Adavale — The Bulloo River — Emudilla — Jim Collins — Comongin — Corrobboree — Bushed — Gouryanah — Cowley Plains
FOR a bush township, Adavale is a pretty-enough place. At any rate it is a decided improvement on Stonehenge, Jundah, or Windorah; though, how people can ever bring themselves to live in any of them will always remain a matter of mystery to me. We had, long before, arranged that our letters should be sent here, consequently we had quite a budget to receive. It was like resuming touch with the world to look once more upon English postage stamps, and for an hour we were absorbed in the fascination of home news.
Leaving Adavale, we departed over a rough and dry stage towards the Bulloo River. After the first few miles, however, the appearance of the country began to improve. Well-filled waterholes became more frequent, and the grass was not only more abundant, but beautifully green. It was like a new earth, and, after a few camps (for we did not hurry ourselves), our horses became like difierent animals. Cyclops carried his banana-like tail with a new air, while Polyphemus arched his neck like a two hundred guinea brougham horse; even Mr. Pickwick looked a little less doleful under the changed circumstances.
Some of our camps were perfectly charming: overhanging trees, good water for cooking and bathing, and plenty of grass, not only for the horses, but to make the most luxurious of beds. What could we have wished for more? Birds and fish were abundant, and here, for the first time, we met with the yellow crested White Cockatoo, the Native Companion, the Bower, the Apostle, the Butcher, and the Bell bird. All are unique in their own difierent fashions.
The Native Companion, is a tall, slender, grey bird, something after the style of a heron, and is quite a character in his way. It is an amusing sight to watch a number of them playing on the sand-banks at dusk. They march up and down, advance, wheel, and execute the most intricate and involved manoeuvres, with all the precision and aplomb of trained soldiers. They even dance quadrilles and lancers with wonderful accuracy, and their performances on the pearly grey sands, among the long shadows of approaching night, have a most weird and picturesque effect. Fortunately for their own sakes, they are useless for food, but as pets they are much prized.
The Bower Bird, though a smaller fellow, is not behind his friend in point of interest. Among other things, he is an architect of no mean order, inasmuch as he builds for himself a bewitching little bower of grass and sticks. This is his treasure house, where he collects every bright and glittering object that attracts his fancy, particularly stones from the dry creek beds, amusing himself with them as a child plays with glittering beads. For this reason valuable gems may not unfrequently be discovered in his bower, their brilliance having caught his eye when on the search for playthings.
The Butcher Bird somewhat resembles an English thrush, and possesses the power of imitating any animal, with a ventriloquial effect truly remarkable. The Apostle Bird’s peculiarity is always to move about with eleven of his fellows. And the Bell Bird the bushman has good reason to know on account of his note being an exact imitation of a horse bell, which, when searching in thick scrub for horses, is apt to be terribly misleading.
The country along the Bulloo is both well timbered and well grassed, mulga, gidea, yapunya, and gum trees being most en evidence.
Our first station down the river was Emudilla, an out station of gigantic Milo. We found them in the midst of shearing, and too busy to attend to strangers. The manager’s hut was a miserable place, not fit for a dog to live in, and after camping the night there, we headed away along the Bulloo for Comongin.
Crossing a lightly timbered plain, about five or six miles from the station, we met with a curious experience. Jogging quietly along in the eye of the burning sun, wishing to goodness we were anywhere but where we were, our horses suddenly came to a dead stop before something huddled up on the ground. Our first impulse was to jump out and see what it was, but before we had time to move it rose, and we beheld the most weird and unearthly creature ever dignified with the name of man. He was of about middle age, very tall and thin, his clothes hung in rags about him, and to all appearance he was suffering from a terrible attack of ophthalmia, combined with a fit of delirium tremens. He rose out of the sand like a spirit of the waste, and confronted us. Then in a voice of extraordinary monotony, illustrative of the condition of his mind, he said:
‘Now don’t you be afraid of me — have a drink, do! I’m old Jim Collins, old Jim Collins, gone a mucker — poor old Jim! have a drink, do! Lord, but I’m dead broke; you should see the little devils — little green devils with pink eyes that run after me — through the cotton bush singing, “ Old Jim Collins, gone dead broke — gone dead broke.” Lord! and to think I’ve got a brother in London, who’s — well, never you mind what he is, but take a drink, do!’
We declined with thanks, having a pretty fair idea of what the stuff was made of, and tried to move forward, but he clung to the wheels, babbling on in the same foolish fashion. ‘Lor! you wouldn’t hurt old Jim Collins, I know! I’m old Jim Collins — poor old Jim, gone dead broke, and chased through the cotton bush by little green devils — little green devils with white legs and pink eyes, and Lord! look at’em there, forty thousand million of’em!’ etc. etc.
On our asking where he had come from, he pointed over his shoulder to nowhere in particular, saying — ‘From the Dead Finish, back there. You’ll take me back, won’t you now? You’ll take me back to the pub. Say you will or I’ll pull your livers out! Don’t leave me here to die — old Jim Collins — I’m desperate — Lor’! you don’t know what devils have been following me through the bush. Take me back to the pub, d’ye hear! or I’ll murder yer. I’m old Jim Collins,’ etc. etc.
But for more reasons than one, it would have been folly to have taken him back, so, seizing our opportunity, we whipped up and left him, standing hopelessly in the centre of the plain, looking after us. Half an hour later, we encountered a bullock team travelling in the same direction; the bullocky promised to keep an eye open for him.
These grog shanties, or ‘dead finishes’ as they are often termed, are the curse of the bush, and in no other colony are they so bad as in Queensland. Anything like the scenes enacted in them there would not be believed or tolerated in print. But they are of everyday occurrence, and from the fact that they are carried on hundreds of miles from civilisation, no one is the least bit the wiser.
As a rule, the shanty is a rude log or galvanised iron hut, which springs into existence beside the track, at a spot convenient to the surrounding stations. Here the shanty-keeper commences his nefarious traffic with very little real stock, the component parts of the various liquors sold being vitriol and kerosene, with a little flavouring mixture thrown in.
Owing to its position, it is generally impossible for any station hand, making for civilisation, to avoid passing the door. But woe betide that unfortunate man if he allows himself to be prevailed upon to enter. The following is the usual course of procedure.
We will presume that John Brown, of Yapunya Station, is going to take his holiday in the south. Perhaps, as is very likely, he has not been off the station for three years, during which time he has accumulated an amount on the station books equal to perhaps one hundred and fifty pounds. On asking for his cheque, it is given him, with much good advice against the attractions of the ‘dead finishes’ in the neighbourhood. Boasting his strength of mind, he saddles his riding and pack horses, and sets off, contented with himself and the world in general. It is a long and dusty journey, and just as he is thinking about camping for the night, the shanty appears in sight. He argues that he cannot possibly harm himself if he pulls up at the door just for one drink — only one. Maybe, one of the landlord’s daughters, nieces, or female cousins, catches his eye, and he then remembers that he has not seen a female for three years. He takes just one nip of whisky, and that one, manufactured on the premises, does the business. Five minutes later, he has determined just to spend the night there, and to resume his journey in the morning; but in half an hour he is hopelessly incapable, has planked his cheque on the counter, and told the landlord to let him know when it is finished. After that, for many days, he has no knowledge of passing events, and when he comes to his senses, it is only to find himself in the dead house, as the log hut at the rear of the hotel is called, about as near a dead man as he well can be. Then, nearly perishing for a drink, he crawls into the bar, to find his cheque finished (or said to be) and his horse and gear the property of the landlord for an additional debt. He is informed that while drunk he stood champagne for every passer-by, and in evidence of the fact, he is shown empty bottles lying freely scattered about the place. In reality he has given the landlord a cheque for one hundred and fifty pounds, in exchange for about five pounds’ worth of doctored liquor! Comment is needless!
In order that he shall not carry away with him a ............