, other than when they contributed to their pleasure. Mentally Ted placed them in the same category as the sudden life taker, who had come to a sudden end. To make life a long, weary burden is a crime of diabolic degree. The old man's funeral was a great affair. Almost to a man the district turned -out. Pity for the old pioneer, and jaw-grinding disgust for the murderer played alternately on the faces of these hard- working, home-carvers, as they stood around the open bush grave. This was Ted's first experience of a way-back gathering. As he took in the bear- ings and facial expressions of these Australian back-blockers, his heart warmed towards them. Mills the "Bush Missionary" was simplicity itself in the burial service. His garb showed more of the stockman than the cleric. The ring of his voice told more of home than ecclesiastical edifice. His manner was man to man. He had covered a good many miles of rough country to pay his last respects to "poor old Joyce." "Is there a man in the crowd who ever knew Tom Joyce to do a mean action? Did he ever take a man down?" questioned Mills. The negative murmur and movement of the head came from every man. "And you never knew Tom Joyce to lose a chance of doing a man a good turn if it was in his power 94 Freedom; or, Eve's Dad to do so. He had the spirit of that ideal man Jesus of Nazareth." ''That's right, Mr. Mills," shouted one of the bystanders. "He did me more than one good turn. I'll not forget him." After the funeral, the Bush Missionary was eager to see the horse which stopped the murderer, and caused his neck to be broken. This led up to a chat, which culminated in Ted accepting the parson's offer. "You come with me; I shall be glad of your com- pany. I'm just starting a call on all the selectors in my district. It will only take a month. You will see how things go. Of course, we'll have to take 'pot luck;' but you'll soon be able to live on anything and sleep anywhere. I can guarantee a good time anyhow." A hundred and forty homes were entered. Homes in all stages, from the gunyah of boughs, the bark humpy and tent, to the green brick, corrugated iron and weatherboard houses. Clearings from the first fallen tree to the 5o-acre corn patch, with maize plants striving to be trees, and pumpkins imagining they were grape vines. All sorts of people British, Danes, Germans, and Australians from all parts of the Commonwealth winning homes from Nature's wildness. That which struck Ted the most was the large proportion of young men who started life in cities. Men who like himself chafed under the yoke of "high-pressure money making methods;" and who had made a bolt for freedom and from under the multiplicity of masters. Nature was now their only master. Closer contact dispelled that absurd conception of the pioneer settler as an unkempt, uncombed, laceless, braceless, slovenly yarhooh. G 95 Freedom; or, Eve's Dad He looked in vain for that mentally-conceived indi- vidual with crooked legs, arched back, hanging arms, drooping jaw, and drivelling nose set in a vacant, imbecile face. The "Cockie" of a lot of books is a wicked libel on the Australian Wayback. They stand second to none in physique and intelli- gence. Ted had ample proof of this when, in the coolness of the night, they sat on logs and discussed topics from Imperial affairs to the last dodge of the Council to escape the making of roads and yet receive taxes. The few weeks' tour with the Bush Missionary passed all too soon, and now Ted had to decide as to which block he would apply for. Several of the men, and even families, suggested blocks near theirs; but there was one particular valley his mind would always revert to when dwell- ing upon this selection problem. And whenever he thought of this valley, a picture of rural simplicity and beauty came across his mental vision. It was that of a large, many-roomed slab building, with a bark roof, and a rustic skeleton verandah supporting grape vines, passion fruit, and climbing plants. About 400 yards away from this blend of bark, slab, post, fruit, foliage, and flower, a "cabbage patch" stocked with vegetables of every description. Hoeing in that garden a mother and daughter of about 1 8 summers. Near the fence, and shaded by a Mango tree, a bonny girl of six years, playing with a baby brother in a home-made "go-cart." This scene was indelibly painted on Ted's mind. Those female gardeners were not walking scare- crows; they were not fixed up in chaff -bags, with men's old hats on their heads and men's old boots on their feet. Light, loose print dresses, with good shady hats, constituted their garb. When the 96 Freedom; or, Eve's Dad younger Eve came to the fence and chatted with Mills the Missionary, it was seen that no other articles were needed to make a beautiful picture. The face, build, voice, eyes, and hair told on Ted. His first thought was, "What a shame to have this noble-looking girl here. Her place is in the city society." On second thought, it was: "No, that would never do. Her naturalness would go. She is better here." Somehow or other a block of land in that valley and that garden scene would insist upon getting mixed in Ted's mind. At the land court he was congratulated upon having secured one of the best blocks. This was a selection which had been forfeited by non-com- pliance with conditions, and the clearing out of the original selector. Ted was now the owner of 500 acres of forest and jungle covered land. "I forget your name, Mister," said the father of Eve; "but my word you're a lucky chap. Why, I tried hard to get it myself, and would have got it only for that chump of a runaway sailor putting in. It was no use to him. But there, I suppose you were to have it, and I think by your looks you'll make a good neighbour." "Thank you very much," said Ted. "I'll try to. You know I am a city cove, so you must not laugh at my blunders." "Oh, well, look here now, we'll help you. Don't you be afraid to come over and see us. We're not two miles away to the north of you. Anything you want to know in the land or cattle line, you come to us. You're welcome to what we know." With this, the settler went whistling away to his bark-roofed castle. Ted knew that he was Eve's dad. 97 Freedom; or, Eve's Dad And now the fight with wild, abundant Nature started. Blistered hands, aching limbs, perspiration and toil from daybreak to dark, told Ted of "two sides to every pursuit." But, like a true hero, he stuck to it. His battle-axe rang out all day long. The crash of falling giants told of his victories, and when roaring fires lit up the battlefield with their leaping flames at night time, Ted felt that he was winning his first battle a 2O-acre clearing. Acting on the advice of Eve's dad, he planted corn amongst the myriad stumps. i "It's time to plough and grub," said he, "when you've used up all the ash on land like yours. I could see your block was all loose volcanic. You won't want a plough for two or three years." The corn grew and cobbed to such an extent that one pair of hands made very little headway in the harvesting. Eve's dad, her big brother, and Eve herself came to the rescue. For four days they drove over, and a blend of picnicking and cob gathering took place. Eve took the part of cook and hostess. Ted's eyes were oftener on the cook than on the scones and tea. In reply to Ted's offer of payment, Eve's dad, in real bush off-handedness, said: "Don't you bother about that. Hang on to your money; you'll want it some day. You give us a week's clearing later on. It'll be a kind of a return visit. Then we'll cry quits." More than once Ted caught himself wishing the clearing would set in. When it did, and he was swinging his axe on Eve's dad's farm, word was sent from a neighbour's that a little girl was lost, and had been lost for two days. At Eve's dad's command, down went every tool. Ted took a bee- 98 Freedom; or, Eve's Dad line for his humpy, got his faithful dogs, and then reached the home of the distracted mother. Between sobs and cries of "My poor child; my poor girlie," Ted managed to procure some of the little girl's clothing. He rubbed the noses of his dogs with them, knowing that if she was to be found they would do it. "There, mother, don't cry," he said. "My dogs will find her." Looking up into his face, and then at the two eager dogs, the light of hope came into her face. "I believe they will. She used to talk about your dogs. They will know her." Every yard for a mile round the house had been searched in vain. On being told this, Ted started with his searchers to where the others had finished. His dogs refused to go. They harked back, and then returned to Ted, barking and trying to stop his onward march. At last, thinking his dogs knew more of this matter than he did, he followed them back. Soon their noses were near the ground, and instead of making for the dense jungle, they gradu- ally sniffed to a large, bare hill. Ted, scanning the hill, as others had done, concluded that his dogs had got on the scent of a wallaby, and not a child. But all his whistling, calling, and threatening could not make his dogs go in the direction he wanted. Angry with them, he decided to climb the hill, and let them go for whatever they had scented. Nearing the top, the dogs stopped, and started to scratch the earth and jump and bark. Then they ran towards Ted, and back again, keeping this up, until their master approached a hole, and there, about four feet down, he saw the little girl, alive. Investigations afterwards showed that the water 99 Freedom; or, Eve's Dad percolating from the top of the hill had washed out a hollow, leaving a shell or crust on top. The little wanderer had stood on the crust, which collapsed, and half buried the poor mite. How the mother patted those dogs, how Dad's Eve admired them, need not be described. Ted's horse and dogs were heroes in Eve's dad's house- hold. Happy, free, busy days rolled along. The Bush Missionary, at Ted's invitation, came to initiate religious services in a rough building put up by will- ing hands. The old-fashioned Methodist tea meeting and speeches followed the Sunday services. His reverence was the guest of Eve's dad; so that at the close of all the festivities, dad, mother, Eve, the missionary, and Ted sauntered in the moonlight towards home. Ted, on going part of the way, bade them "Good-bye," and was on the point of walking away with his dogs, when Eve called them to her side, saying: "I must pat your good doggies again for finding that little girl. Good doggies." The others had gone on. Now was Ted's chance to test something which had been on his mind for a long time. Did Eve feel towards him as he to her? He would try. "They would be good dogs if they found some- thing for their master," he said. In Eveish style, Dad's Eve said: "Don't you think they have? Look at them." At once Ted took it in. He has never forgotten that scene. His dogs, one on each side of Eve, as though on guard. "Yes," said he, "I believe they have round me a girl." He went with Eve all the way home that 100 Freedom; or, Eve's Dad night. Twelve months witnessed the evolution of Ted's hut into a house. His batching days were over. Thousands of times Ted has blessed the day when he struck for liberty, and gained the freedom of the bush and Eve. IOI The Lonely Man of the Plains OOKER was part and parcel of Nature herself. He never felt lonely in the Bush. The only time he didn't know where he was, and in a complete muddle, was when surrounded with bricks and mortar. Streets and lanes were intricate mazes to him. The endless tree and scrub dotted plains were his delight. Their freedom gripped him, and thus the slightest opportunity for a journey was jumped at. He had done a horseback and saddlepack trip of nearly 500 miles, from Thargomindah, in the S.W. of Queensland, to see a relative on a great wool station. He and his saddle and pack horses did it in comfortable stages from homestead to home- stead. His relative was a very distant cousin, and a one-paged letter would have contained all the news Hooker had raked up. But here was an excuse for an equine voyage into the unending stretches of Australian park-lands. A month at the homestead where he had regaled himself in that homely hospitality of the Waybacks and it came to his knowledge that the owner of the run wanted a message to reach Bauhinia, on the Upper Darling. A rather "dry spell" had considerably interfered with the wool teams conveying the bales to the I 103 The Lonely Man of the Plains Bauhinia siding. Since the welcome rains had fallen, feed and waterholes were replenished, and if the "Kookooboo" river steamer could be delayed there was a possibility of getting away all the year's clip. Hooker offered to make a straight, cross- country trip of some 200 miles, and so reach the "Kookooboo" before she was due to start on her voyage down stream. The squatter could see that Hooker was a born bushman, and needed no roads or finger-posts to guide him. This led him to give orders for all the waggon teams to load up to their full strength and be on the move within a few hours of Hooker's departure. More than once the apparently lonely traveller wished he was not pushed for time. Especially when crossing a series of decomposed sandstone undula- tions. The Boree and Widgee trees had given place to a veritable botanical garden Honeysuckles, Honeypots, Bottlebrushes, and Fairy Wands, or what the botanists call Banksias, Dryandrias, Cal- listemons and Grevilleas, were revelling in their sunny conditions. The brightness and variety of their flowers turned miles of country into a con- tinuous charm. Their nectar-filled cups had drawn from far and wide, countless numbers of honey- loving birds. Thus, Hooker was surrounded with life, beauty and song which made it very hard to continue his journey. His sense of duty kept him on the move. From the highest of these flowering shrub-covered undulations, Hooker got a splendid view of a wide stretch of Cretaceous country. Rich grass lands with clumps of Casuarina, Mulga and Yellow Jacket trees. With the aid of a telescope, which he always carried, he made out a shepherd's hut away in the distance, and in the direction of 104 The Lonely Man of the Plains his course. Half-an-hour after sunset he was along- side of it and wondering what had become of the occupant. Written across the door, with a burnt cork, were these words: "Don't stay outside. Walk in." Hooker accepted the written welcome. On a large piece of grocers' brown paper on the table there were the instructions: "You will find the tea and sugar in the dusty camp oven, the corned beef in the new camp oven, Sling the Billy. Help yourself. Back when the moon rises." Hooker could see by all this and the appoint- ments of the hut, that its owner must be a char- acter; and on examining an envelope, which had fallen from behind a war picture hanging on the wall, Hooker became more than ever interested in the shepherd. "Capt. L. Hawkshaw, (Late loth Hussars), Gen. Post Office, Sydney." It had been posted in Calcutta 10 years ago. Care- fully restoring the envelope and whatever its con- tents were to the hiding place, he went outside and saw to the comfort of his horses. Returning towards the hut he was half scared by the sudden barking and appearance of dogs sheep and kangaroo dogs. Close behind these a horseman the very cut and stamp of an English cavalryman. Crimean shirt, with unbuttoned neck and rolled up sleeves; mole- skin trousers, brown tanned canvas leggings, strap for belt, blucher boots and big soft hat could not hide the soldier. His close clipped whiskers, heavy iron-grey moustache, heavy eyebrows, tanned and 105 The Lonely Man of the Plains wrinkled skin all harmonised with his rig and mount. Hooker said to himself: "I'll bet this is Capt. L. Hawkshaw." Aloud, he said "Good day. I have followed out some of your instructions." "That's right. Hope you will be able to camp here for a day or two. This becomes rather lonely at times, and I am right glad to have anybody. So whoever you are, you are welcome and I will be sorry when you have to clear out." "Thanks very much. My two horses want a spell; but if the country is fairly open between here and Bauhrina, I must be on the way after sunset to- morrow. For the sake of my horses I take advan- tage of the moon, when she is full." "Good. I like a man who studies his horseflesh. In the army we were trained to that. Buston, the colonel of the last cavalry regiment I was in, would not have a man officer or private who did not put his horse first." Slight, straight and square in build; with every movement active and precise, this soldier increased in interest to Hooker as he attended to his horse and dogs. Then, when in the hut, boiling the billy, making Johnny cakes, cutting up damper, grilling mutton chops on a home-made fencing wire grid- iron; spreading the newspaper table cloth, arrang- ing the cups, plates and all the actually necessary implements of a bush repast, there was the man who had been thoroughly disciplined. All things in their places, and nothing out of place on himself. Yet all the time Hooker's mind was perplexed: "If he was Capt. L, Hawkshaw, how and why was he a wayback shepherd; why leading this lonely life?" 1 06 The Lonely Man of the Plains They yarned and laughed and joked over the tea, damper and mutton. Bushcraft, cattle mustering, Kangaroo hunts, Dingo drives, blacks' corrobor- rees, boundary riders' escapades, drovers' perils, dog tricks, horse traits, bird, snake and insect lore, all came under review that night. On the approach of midnight the soldier-shepherd made a pot of strong coffee, heaped up a tin plate with dates, almonds, raisins and figs; and invited Hooker to imagine he was at an officer's mess. "Here's to the Army and Navy," said he, stand- ing and holding aloft a cup of coffee. Then in the most peculiar and bewildering voice Hooker had ever heard, the poor fellow sang that old song, "The Red, White and Blue." "How do you like that? Harry Clifton could never come up to that. Let me render another for you." He did, and more than another after that. They were all sung in the same discordant, howling brawl, and the only things Hooker could distinguish were some of the words. At first he laughed until his sides ached, thinking it was all a joke, a carica- ture. Then, as time wore on, it dawned upon him that the man was mad. Mad on one point. He was alone with a madman. For two solid hours Hawkshaw sang as loud and as fast as he could go. Then his voice thickened and weakened to a rough, rasping gasp; finishing his soloistic effort by falling exhausted on to his bunk. Hooker occupied a bunk opposite that of the host's; but for him sleep was out of the question. He, of course, had no idea as to how the affair would finish. Had he known he could have slept until long after daylight. Hawk- shaw's insanity started and finished with solos. About 9 a.m. he came out of his hut, attended to 107 Lonely Man of the Plains the animals, and went about the breakfast prepara- tions chatting and laughing in such a way that Hooker more than once thought the soloing must have been a dream on his part. However, he was very glad of the rest for himself and horses; and, although the continual soldier talk of his host did became a bit tiresome, there was a smack of romance about it which prevented the day being long. The sun started to dip into the horizon before Hooker had harnessed up. A last cup of tea to- gether, and he was taking his bearings for Bauh- rina. "Just a moment, said Hawkshaw. "I will act as your escort for a few miles. Your accidental visit has done me good. Indeed, I am sorry you are going." Soon they were making south in and out of Boree clumps and stunted Myall; then on to an open plain, of about six miles across. By this time the moon was well up in the heavens and the whole world, to them, was clothed in silver. It is on these grass-covered and tree-fringed plains with slight rises in the distance, that perfect harmony between moon and earth exists. Here we have the placidity of a calm sea, the restfulness of a grove; blending with a cloudless sky and unmoving light. To be in this environment is to feel an influence which tells for good and touches the soul of a man. Dismounting to water their horses at a small stream, caused by the flow from the bore several miles away, Hooker noticed away on the edge of the plain, signs of a campfire. "Look, Captain! Is that a Blacks' camp?" "Blacks. Oh, no. The last of the tribe which frequented these parts went North West some two 108 Lonely 3KCan of the. 'Plains years ago. They were too partial to mutton, and we had to resort to stringent measures before they reverted to their former taste for Kangaroo." "But, look here, Captain. Don't you think they had a right to a few of your sheep, in return for the reduced Kangaroos?" "Certainly. We never refused giving them a sheep or two. What we objected to was their killing propensities. They are worse than we Britishers for that. The sheep were easy prey for them, they wasted far more than they used." "There is something in what you say, for I have often noticed abundance of native game within easy reach of the Blacks' camps. It was less trouble to capture yours. But what can that small fire mean? It is a fire." "I can see that, and was wondering if any sur- veyors were about. It may be a party of artesian well sinkers. There are several of them contracting to put bores down now." "If that is the case, Captain, I would like to camp with them for a while. I want to get a lot of particulars about these boring operations. We had better mount again." "Yes, to part," said Hawkshaw. "I must return to the hut now." They shook hands, mounted, and after giving the military salute, Capt. Hawkshaw the lone!/ man of the plains rode quietly away as if he 'was just going off duty in a military camp. "Well, of all the mysterious characters that I have met, that is the one," said Hooker, as he sat in the saddle and watched Hawkshaw pass beyond his sight. A feeling of curiosity and pity for the. poor fellow filled his heart, and then he moved on, 109 Lonely %Can of the 'Plains forgetting that he, too, was a mysterious character to many. Often it had been said: "Poor Hooker. Why can't he settle down?" Being to windward of the borers' camp their dogs sniffed something and started barking long before Hooker rode up to them. In fact, the campers had got their rifles and were standing by the fire, won- dering what was coming. "Good morning," shouted Hooker. "Sorry I've disturbed you. There are no Metropoles and People's Palaces about, so just thought I would drop in here." "Good on ya, Gov'ner. You're a brick, Ah can see. Where did ya cum from? Did ya drop from the moon? You must be the chap as lives in the moon," said a jolly looking, powerfully built York- shireman the head of the party. "Well, no; not exactly. I have come out of the moon's light into your firelight," said Hooker as he dismounted and stepped towards the fire for a warm. "That's right, man. Make yerself at home with us. Would ya like a snack of venison and damper and a swig of tea before ya turn in?" "Thanks. Now that's what I call hospitality. I'll unsaddle and hobble my horses in a minute and then help myself, so don't trouble. Turn in again I'll be into my blanket before many minutes." The sun had plenty of time to dissipate cold and dew before the human snails had emerged from their shells the blankets. Pipes were filled, billies slung, and the frying pan set singing in the usual no-hurry camp style. Those not on culinary duty were standing with their backs to the fire and send- ing nicotine fumes into the still morning air. no Lonely %Can of the, Plains "Hulloa, Hooker, what the Dickens are you doing here? It was you that upset my beautiful dream near mid-night. Well, I never." "Tom; Is it you? Why the last time we met was at Perth. What are you doing here? Have you left the Geological Department?" "No, no, Hooker. I am in it more than ever. This underground water storage has got hold of me. I am following up all the deep boring operations." "Better to be born lucky than rich. I'm wanting a few points about this water system. So let me have them before I leave." "Leave. Why, what is your hurry?" " Bauhinia, Tom. I must get there before the 'Kookooboo' starts down stream." "The 'Kookooboo'. She is not upstream yet. We are waiting for a lot of boring gear in her. The bullockies have to catch us here. So no hurry/' "Lucky again. Just into my hands, Tom. I love to travel these glorious, tree-dotted plains in the moonlight. I'll be your guest till sunset." Hooker had a great time with these hardy ad- venturous well sinkers. They were each a blend of hunter, trapper, mechanic, miner and geologist. The boss fairly captivated Hooker with his blunt, homely, rollicking Yorkshire humour. There was no looking at life on the great plains through the spec- tacles of bad liver, when he was about. "The 'Never Never,' as they call it. My word, man, they're right. There never was a country to cum up to this. Why folk don't rush it is a mystery to me. Those down country dafts will have it, it's all blazing sand." ThaVs it; and not a tree or a bush to be seen/' chimed in Hooker. Ill Lonely t^an of the 'Plains "The chumps," said Yorky. "And now't to eat for man and beast. Not a sup of water. They must think that wool grows on stones up here. That sand bakes into beefsteaks, wind twists into Emus and Kangaroos; and blackfellows fatten on air." "Yes, I often think that the great mobs of cattle and bales of wool continually making to the coast from the interior should knock on the head that desert idea." "Ah, man, thou's right. It does mack me laugh sometimes. Wool and cattle kings in a desert. Our geological chap here tells me you want to know a bit about the water below." "Yes," said Hooker. "If you have no objection to part with a little of your knowledge. We all seem to be in the dark about our Artesian waters. Do you think they are extensive?" "Aye, Ah do. To my mind the waters are under half of Australia. It's only a matter of money for sinking deep enough." "I have heard it called 'a huge subterranean sea of fresh water,' " said Hooker. "'That's just what it is." "But what about its supply? Any chance of run- ning it dry." "Dry," said Yorky. "Might as well try and dry up the sea. A lot of us have put our heads together and we have come to the conclusion that the prin- cipal intake of our water basin is from the snow mountains of New Guinea. So the best thing we can do is to keep on bringing it to the top." "And by doing that," said Hooker's friends, "we will increase our rainfall by the increased evapora- tion." "Tom, I wqnder if you recollect Harrington, our 112 Lonely %Can of the 'Plains college chum. He was telling me, when he was with that party of German explorers in Dutch New Guinea, how, on scanning the plains stretching frcra the south base of those mountains to the Arafura Sea, no signs of rivers were visible." "Yes, I remember Harrington. Since he was there the melting snows have been traced to where the water disappears in the plains, all making south. Also, the Admiralty soundings have shown that the sea between us and New Guinea is very shallow and the same formation as the west of Queensland." "The fact of the matter is," said Yorky, "this great underground water scheme is too big for us to grasp. We haven't got brains enough. The Creator must have planned it all. The more I think about it, the more I wonder." With this the 'boss' or, as some called him, 'Yorky,' walked away to do a quiet smoke, leaving the two friends to rake up the past. Hooker gave his friend an account of his stay with the soldier shepherd. "That is the 'Lonely Man of the Plains,' Hooker. Wonder you have not heard about him before. He is a brother of the owner of the Tarragong Station. You will pass the homestead before you get to Bauhinia." "First I've heard about it, Tom. Let us have the yarn, whatever it is." "Well, you surprise me, Hooker; I thought every- body up this way knew about the "Lonely Man of the Plains." Anyhow, you are a lucky man to have met him. He is, indeed, a strange character, a victim to adverse circumstances. Years ago Hawk- shaw was on a military survey in India and, in a "3 Lonely %Can of the *P tains brush with some hill tribe in the north-west, he got a bullet wound in the head. He was invalided to England, and, on his recovering, came to Perth and got on to our staff when we were mapping the Ash- burton and Gascoyne counties. You know they run in for hundreds of miles east and north from Sharks Bay." "Excuse me, Tom; but are those parts 'howling useless waste,' as Meiklejohn's New Geography puts it?" "Useless wastes,' that's on a par with the idea of Australia being 'more African than Africa.' What a lot of rubbish has got into circulation about this country. Wherever you go, from here right on to the West Coast, you see the finest of cattle and sheep country." "Thanks. Now let me have the rest about Hawk- shaw?" "Right. Well, I was telling you about the Gas- coyne survey. We were not far from the head of that river, and camped in a most delightful place at the foot of a low range of granite hills. Game was more than plentiful, and, as usual, this meant more blacks. They were some of the finest Aus- tralian Blacks I have struck. Unfortunately, a com- pany of powerfully built Bardslay Tableland Blacks had come down, with their gins and pickaninnies, on a hunting expedition. This brought about rows and fights. Now Hawkshaw was collecting notes and material for some Anthropological Society in London. He had got into the good graces of these wanderers, and they allowed him to take their heights, and measure their skulls just as he pleased. In fact, he spent a lot of his time in their camp. One evening, after taking sketches of some picka- 114 The Lonely Man of the 'Plains ninnies, and on the approach of darkness, Hawk- shaw was on the point of leaving when a blow on the head sent him insensible to the ground. In our camp we were waiting for Hawkshaw's return, then we could turn in. Towards midnight we became a bit anxious and were discussing the reasons for his absence. All at once our talk was stopped by two of the Gasgoyne Blacks rushing into our presence. They gesticulated wildly and, by signs, we gathered tRat some harm had come to our companion. Arming ourselves, we followed them and, on reach- ing the Tableland Blacks' camp, a scene of pillage and bloodshed met our eyes. Hawkshaw was stretched full length on the ground. At first i thought he was dead, but on feeling his pulse and putting my ear close to his mouth, I discovered, to my delight, he was alive. A temporary bearer was made and we soon had him in our camp, and under skilled treatment. "You remember Dick Jackson?" "Yes, Tom, I do. He was a discharged Navy surgeon." "That's the man, Hooker. Turned out through grog. He was one of our camp hands a great come down from the quarter-deck of a war ship to the scullery of a surveyors' camp. With us he was as sober as a Dutch uncle and very useful on ac- count of his medical skill." "What crowds of men have blasted their lives with grog. I was thinking Hawkshaw was one of them." "No, no, Hooker. Simply a lot of bad luck. Any- how, Dick pulled Hawkshaw through. It transpired that some of the young bloods with the Gasgoyne Blacks made a surprise attack on the invaders, and "5 The Lonely Man of the 'Plains in the semi-darkness, Hawkshaw got the first blow from a knob stick. The attackers lost heavily and on retiring to bring up reinforcements the Barclay Blacks picked up all their belongings and cleared. It was sometime before Hawkshaw recovered, and tEen he was not exactly himself. Two wounds on the head are rather too much for one man. Before this last one Hawkshaw could come out with a good song. He was a splendid singer. The black's blow spoilt his singing. On our return to Perth he came in for money, wrote home to his charm and invited her to Australia. When she became Mrs. Hawk- shaw I saw her. She was, indeed, a charming woman, and they had every prospect of a happy life. But it was not to be. One night at a private con- cert she was singing a solo, when suddenly she stopped, put her hands to her breast, and fell dead- Poor Hawkshaw. Now you know why he is mad on that point. His brother, of Tarragong, persuaded him to settle with him. Fortunately he took a fancy to live by himself in the old shepherd's hut, where he has been for several years and is known to drovers and others as 'The Lonely Man of the Plains.' " Months afterwards, Hooker was at Wentworth, near the junction of the Darling and Murray Rivers. Seeing the "Kookooboo" at Bauhinia Siding, he decided to sell his two horses, and have a river voyage. Undoubtedly a journey of 1,600 miles from Bauhinia to Port Eliott, at the mouth of the Murray River, is unique. It is educational as well. Knowing that the bales of wool in the large barges came hundreds of miles from the north to Bauhinia, then i, 600 miles from the coast; also that the bales taken on at Burke and other places had come 116 Lonely %Can of the. 'Plains hundreds of miles from the west in camel and bullock trains, it became impossible to think of Austral's vast interior as a "desolate, arid waste of sand." Those thousands of bales of wool, and the sights from the top deck of the river steamer, told of rich pasture lands. The boundless plains of Australia will be Australia's best asset in the future. Standing on the deck of the " Kookooboo " at Wentworth, Hooker was accosted by a stranger. "Beg your pardon, sir. I heard from Captain Jones that you had come through from Queensland." "Yes, that is right," said Hooker. "Did you pass anywhere near Tarragong?" "I did, and called at the Homestead." "What about the 'Lonely Man of the Plains?' Did you hear of him?" "Yes, poor fellow; I stayed a day and a half with him." "You did? Well, well. Tell me about him. His wife was my sister. Poor girl, she waited for years for him, and then to die as she did. It was awfully sad. No wonder his mind became unhinged." "Another victim to a strange run of adverse cir- cumstances," said Hooker. "I'll never forget that strang?, Lonely Man of the Plains." 117 The Leg Irons NE of the most striking features about the geology of Australia is the prevalence of the first formed stratified rock's known as Silurian. These rocks are simply in- durated mud, of varying depths, and have been folded, doubled, tilted, and shattered. In places the fiery forces below have upheaved, and burst through these Silurian layers, and covered them with what has now become rich volcanic soil. Australia has vast areas of these deep, fertile, undulating and rangy volcanic formations. By a strange coincidence, every one of the States has a large proportion of these wealth-producing lands. Millions of acres of such lands are still crying out for cultivators. In many districts, these volcanic ranges have brought into existence forests of gigantic trees; hundreds of them close on three hundred feet high. As these forests developed, the rainfall increased; which, in turn, increased the forest growth, and made our glorious fern gullies a possibility. On a sleeper-cutter's track in one of these immense forests, two Nature students were slowly and observantly tramping along. Every few yards there was something to arrest their attention; some plant, insect, or rock to investigate and lead up to a discussion. They had frequently been in this mountain forest, and on this occasion were H The Leg Irons making to their usual camp, at the top of the range. There they had built a bark hut, near the camp of a 'possum trapper, and paid the old trapper a small sum of money to look after their hut in case of bush fires and intruders. For study purposes, they always reached the camp from different directions, and hearing that a party of sleeper-cutters had made a track up the southern flank of the range, where the undergrowth was too dense for them, the two travellers decided to use this track. They were soon in raptures over the glorious and unrivalled fern gullies. The cutters had thrown temporary bridges across valleys, thus giving never- to-be-forgotten views of tree-ferns, under-ferns, moss, climbers, and shrubs, one gully competing with the other in beauty, charm, and mystery. Following the ascending track over a small ridge, they suddenly came upon the sleeper-cutters' camp, and were welcomed by "Come and have a pannikin of tea. We are indulging in afternoon tea." Soon the Nature students were sipping tea with the unconventional, manly, sturdy bushmen. As a rule, these men of the forest are like their sur- roundings strong, quiet, and very little to say, so that by the time the students had questioned them into a discussion on the merits of the different trees for sleepers the boss's coo-ee rang through the forest aisles, indicating that "Spell ho!" was up. However, the investigators had got a lot of infor- mation about Yellow Stringy Bark, Iron Bark, Blue Gum, Messmate, Woolly Butt, Karri Karri, Jarrah, and Red Gum trees. Before resuming their upward tramp, they rested awhile, and had a yarn with the camp cook. "You see, gents, I'm a Cockney. Reared amongst 1 2O The Leg Irons church steeples and chimney stacks in London. Now look where I am, amongst these blooming trees. Whoever would have thought that me Charlie Norton would have come to this?" "But don't you think, Cook, that you are better here with Nature than in a city?" said Styles, one of the students. "Not a bit of it, Mister," said the cook. "I'd be where there are no big trees to fall on you to-morrow if there were no pubs. May as well own up, Mister. It's the pubs, as put me here." "Drink?" said Styles. "Yes. Too fond of lifting my hand towards my nose. Can't pass a pub, Mister, to save my life. So the Salvation Army man the head man, I mean got me this situation, and told me I'd go to hell if I didn't get away from the sight of a pub. Oh, those I was just going to swear, Mister, but I mustn't. "No doubt," said Styles. "That is the advan- tage of being amongst these tall trees. They don't swear." "I don't know so much about that, Mister," said the Cook. "You should hear them when a gale's on. You talk about groaning, sighing, growling, and screeching. I can't get a wink of sleep for the noise they make." "Yes, Cook, I will admit all that. To me the sounds caused by a midnight storm in these majestic forests are thrilling, exciting, grand. Why, we have every imaginable sound. No other forests the world over can come up to ours in providing a night's entertainment. Human, animal, and bird voices are imitated by the scraping of branch to branch, the flapping of hanging, leafy boughs, and 121 The Leg Irons the cracking and rattle of bark streamers. Then the different forms of foliage and twig give to the wind all the notes of a reed instrument to play on. To me all this is charming. I don't want to sleep when that great natural power the wind is play- ing through our forests.' Whilst this conversation was going on between Styles and the Cook, his companion, Snell, was quietly scanning a "War Cry" which he had picked up. "Hello, Styles, look here! I wonder if this is our old friend at the hut? 'Will Henry Toft, who left England in 1850, communicate with us. His sister in England wants to help him.' ' "That is very strange, Snell. It is the same name, and, from his yarns, I should judge that to be about the year in which he left England. I know he is an Englishman." "Cook," said Snell, "would you mind me taking this 'War Cry?' ' "Not a bit of it, Mister. Take it. Of course you can. It might do the both of you good to read it." "So long. I must be getting on with the dinner for all the chaps." That night, when the old trapper came over to see them, and have a "bit of a pitch," as he termed it, Snell read out to him the notice in the enquiry column of the "War Cry." The poor, lonely old chap sprang to his feet, and said: "What! What's that? Read it again, will you. I can't see to read now." The whole matter was discussed, and it was arranged that Styles and Snell should call at the Salvation Army Headquarters, and procure all par- ticulars. Then on their next visit to the ranges let 122 The Leg Irons him know the news. The following day the Nature lovers were deeply absorbed in watching the unique process of the fertilisation of a terrestrial Orchid the Pterostylis. This particular plant, under investigation, has a large, pale-green flower after the shape of an old-fashioned hood. The bulk of it is transparent. This enables the observer to witness the whole process. The entrance to the flower is sideways, and until it is ready for pollena- tion the entrance is blocked by a door nicely balanced on the doorstep or threshold. When ready for the entrance of the little bush bee, this door drops down, and exposes the honey glands inside. The hungry insect, on passing the balancing point, shuts itself in. Its own weight and pressure bring up the door, in which it is aided by a remarkable lever attached to the inner part of the door. Thus the insect, for the time being, is a prisoner. This does not interfere with the appetite of the little visitor. He feasts, and when all is gone, looks around for an exit. Climbing up the central column of the flower, he passes through a little tunnel, which forces him to press against the pollen bags. Then he emerges from the top of the flower, with the masses of pollen attached to his head, just like a boy going in at the front door and coming out at the chimney-top. To watch this remarkable co- adaptation of insect and flower, it is necessary for the observer to be silent and motionless for a long time in a prostrate position on the ground near the flowers. In time the insects regard the Nature students as logs of wood or lumps of earth, and thus freely visit the flowers and perform their missions of cross-fertilisation. Taking pollen from 123 The Leg Irons one flower of the same species to the other is absolutely necessary for the production of seed in the Pterostylis. "Thank goodness for that," said Snell. "I am glad it is all over. My hips must be bruised. I've been lying on a piece of hard rock all the time." "Oh, well, you'll be rewarded," consolingly re- marked Styles. "If you had moved, we might have lost that little bee with the pollinia attached to his forehead. That was the best of the lot. Sorry you had to be a martyr though." "Sorry. Good gracious, Styles, whatever is ^t. This is not a rock," uttered Snell, as he unearthed the hard substance which had pained his hip. "Rock. Indeed, no," said Styles. "Why, dear me, it is a pair of old leg-irons. However did they get there?" "Leg-irons? So they are. See, they have been cut or filed through. Now, this is a good find a real curiosity. They will do for pur Museum." "That's right, Snell. I said you would be rewarded, and there it is," said Styles. "You have a relic of the old convict days or chain-gang period." These two ardent forest prowlers and mountain climbers were always sorry when the last day of their Mountain Hut sojourn came. They were packing up their finds and specimens in the even- ing, so as to get-ftn early start in the morning for the nearest railway station. This meant a tramp of nearly 30 miles. "Old Harry" as they called the old trapper- came in to have another good yarn with the two splendid listeners. When all was packed, they gathered round the fire in the commodious slab chimney. 124 The Leg Irons "Wait a minute," said Snell, "I forgot to pack up those old leg-irons." "Leg-irons," said Harry. "You don't use leg- irons, do you?" "No, we picked these up a little way down the range," said Styles. "They are a curiosity, you know." The old man took hold of them. His hands trembled so much that the chain connecting the two grasps rattled. For several minutes he speechlessly stared at the rust-covered human manacles. Styles and Snell could see there was some connection between the old leg-irons and the old trapper. Not a word was uttered by them. Not even when the old man broke the silence by saying: "These were mine. They are mine. I wore them." Being gentlemen, they did not ply him with ques- tions upon the past, although they could see by his agitated manner there was a thrilling tale behind the leg-irons. Neither did they protest the slightest when he said: "Thank you, Mr. Snell, for finding them for me. I'll clean them up, and leave them to you in my will." They would have preferred them as they were, but out of pity to the old man, the matter was dropped. No yarns were told that night; simply disjointed talk on all topics, from trees to 'possums. Old Harry was not himself, and the two travellers could not get the leg-irons out of their minds. Harry was now wrapped in a halo of romance to them, so that, on parting for the night, when he said: "Next time you come to the Hut Camp, I'll have 125 The Leg Irons the whole yarn about the leg-irons for you. Don't forget about my sister's enquiries," they were satisfied with expectancy. Christinas holidays soon came along, and the two lover of Nature were once more trailing it to the nearest station for their romantic Hut Camp. "Styles," said Snell, "I hope you have brought those particulars about Old Harry's sister. He will be expecting them." "Brought them. I should think so. Better to have left myself behind. Poor old fellow, to think that for over twenty years he has been struggling to live, whilst a rich maiden sister has been wanting to help him." "Yes. That is what I call a bit of 'hard luck,' and no mistake about it," said Snell. "Hard luck, Snell. Yes, on both sides. Why, his sister must have spent hundreds of pounds trying to find him. She has advertised in every English-speaking part of the world." "Noble woman!" ejaculated Snell. "I'm afraid my sisters would not do that for me." "Certainly not. Don't you see, you have some- body else's sister to do it, ' said Styles. A little after sunset the two Naturalists came in sight of the two huts theirs and Harry's. For the first time, there was no smoke issuing from the old man's chimney. All was unusually silent. As on all other trips, the pair of them rang out the ringing Coo-ee in such a way as to vibrate the very depths of the mountain forests. The only answers were from black cockatoos, black jays, and giant wattle birds. The rough, sailor-like coo-ee of the old trapper was not there. Again and again they coo-eed; but no response. 126 The Leg Irons Knocking at the door of the old man's hut, and getting no answer, they tried the door. It was unlocked; but in trying to open it, they found it was blocked by something from inside. This alarmed them, and led to the removal of a sheet of bark. Looking in, they were horrified to see the dead body of the old man blocking the door. On a close examination, it could be seen that he had been sawing a piece of wood he was using to mend an old home-made chair. Evidently in the act of stooping, a heart trouble set m, which caused the old man to swoon and roll over against the door. His body was stiff with death, and he was holding the saw with the grip of a vice; but a smile was on his face. Poor old weather-worn, hardship- branded, and trouble-seared Englishman; his sister's help had come too late. On performing the last kindly act to the dead, a ring of scars round each ankle told of the leg-irons; and long scars across the back spelt lash and triangle. "No wonder the old fellow shook when he held the leg-irons in his hands. They must suddenly have brought his convict days before him." "That's it, Styles. And look here, I would be prepared to stake my life that he was never a criminal. We have known him a long time. What- ever those scars and leg-irons mean, he was never a criminal." "I am with you there, Snell. I do wish the old man had out with his past history the last time we were up." After attending to the legal transactions in regard to Harry's funeral, and that last ceremony over, they decided to set fire to the hut and put up a wooden cross on the spot where he died. Before putting 127 The Leg Irons this into practice, they searched the hut for the leg-irons. These had been wrapped up in a fat- saturated rag, with an "oldtime" tinder-box, flint, and steel more relics of chain-gang convict days. Taking possession of these, and a large Bible which Snell had given the old man, they fired the hut. In a few hours all trace had gone. That night in their own hut they felt lonely. Something had gone out of their lives, and although that something was only a friendless, poor old trapper, they felt it. Snell was slowly turning over the pages of the Bible, and could see the finger-marks of the old man. Here and there pencil marks underlined the verses telling of pardon, and it was easily seen he had read and re-read these. "I say, Styles, my word, here's a find. He has written on these blank pages between the Old and New Testament all about the leg-irons." "Poor old fellow. You don't mean to say that. Let us have a read. No, you read it out, Snell; that will be better." It ran thus: "I was a carpenter by trade. My young woman died. I left home. Got to London. Lots of ships were leaving for Australia. Shipped as "Jimmy Ducks" on one. First mate was a tyrant. The hard old Scotch captain worse. The 'bosun a cursing Yankee. Bosun and mate used to quarrel and fight like dogs. Then their spite was spent on the crew. We were called by all the names of filth and villainy. My bunk mate resented being called a "bastard" by the mate. For this he was struck to the deck by a blow from the mate's big fist. Losing control of myself, I flew at the mate and knocked him senseless to the deck. He lingered 128 The Leg Irons between life and death for six weeks and then died. He was buried at sea. I was kept in irons until we got to Australia. Then I was charged with "wilful murder." Found guilty and received a life sentence. Fortunately I shipped under an assumed name. In this way my relatives in England lost the run of me. For trying to escape from the stockade I got the lash, and was put in irons. With other 'lifers' I was working at road-making. We all had irons on and were handcuffed to a chain at night, leaving one hand free. One night, the warder, during a heated discussion with a fellow warder, missed the chain in clasping my handcuff. That night the opportunity to escape came. I got clean away; reached these Ranges, which were then covered with dense scrub and trees. At an aban- doned surveyors' camp I found some old clothing and a large file. With this I managed to cut my- self free and threw the leg-irons into a Wombat's hole. How they came out of that hole I don't know. Following up the surveyors' camps I be- came possessed of knives, string, fine wire, tins and other gear, which enabled me to make snares. I had to walk 40 miles at first to sell the skins. For years I had a hatred for those men the 'bosun, mate and captain who ruined my life. When I read the Bible, Mr. Snell gave me, I saw that to get peace of soul for myself, I would have to forgive others. So I forgave." "Poor unfortunate old Harry. Just what I thought," said Styles. "There are too many human brutes like those officers the captain and mate." "I've seen them just as bad, Styles.- They are in every walk of life, even in married life. Only 129 The Leg Irons the other day I saw a man kick his wife as if she was a dog." "Snell, I often think what a world this would be if there were no laws to check human fiends! Thank God for the law!" "His troubles are over now. Glad I gave him that Bible. It was evidently a comfort to him. But how unfortunate he was. Right up to the very last bad luck followed him. To think that we should find him dead on the very day we bring his sister's money to help him! Styles, you had better write the sad news to his sister. " Spectator Publishing Co., 270 Post Office Place, Melbourne. 130