A Single Tree Read online

  Meantime such in this respect were our night’s quarters.The hut was well built of slabs split out of fine straight-grained timber, with hardly a splinter upon them and consisted of several compartments, all on the ground floor The only windows were square holes in the sides of the hut and a good log fire was blazing in the chimney. On stools, and benches, and blocks about the hut sat a host of wayfarers like ourselves, and several lay at their ease in corners on their saddlecloths or blankets, whilst saddles and packs of luggage were heaped up on all sides. Supper was over, and the short pipes were fuming away in all directions. Our hosts were two Irishmen, brothers, who had got a little bit of good land cleared here in the wilderness, and refused nobody a feed and shelter for the night. They soon put down a couple of quart pots of water before the blazing fire, made us some tea, and set before us the usual fare, a piece of fine corned beef, and a wheaten cake baked on the hearth. And here I should inform the reader how a damper is made. Flour is mixed up merely with water, and kneaded for about a couple of minutes; the dough is then flattened out into a cake, which should never be more than an inch and a half or two inches thick, and may be of any diameter required; the ashes of the wood, which is burnt almost everywhere in great profusion, owing to its plentifulness, are then drawn off the hearth (for the fire is on the ground, not in a grate) by a shovel; and on the glowing smooth surface thus exposed the cake is lightly deposited, by being held over it on the open hands, and the hands suddenly drawn from under it. The red ashes are then lightly turned back over the cake with the shovel. In the course of twenty minutes or half an hour on removing the ashes, the cake is found excellently baked; and with a light duster, or the tuft of a bullock’s tail, every vestige of the ashes is switched off, and the cake, if the operations have been well conducted, comes to table as clean as a captain’s biscuit from a pastry-cook’s shop. Merrily sped the couple of hours betwixt our arrival and going to bed. One sang a song, another told some tale of the olden time, when but few white men were in the colony, another repeated the news he had just heard of the bush-rangers, another described a new tract of land he had just found out for a cattle-run, and others contented themselves with that endless subject of dissertation among the colonists, the relative excellences of their working bullocks. My share was to answer all the questions (rather all that were answerable) which any and all thought proper to put me on the subject of affairs in England; and to pocket with the best grace I could (for most of these men had been convicts) the jokes they not very sparingly, but I must say with very good humour, cut on me for having come to the colony “to make a fortune”, or for being “a free object” (subject), or for having “lagged myself for fear the king should do it for me”. All these little matters notwithstanding, the evening passed away very pleasantly; if there were many things in these men which I could not approve, there was much more that I could not but admire. There was a sort of manly independence of disposition which secured truthfulness and sincerity at least among themselves. If the penalty for the practice of that truthfulness toward the superior classes had been fixed too high, I felt that allowance ought to be made for it in estimating their character. Some time before midnight a general collection of bedding took place, as usual; the customary belt of bed was constructed all across the hut in front of the fire; and as in this instance the hut happened to be about 12 or 15 feet across, and we mustered nearly a man to each foot of the diameter, a very pretty row of capless heads and bare feet soon displayed themselves beyond the opposite ends of the blanketing. On blazed the merry fire made up for the night; loud snored those who were so disposed; and louder grumbled ever and anon those who were not; hither and thither bounded and barked the dog around the hut, till he thought his master was asleep, and could no longer take notice of his vigilance; and dreams came and realities went; and memory had no more added to her task of the day.

  Settlers and Convicts: Recollections of Sixteen Years’ Labour in the Australian Backwoods,

  by an emigrant mechanic, Melbourne University Press, 1986

  Joseph Hawdon

  1838

  March 12th After having proceeded a few miles we found the river running up against the perpendicular outer bank, consisting of limestone, and had some difficulty to find a pass through which to get the drays out of the valley. From this point I steered due west all day, through thick brush of Eucalyptus bushes about ten feet high, the land consisting of loose sand. At sunset we opened on plains, sprinkled with tufts of grass. I discovered a fine lake of fresh water, about thirty miles in circumference, and on its margin we encamped. Kangaroos appeared to be rather numerous here. The Blacks were encamped further along the Lake, and from the noise they made, we knew they must have noticed our arrival. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and I strolled out along the edge of the lake to shoot some ducks which were seen on the water in thousands. On discharging our guns, the echo of the report rolled along the water magnificently; one would have supposed that a hundred shots had been fired at the same moment. As the reports died away the lake became perfectly alive with the myriads of live fowl in motion on its surface screaming and cackling with alarm at the novel sound.

  Gradually the flapping of their wings and the splashes as they alighted in the water ceased, and they again settled upon the Lake in solemn stillness. The wild, sweet, musical note of the swans was heard over our heads, as they returned to rest upon the bosom of the Lake, after feeding during the day amongst the reeds on the river. As we lay enjoying this delightful scene, we could now and then catch the distant noises of a tribe of Natives as they were disputing, with much emotion about this our extraordinary inroad upon their territory. The native name for this fine Lake is “Nookamka”, but in virtue of my privilege as its first European discoverer, I named it Lake Bonney, after my friend and fellow traveller, Mr. M. C. Bonney, whose company contributed so much to the pleasure of my expedition.

  Journal of a Journey from New South Wales to Adelaide in 1838,

  Georgian House, Melbourne, 1952

  Elizabeth Hawkins

  1822

  It was a lovely moonlight night, and all was novelty and delight to the elder children. Immense fires were made in all directions. We gave them their supper, and after putting the younger ones to bed, I came from the tent, in front of which was a large fire, our drays and carts close in view. The men – nine in number – were busily employed in cooking in one place, our own man roasting a couple of fowls for our next day’s journey; at another the men (convicts), not the most prepossessing in their appearance, with the glare of the fires and the reflection of the moon shining on them, in the midst of a forest, formed altogether such a scene as I cannot describe. It resembled more a party of banditti, such as I have read of, than anything else. I turned from the view, took the arm of Hawkins, who was seated at the table with the storekeeper, and went to the back of the tent. Here we saw Tom and the three eldest girls trying who could make the best fire, as happy as it was possible for young hearts to be. Then I seemed to pause. It was a moment I shall never forget. For the first time for many a long month I seemed capable of enjoying and feeling the present moment without a dread for the future. ’ Tis true we had in a manner bade adieu to the world, to our country and friends, but in our country we could no longer provide for our children, and the world from that cause had lost its charm. You . . . and all my friends and acquaintances, I thought of with regret, but the dawn of independence was opening on us . . . [We had] a home to receive us, and the certainty under any circumstances of never wanting the common necessaries of life. You, my dear Ann, must have suffered in mind what we had long suffered, to form an idea of what we then felt. After a little while we returned to the table. These were moments of such inward rest that Hawkins took up a flute belonging to one of the party, and, calling Eliza to us, she danced in a place where perhaps no one of her age [no English child, that is] has ever trod before.

  The Commonwealth of Speech: An Argument about Australia’s Past, Present and Future,<
br />
  Alan Atkinson, Australian Scholarly Publishing, Melbourne, 2002

  Arthur Henry

  1953

  I had been sent off to find our milking cow early one morning and, not finding her on this young grass, decided that she must be in the swamp at the back of the hill and seeing a couple of fairly small blackwood spars joined at the butt and standing about two feet apart and high up, I decided to climb up on them in order to get a better view of the swamp, and incidentally save myself a long wet walk. The bark had peeled off the spars and they were slippery. However, I got up about ten feet and then slipped down. I was caught by one ankle and thigh and I could not touch the ground with my other foot. I was helpless, as I could get no purchase to raise myself. I yelled, of course, but no one could hear me, being so far from the two houses. I was soon hoarse, of course and my leg was swelling. My greatest anxiety was fear that the two dingos, which Maud and I had seen killing sheep on the previous day, would find me and no sticks were within my reach. However, they did not put in an appearance. In the meantime, I was wishing that I was back in Geelong. My cousin, John McCord, came across me just before dark; but he could not extricate me and had to return home for an axe and chop one of the spars down. He said that he had passed quite close to me during the afternoon and thought I may have wandered into the standing scrub further along the ridge. As I was lame, I had a week’s holiday from school.

  About this time a very tall Chinaman strolled onto our verandah and pointed to some scones which Mum had baked. When he attempted to enter the kitchen, she pushed him out and fed him on hot scones and milk. He seemed very hungry and made quite a hole in Mum’s batch. I was put through a window at the back and told to find Dad. He was up the paddock. The “chink” seemed quite harmless; but could speak no English. After he had a good meal, he sauntered off.

  We wondered how he ever came to this isolated locality. A few days later, Maud and I (being early for school for a wonder) found him asleep under the school, which was high off the ground. The master, during hot days, often took us there for lessons, also we left our lunch bags there, being much cooler than the school it prevented the “dripping” and treacle from melting. The Chinaman stayed in the locality for several weeks, calling on the settlers for food, and the next time he called at our place Dad collected Eb. Cook with a rifle. Jim McCord and Dad, armed with empty muzzle-loading double-barrelled shotguns, escorted him to the crossing over the river and bid him a friendly goodbye. They pointed his way out; but he was not inclined to move so with one accord they “presented arms” with threatening gestures. I really thought they meant business; but the “chow” surveyed the army with a bland smile and said “no savee”. After this signal failure of drastic measures, word was sent to Tobin Yallock and a police officer came up and removed him. I have never seen a Chinaman at Poowong before or since.

  Memoirs: The Writing of an Old Man with a Young Man’s Mind,

  Poowong Historical Group, Poowong, Victoria, 2003

  Mona Henry

  1988

  1

  During our first few nights in Birdsville, we saw rats in the hospital, half a dozen or so, each night. They were not the domestic variety – they were wild bush rats, which multiplied during good seasons.

  One night, instead of the usual half dozen, they arrived in hundreds, and swarmed through the building. They ate their through the wooden laundry door, as though it were cheese. It was the only wooden door on the outside of the building. A sympathetic neighbour nailed a piece of tin across the base of the door, but it was time wasted. The rats burrowed under the iron, and continued their nibbling on the wooden door.

  Having gained entrance through the laundry, they proceeded to eat everything edible, in their eyes. They knocked tins off the pantry shelf, usually loosening the lids. They ate their way into the linen press, and even into our wardrobes. They ate soap, and even the labels off the bottles. My new felt slippers, left under the bed overnight, had large holes eaten in them by morning. Lillian’s new leather shoes had a hole the size of a shilling in one toe.

  Sitting in the lounge at night, we had our feet bitten, especially if we wore toeless sandals. Drovers and stockmen were frequently outpatients, having treatment for infected rat bites. One man, leaving his dentures in a cup overnight, found them missing in the morning.

  The old hands told us that the rat plagues followed two or three good seasons. This was the third good season, and the second year in succession, that the Cooper had run into Lake Eyre, covering the Birdsville-Maree Track for the second time in thirty years. According to Butcher, the last severe rat plague was during his childhood some sixty odd years ago.

  The local residents and the station folk, trapped the rats in 44 gallon drums half buried in the ground.They placed wheat in the bottom of the drums, and in this way caught hundred each night. The next night there would be hundreds more to replace them.

  The small patches of grass growing around the rain water tanks, disappeared overnight. We heard the rats digging among the roots – the noise they made was like a herd of goats grazing. In the morning the ground had the appearance of a ploughed field. There remained not even a root, and the grass never grew there again, during our stay . . .

  At first we shrank from the rats, not daring to attempt to kill them, but as their numbers increased, we realized that we would have to try and reduce them. We protected the baby’s cot with a wire gauze cover, made by the newly arrived police sergeant, Sg’t Barlow . . .

  We made no further attemps to eradicate them, until the rat traps arrived. Then, open warfare was waged once more. We set traps at all entrances from the laundry inward, and caught an average of twenty per night. This would be an hour’s catch. At first we left the traps set overnight, until we discovered that the rats caught in the traps, were eaten by their cannibalistic companions . . .

  Tom, ever ready to give advice, was only too pleased to offer suggestions.

  “Chuck ’em to the crows,” he said, “They’ll get rid of ’em quick smart.”

  We were rather doubtful of his advice, but could find no alternative; so the rats were thrown on to the gibbers over the fence. Five minutes later, we witnessed an astonishing sight. From out of the sky, dozens of hawks and crows appeared, diving toward the rats as though they were magnets. In five minutes, there was not a rat to be seen – only a cloud of birds flying overhead, on the alert for anything they could scavenge.

  I hated those birds, particularly the crows, which ate the hens’ eggs, and fought the fowls for their food. They picked the eyes out of goat kids, straying from the herd, and made miserable the life of any calf mauled by dingoes. Their cruelty, their raucous squawks, and their squabbles with the fowls, were a constant source of irritation.

  “If them crows are annoying you, I’ll get rid of them,” said Tom.

  After a conversation with one of his visitors, he informed us that he had “fixed them crows”. Some time later, we saw his visitor hang a dead crow on the fowl yard fence.

  Half-an-hour later, every crow in the district was there. They covered the fence, and the ground became a black, wailing mass of crows. Gone were the short, raucous squawks. In their place, was a long, wailing dirge, ending on a lower key. The crows, no longer squabbling with the fowls, fluttered around the dead bird, or stood with wings outspread, as they sang their mournful requiem.

  Hour after hour the dirge continued. I realized with a feeling of guilt, that these birds could show more tenderness to their own kind, than many of our own race.

  As the day wore on, and the numbers increased in the feathered choir, I regretted my rashness in accepting Tom’s offer to “fix them crows”. If the squawks had been irritating, the wails were even more so.

  I began to rehearse my next conversation with the practical joker, who had invited every crow in the district to spend the day with us. The speech I prepared, was guaranteed to wipe the joyful smile from his face. When delivered to Tom, it should also have the same effect. H
owever, before I had a chance to do so, the wailing ceased. I looked across at the fowlyard, and saw only the dead bird. The crows had vanished in a black cloud, leaving only their dead comrade, hanging on the fence.

  It was weeks before they returned to the fowlyard. It seemed as though the place was haunted by the spirit of their dead . . .

  2

  Lillian and I, after that first demonstration of the crows as garbage removers, decided that we no longer required their services. As a goodwill gesture, we donated our rats to a citizen, to use as a fertilizer for the roots of his young shade trees.

  He received a good deal of fertilizer before the rat plague subsided. After some months, when they had eaten bare the countryside, we found blind and semi-comatose rats in odd corners and crannies. Finally they disappeared overnight.

  What havoc they wrought during their stay! What devastation they left in their wake! The channels of the Diamantina, once covered with lush green herbage, were bare, even the roots of the hardy drought-resisting plants being destroyed. The rat plague was partially responsible for the heavy stock losses, during the drought which followed their departure . . .

  3

  At that time, nearly nineteen months ago, Mayfield had been surrounded by water, and five thousand sheep lay drowned in the paddocks.

  Now, as the plane circled the homestead, I saw the parched earth, patterned with gaping cracks, winding across its surface. The Cooper channels had long since dried into bogs, while a tangled mass of grass and lignum lined its banks. The rats had not crossed the Cooper, so the vegetation had grown undisturbed, during that first year of heavy rain.