REMINISCENCES OF OLDEN DAYS c1914 Way Down Upon The Snowy River. I HAVE been in the capital of Croajingalong for a month and have not yet adapted myself to circumstances. It is so self-contained, so different from any Australian town I have yet visited. In appearance, Orbost is like any other village of a thousand folk. It has the usual general stores, the usual hotels, in the bar-parlors of which the same crowd tell the same lies as they dally over the same drinks, the usual barbers shop where the same type gather to hear the news. So far as the town, itself, is concerned there is nothing unusual. The famous Snowy River flows close to the town but, at present, in consequence of a long period of dry weat her, it is disappointingly shallow. Now, it is only a couple of hundred of yards wide bounded by sand osierlined banks. I hope to see it in winter. Then it swiftly rises, and in a couple of days is a tumultuous, ro aring river, overflowing its banks and spreading miles wide. It brings with it from the uplands a rich mud that remains after the river has subsided. This silt makes the soil wonderfully fertile. I have been shown places where there are three post and rail fences, one above the other, the lower ones being buried. The mud rise averages four inches per year. The soil on the 35,000 acres of Orbost flats is probably as rich as any part of the world. It grows almost anything. Land values are between £60 and £70 per acre. I was recently shown a block of land, on which it is not considered safe to build, but which was lately sold at £33 per acre. Maize is the chief product, a fair crop being one hundred bushels to the acre and as maize is at present about 4s. per bus hel, theres money in it. After maize come pigs. They usually do. The faint, melancholy grunt of the porker is often heard. It reminds me of Watts immortal lines— “ Tis the voice of the porker! I hear him complain You are starving your bacon, come, trot out some grain.” The next great product is pumpkins They grow almost wild and to an enormous size. I showed a fellow lodger a post card of an Orbost baby reclining in a cradle composed of a monster pumpkin. “Pooh,” said he, “thats nothing! you ought to see the beets in Melbourne. Why! I once saw three policemen asleep on one beet.” He is an abominable fellow. He make puns, a corrupt form of language which I consider is a sure sign of a degenerate conscience. Just imagine having to live in a house with a man who calls his horse “Egypt” because, as he says, “ e jibbed;” or having to nod to a man who throwing a maize cob at a passing horse says, “Thats the most amazing cob Ive seen this year.” I shall strike him yet. Several of the farmers have motor launches and during the dull times of the year, they go off down the river on fishing expeditions. Ah! The fishing is splendid. Bream, trout and perch are caught by the ton up to five and six pound, and ten miles away, the best of sea fishing is to be had. The climate is peculiar. It is like that of Spain. A sort of to-morrow-will- do touch about it. I find work a burden. I blame that to the climate, of course. Many of the shops are closed from 12 to 1, while their proprietors go home and eat their dinners. Many of them dont bother to open till half past nine in the morning. The town is quiet and sober and respectable all the week but, with Saturday, come crowds of maize pickers, mostly half-caste aboriginals and large quantities of beer are drunk. Occasionally they take possession of the town and then things become most uncomfortable, especially as some of them have a habit of taking the middle of the road about midnight and eloquently demanding their rights, as true born, if black Australians. Coming back to the vegetables, I was shown a parsnip five feet long. Dont believe me? Believe this if you like. A man, digging parsnips, three miles from Orbost, struck an extra big one. He dug for a long while, and, at last, getting one end on his shoulder, started off for the town. When he got there, three miles away, the other end ofthe parsnip was still in the ground. There now! And its absolutely true! I ought to add that the end of the parsnip broke off in the ground. If I started talking about the size of the walnuts you wallnut believe me. I give this as a sample of my fellow lodgers punning mania. Have you ever heard of Marlo? I guess not! well, I m going to tell you about it! and a lot too! I went there, one day last week. I left Orbost on a beautiful sunny afternoon and biked along th e Snowy for the greater pa rt of ten miles. As I kept close to the bank all the way, I could see what a fine river it really is. To save the banks from being washed away during the flood years, osiers have been planted along them. What with these and weeping willows and poplars in numbers, there is a peculiarly unAustralian appearance about the place.The trees are all now autumn tinted and with the gleaming river make pretty pictures. I complain about the state of the road to a passing fa rmer, who tells me there is a good metal road. I look round in bewildered incredulity till he adds with a gesture of his thumb, “Three feet down there, below ground.” On I ride, watching the play of sunlight on water and tree and hillside,past maize fields, past maize pickers tents by the river, past great “crates” of maize cobs, past thousands of osier willows overhanging the bank, past the landing stage where hundreds of silver-tongued bell birds are noting, past the cliffs that herald the nearness of the sea. Then the road leaves the Snowy, and, in a few yards comes alongside the Brodribb. I crossed the bridge, noticin g the four heavy steel cables that strengthen it against the big floods that sweep along during the winter. But now the Brodribb is as calm as a babys smile, with not a mark on it save the clear reflection of the trees. Now, in the distance, can be heard the dull booming of the ocean and in a few minutes I am pushing my bike up the sandy hill that leads me to the comfortable hotel in the tiny village of Marlo. First I bought as much ginger ale as I could get for sixpence. Then I filled my pipe and settled myself down to admire the view. If you have power of visualizing, use it now. I am going to draw a picture with my pen. I would that I could use a clearer me dium. Come with me and see this view. Its worth looking at. In the foreground, the buffalo grass lawn, overlooking th e eau-de-nil tinted, three-quar ter mile wide river, calm and unruffled. Then a long, yellow, sa ndy spit of land, fifty yards wide, running to the west, up to the olive green, scrub-covered hills and to the east, sinking into yellow distance. Beyond this, the mighty, deep blue ocean, marred fifty yards out by a long line of silver-topped breakers on the sand bank, that parallels the coast and spreading out to the distant Pole and to the apparently nearer, purple and gold red sunset. I tripped down the little cliffside and rowed out on the river. The last time I had been out rowing was on New Years Day on the Wimmera, amid the laughter and noise of happy children beneath the giant gums that enfold the river at Dimboola. Then I went back to tea! A ten mile bike ride, a lovely da y, a row to the sea and a dip in the briny—I need not particularise further on the quantity of food I ate. Then the mail came in, the weekly event of importance. The one link with the world. I watched the school miss, sitting contentedly happy, with her pile of letters and papers before he r, her hour in the week. Then I went into the bar parlor and met all the residents of Marlo. I smoked and chatted with them. One, a Swede, was wrecked 16 years ago while on his way home. He put down his bundle here and is now a river pilot; a couple of English younger sons doing colonial experience; a blacksmith named Quinn, who left Horsham in 79—in fact, a strange motley little crowd. Then I went out into the moonlight and wandered out along the silent river. Not a sound save the thundering boom of the ocean on the sunken bank. To-night thousands are rushing and bustling through the streets of Melbourne; crowds are sitting in theatres; friends are enjoying domestic pleasures, and I am walking alone not unhappy, by the moonlit river. It is my birthday, and how could I have spent it better than wandering so, and allowing my mind to wander back to birthdays when I was not a wanderer on the face of the earth. I walked on and listened. But all I heard was the dull cannonading of the ocean. Now and again, a shriller note came loud and piercing. I tried to read some meaning into it, but all I could hear was a mocking defiance of man— “I stood alone by Marlo Beach, Beside the broken sea, Without a care, without a fear, The world was far As sky-held star, And God came wondrous near. Together we, on Marlo Beach, The ocean, God and me.” Next morning, I basked in the sun, watching sunlight and shadow on the water. After lunch, a party of us we nt aboard the steamtug Kerlup, a tiny 25-ton paddle boat, with asthmatic boilers, and boldly she pushed her way down the river to the sea. In 93 the mouth of the river was right opposite the hotel, but in consequence of the silt brought down by the river and also of the strange antics of the ocean, a long sandy spit has been built, and now the entrance is three miles further down. We disembarked right close to where the river disembogues into the sea. The mouths of rivers have a fascination for me. The river has travelled for days and days, down hillside and through plains and now it is silently swallowed up by the ocean. It is Life and Death. Then the “Wongra-belle,” two-masted schooner, came bustling in under a cloud of canvas. Gaily, her nose tossed the waves aside. Suddenly she baulked and stopped. She was stuck on the bar thatencloses the coast. I became interested. Would she become a total wreck? In answer to my thought, her crew put out long poles and tried to push her off. The little tug came out to her assistance. A tow rope was fixed between the boats. The Kerlup took it in her teeth and pulled and strained till I thought her boilers would burst. I sat on the sand and discussed Tennyson and tea parties with a nice young lady. An hour passed. Still the tug wheezed and dragged. We got on to Goldsmith and cats and colds and predestination and—I forget the rest. Still the tug coughed and spluttered. Suddenly, the schooner moved majestically forwards and we cheered. The tug gave a triumphant blast with her whistle, the Wongra-belle shook out her sails and, we shivering marooned folk cheered. What a silence, a woful silence! The ship coming right into the mouth of the river had stopped again. The tug went out again. A motor launch came along and rescued us. The ship was in a hopeless position and must remain beached, till high tide would let her off. This should be entitled “The Wreck of the Wongra- belle.” As we reached the landing, one grumbled, “Its all through this blessed Licensing Bill; not allowing the bars to be open on Sunday.” No one smiled. We were all sniffing dinner. I sprang to my bike and away, for I wanted to be back in Orbost before dark. As I neared the town, I heard a band of maize pickers, gathered round their camp fires, singing “Annie Laurie.” The distance effaced all the discords and in the still, sharp air, the chorus sounded most harmonious. Strange contrast! Last night, drunkenly brawling in hotel bars; to-night, sitting by the noble Snowy under the star-spotted sky and singing— “And for bonnie Annie Laurie Ill lay me doon and die,” Humanity, like a diamond, has many facets. Sometimes the light strikes one, sometimes another. And each is true in its own way. Once more, in the dusty streets of Orbost and—home
Posted on: Thu, 30 Oct 2014 21:55:43 +0000
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