HUNTING THE EMU AND OTHER BIRDS—AN AUSTRALIAN SHEEP RUN.
It was pretty well along in the afternoon when the party reached the station on its return. Our friends agreed that they had had an excellent day, and the sights they had witnessed were full of interest.
Mr. Syme asked the doctor and our young friends if they were good shots with the rifle or shot-gun. They modestly and truthfully answered that they had had very little experience in shooting, but were willing to make a trial of their skill.
“Very well,” said the host, “we will go out to-morrow and make an effort to obtain some birds. We will begin with the largest bird of Australia, the emu, and see what luck we can have with him.”
“I’ve read about that bird,” said Harry; “he doesn’t fly, but he can run very fast. I have read that he will outrun a horse; is that really so?”
“Yes,” was the reply; “he can outrun most horses; in fact, it requires an exceedingly fleet steed to overtake him. It is very little use to try to run him down by a dead chase after him. The best way is to station the horses along in a line about half a mile or so apart, and then chase the bird in their direction. Each horseman takes up the chase with a fresh animal until the emu is tired out, and then the dogs are sent in to finish the work.”
Our young friends slept well that night, the result of their exercise on horseback in the open air; in fact, they didn’t care to sit up late, and retired much earlier than on the previous evening.
The next morning the party started very soon after breakfast, and the way was taken to an open plain, three or four miles across, and fringed with timber. When they neared the plain they met a black fellow, who had been sent out early in the morning to find the game. He had found it, and informed his master where it was.
Then the horsemen were spread out in the manner already mentioned, and the bird was started out of a little clump of timber where they had taken shelter. Harry and Ned were surprised to see the manner in which he ran. He seemed to be ready to drop with exhaustion, and Harry confidently predicted that he would fall dead from fright before going a mile. But somehow he managed to keep in advance of his pursuers, and whenever they quickened their pace he quickened his, but all the time keeping up the appearance of weariness. The last of the horsemen, however, approached within two hundred yards of the emu, who was by this time really tired. Then the dogs were turned loose, and they speedily overtook the bird and pulled him down. One of the dogs was quite severely injured in the fight with the bird, but his wounds were dressed and bandaged, and his owners said he would soon be well again.
The emu is called the Australian ostrich, and he resembles that bird in being unable to fly, running with great rapidity and using his feet for fighting purposes. He strikes a heavy blow with his foot, and a single stroke of it is sufficient to disable a dog or break a man’s leg. The young man who accompanied Harry told him that he knew of an instance where an emu was chased and overtaken by a man on horseback, accompanied by dogs. The bird became desperate at finding he could not escape. As the horse approached, the bird threw itself on its back and kicked savagely, ripping the side of the animal with its claws. The horse was so badly lacerated that it was necessary to shoot him.
If caught when young or hatched out from an egg, the emu can be easily domesticated, but he is a dangerous pet to have about the premises. Like the ostrich, it has a love for bright things, and has been known to swallow silver spoons and other shining articles. One day a stranger, standing close to the fence of a yard where a tame emu was kept, took out his gold watch to ascertain the time. The bird was attracted by the glittering object, and with a quick motion he seized it and dropped it down his throat. Several black fellows were called, who secured the bird with some difficulty, poured a powerful emetic into his stomach, and then hung him up by the feet. This heroic treatment had the desired effect, and restored the watch to its owner.
The eggs of the emu are in demand as great curiosities, and Australian jewelers work them into various ornamented articles and sell them readily at a high price. The perpetual hunt for the eggs, which is kept up by the blacks, is steadily diminishing the number of these birds, and, in course of time, there is danger that they will become extinct.
Another bird that was seen by our friends, but not captured, is the one known as the native companion. It is a large bird, belonging to the crane family. Its head stands about three feet from the ground, its legs are long, and its plumage is a lavender gray. It is rarely seen alone, there being generally two of them together, and very often a dozen or more. In this instance there were two birds, which went away rapidly on their wings and were soon lost to sight. When there is a large number of them together, they indulge in a series of evolutions which have a close resemblance to the movements of accomplished dancers. They advance, recede, turn, return, and go through a variety of figures like dancers in the quadrille or the minuet. Sometimes they keep up these performances for an hour or more, and seem to indulge in them entirely for the sake of amusement.
Harry asked if they would have an opportunity to see the famous lyre bird of Australia. “We saw two of them,” said he, “in the Zoo at Melbourne, and therefore, know what their appearance is, but we would like very much to see them in their wild state.”
“The lyre bird is getting very scarce in Australia,” said their young friend, “and I have never seen one in this locality. The bird frequents mountainous regions where the forests are somewhat dense, and very rarely comes out into the open plain. It is about the size of an ordinary barnyard fowl, but looks much larger, owing to its beautiful tail, which is very long, and grows exactly in the shape of the instrument after which it is named. It is a very clever mocking bird, and will reproduce the notes of all its forest companions, but it is very shy and difficult to get at, and unless it is got when very young it cannot be domesticated.
“We have wild turkeys here,” continued their informant; “and they are very good eating; perhaps some of our party will be fortunate enough to bring down a turkey or two before we go back. There is one fowl here called the mallee bird, about the size of the pheasant, and resembling him in many ways. He generally lives near the edge of the mallee scrub, and his flesh is very much esteemed by all who have eaten it. The mallee is a gregarious bird, and at the breeding season large numbers of them come together. They collect great heaps of dry leaves, among which a number of hen birds lay their eggs, indiscriminately taking care to cover them up warmly.
“They don’t take any trouble to hatch their eggs, but leave that for the heat of the dry and decaying vegetable matter. When the time approaches for the chicks to break the shell, the male birds hover about on the watch for their appearance, and snakes, also, like to come around, in the hopes of securing a few of the tender birds as they emerge into daylight. When the chick comes out from the egg, his skin is pink and bare, and hardly a sign of a feather is visible; but within twenty-four hours, during which the feathers spread so rapidly that you can almost see their growth, the bird is fully fledged and feathered, and able to take care of itself.”
An amusing circumstance happened during the day’s excursion. Ned was the victim of it, and he did not consider it at all amusing until after it was all over. This was the way of it:—
While the party was halted at one time, discussing where next they would go, the dogs disturbed something, but neither of our young friends could make out what it was. They were in the open country at the time, though not far from the edge of the bush. The something that the dogs had disturbed came directly towards the party, and Ned happened to be nearer to it than anybody else. The creature looked like a small alligator, and that’s what Ned and Harry thought it was. Ned had dismounted from his horse and was standing by the animal’s head, waiting for the decision about their movements. The animal came directly up to Ned and climbed up his side. It was about five feet long, and a very formidable-looking creature. The youth immediately began fighting the animal, and shouted for his friends to pull him off.
“Lie down on the ground,” said one of the Australians; “lie down on the ground, and he will leave you at once. He is just as much frightened as you are.”
Ned flung his horse’s bridle to one of his friends, and then obeyed instructions. He dropped to the ground, and immediately as he did so the horrid-looking creature left him.
“What in the world is that?” said Ned, as he rose to his feet again and regained his composure.
“That’s an iguana, or lizard,” was the reply. “It is perfectly harmless as long as you know how to deal with it. When it is pursued by dogs, it runs to its hole if it can; if its hole is not available, it climbs a tree until it is out of reach of its pursuers, and if no tree is at hand, it will climb on a man or a horse. It selected you as a place of shelter, and I warrant it was more scared than you were.”
“It might be easily mistaken for an alligator,” said Ned, surveying the animal as it was stretched on the ground, having been killed by a blow on the head from the butt of a stockman’s whip.
“Yes, it is often mistaken for a young alligator. I have known of an iguana to appear in a party of pleasure seekers, picnicking in the woods, and make quite a serious disturbance. The ladies screamed and fled and some of them fainted. Some of the men fled, too, but those who knew about the creature quickly despatched him.”
“Is it useful for food?”
“Yes; the blacks use it, and are very fond of it, but white men don’t ‘hanker after it,’ as your American phrase is. However, those who have been bold enough to taste it assert that, when well cooked, the flavor is excellent.”
“Well, it doesn’t look very inviting,” Ned remarked; “and I don’t think I would care for iguana for dinner.”
“You may not care for it,” was the reply, “but the black fellows will. Here, Jack,” he continued, addressing the aboriginal, “you can have this.”
Jack needed no second invitation. With a smile on his face, he quickly took possession of the huge lizard and strapped it to his saddle. No doubt the meat of the iguana gave the blacks at the station a supper that they greatly enjoyed.
Another day was spent at the cattle station, Harry and Ned going out with one of the stockmen and accompanying him on his morning round. Dr. Whitney thought he did not care for any more horseback exercise just then, and spent the day around the station. The youths enjoyed their ride very much, and returned to the house in time for luncheon.
It had been arranged that our young friends should visit a sheep run about twenty miles away, and on the morning of the fourth day Mr. Syme took them in his covered wagon to their destination. The road was not a very smooth one, but the wagon, which was well built, suffered no injury, and as for the passengers, they did not mind a little jolting. They reached their destination with very sharp appetites, and evidently their new host, Mr. Johnson, was aware of what their condition would be, as a substantial meal was on the table a few minutes after their arrival; and you may be sure that it received ample attention from the strangers.
After the meal was over, the party went out for a stroll among the buildings connected with the station. The house where the owner lived was a solidly built affair, not unlike the one they had sojourned in for a few days at the cattle station. There was this difference, however, that it was elevated on posts about six feet from the ground, giving free circulation of air beneath it, and furnishing a good place of storage for various things connected with the station.
In reply to an inquiry by Harry, Mr. Johnson said that this arrangement of the building was a good one to keep out snakes. “It doesn’t keep them out altogether,” said he, “as there are snakes that will climb posts, but ordinarily serpents do not attempt that performance. When I first came to Australia, I lived in a house which stood right on the ground. The region was a snaky one, and every little while we would find a snake in the house, and have a lively time driving him out or killing him. None of the family was ever bitten by a snake, but we certainly had some narrow escapes. When I came here and built this house, I determined to have a dwelling which these unpleasant visitors could not easily enter.”
Harry remarked that a snake-proof house was certainly quite to his liking, and he hoped the building would continue to display its admirable qualities as long as he remained there.
The youths were impressed with the size and extent of the wool shed belonging to the establishment, and Ned remarked that they must have a very active time during the shearing season.
“It is our most active time,” was the reply; “the busiest of all the year. Ordinarily the life on a sheep run is quiet and humdrum, but when shearing time begins everything is lively. We engage the shearers as they come along, in parties or gangs. They are a difficult lot of men to deal with, as they have a very powerful trade union which stands by its members, with little regard to right or wrong. The shearing is done by piece work. We used to pay three pence for shearing a sheep, or rather we paid five shillings a score. A good shearer can do fourscore in a day, and consequently he earns twenty shillings or one sovereign. That’s pretty good pay, isn’t it?”
“Seems to me that it is,” replied Harry. “Do you board the shearers, or do they find themselves?”
“Oh, we have to board them, of course, and we have to board their horses, as most of the shearers travel on horseback. But the feed of a horse isn’t of much consequence, as we simply turn him into the paddock and let him graze there. Sometimes we hire a fiddler to play for the men while they are at work in the shearing house, and also in the evening, when they are off duty. Sometimes a gang of shearers brings along its own cook. They pay the cook’s wages themselves, but the employer supplies the material out of which the shearers’ meals are made. These fellows are very particular as to their treatment, and if they feel that they are ill-used in any way, they are liable to quit work and go away.”
“They ought to earn a very nice little sum of money during the shearing season,” observed Harry.
“They certainly do,” was the reply; “especially as, for the last two years, they have demanded four pence and even five pence for each sheep sheared. I expect they’ll get it up in time so as to take most of the profits of the business. It makes little difference to the great majority of them how much they get for their work, as it is generally gone by the end of the shearing season.”
“That reminds me,” said Mr. Johnson, “of the visit of a gentleman from Melbourne to a sheep station up country. He went there with a friend, reaching the station about dinner time. He was introduced to the owner of the station, who greeted him cordially enough, and invited the two of them to remain at dinner, which would be ready shortly. He strolled about the buildings for a little while, and when dinner was announced, he went in and joined the others at table.
“The table was well supplied, and he had no occasion to complain of the quality or quantity of the food set before him; but he was somewhat surprised to find that no one spoke to him, except in the briefest manner, and that every one seemed desirous of being rid of him as soon as possible. In fact, there was very little conversation at the table, anyway, and as soon as they were through dinner he suggested to his friend that they had better be moving. Their team was brought out, and they continued their journey, their temporary hosts not even taking the trouble to say good-day to him.
“When they were out of earshot of the place, the Melbourne gentleman remarked to his companion, who, by the way, was a good deal of a practical joker:—
“‘I don’t think much of your friends from a civility point of view. They were as rude to me as a party of savages could be.’
“‘I don’t wonder at it,’ was the reply. ‘Just for the fun of the thing, I told them you were president of the Sheep Shearers’ Union.’
“‘If you told them that outrageous lie,’ said the other, ‘I am not at all surprised that they treated me as they did, but please don’t do it again.’
“I don’t believe that the president of the Shearers’ Union would receive a hearty welcome at any sheep run in Australia. Sheep farmers have good reason for a serious grudge against the whole concern; but, after all, it is no worse than most of the other trade unions. Nearly all of them are oppressive to a high degree, and are a great injury to business and commercial prosperity.”
Ned and Harry were especially interested in the place where the shearing was done. The building was a large structure of quadrangular shape, with a bulkhead running across the middle of it and dividing it into two portions. There is a platform for the shearers around one of the enclosures formed, and by the bulkhead at shearing time; this is always kept full of sheep; in fact, it is crowded full, so that the shearer can lay hands on a sheep at any time without the necessity of running after it. The shearers stand at their work. They have tried various devices for sitting down or for placing sheep on a bench or table so as to avoid bending their backs, but none of the experiments have succeeded, and the old process remains in use. It is decidedly fatiguing for a beginner, but in course of time one gets used to it, as to everything else.
“What is that little door for, and the little yard outside of it?” queried Ned, as he pointed to one of a series of low, small doors at the outside of the shearers’ platform, opposite the enclosure.
“Oh, that is for the shearer to let out his sheep after he has removed the fleece. He takes the animal to be sheared out of the enclosure, as I told you, and then when he has sheared it, he lets it out through this door into the little yard; that is to enable us to count the men’s work in a way to avoid all disputes. In the early days of Australian sheep farming, the men who gathered up the fleece kept the accounts of the shearers, but there were constant disputes on the subject, which led to the adoption of the present system. You see there isn’t any chance for misunderstanding now.”
“Certainly, you have it now beyond question,” remarked Harry; “and I am sure that every shearer is very careful about letting his sheep out through his own door.”
“That he is,” was the reply; “and we never have any complaints about unfair counting. At the end of the day’s work everybody can count up for himself.”
“I suppose,” said Ned, “that the shearers occasionally cut the sheep while shearing them.”
“Occasionally!” was the reply; “you had better say frequently, or very often; and some of them are much worse than others. We have proposed to the Shearers’ Union to establish a system of fines for ‘tomahawking’ sheep, but the union refuses to do anything about it. We always have a boy here, and sometimes two boys, while the shearing is going on. The boy is provided with a tar bucket and brush. Whenever a shearer cuts the skin of a sheep he calls out ‘Tar!’ not stopping a moment in his work. At the sound of that word, the boy runs forward with his bucket and brush and covers the wounded spot with tar, which keeps the flies away from it. Tar is the best thing we can find for this purpose, and is in use on all the sheep runs in the country.
“Many of the shearers,” continued their host, “pride themselves on the skill with which they perform their work. The shearer places the sheep between his knees with its head upwards; he begins at the throat and shears downward, so that, when his work is completed, the fleece drops off in a single piece. As fast as the sheep are sheared, the fleeces are gathered by the man whose duty it is to collect them. They are then taken to the baling house, and, when a sufficient quantity has been obtained, the fleeces are made into bales, in much the same way that cotton is baled on an American plantation.”
Mr. Johnson then led the way to the baling house, or rather the baling room, as it was in the same building where the shearing is carried on. The baling apparatus proved to be a simple affair, nothing more than a press, very much like a cotton or hay press, and handled in the same way. The bales of wool usually weigh about four hundred pounds, and are manipulated with hooks, just as cotton bales are handled.
Ned asked if it was necessary to have the wool perfectly dry when packing it.
“Yes, indeed,” was the reply; “and for that reason all work in the wool shed must stop during wet weather. The fleeces, when taken from the sheep, must be absolutely dry, and if the sheep are caught out in a rain, it takes two or three days to dry them thoroughly. It is a serious loss of time when we have occasional rainy days, as we lose not only the rainy day itself, but not less than one or two clear days afterwards in order to have the fleeces in proper condition for baling.”
Other observations were made around the wool shed, and about the time that they were concluded a flock of sheep came in from its day’s pasturage. There were about five hundred sheep in the flock, accompanied by the shepherd and his dog. They were not driven to the wool shed, but to a yard a little distance away from it. The sheep were in good condition and evidently well cared for.
Harry remarked as much to the owner, who answered that the man in charge of them was a very faithful shepherd, and he added that he might well be so, as he was constantly under the eye of his employer.
After looking at the flock and visiting several other buildings of the establishment, the party returned to the house, and in due course of time sat down to dinner. The entertainment was very much like that of the cattle station. The cooking was good, the host was attentive, the meal was enlivened by stories of sheep-farming life, and altogether the occasion was a pleasant one.
The next morning Mr. Johnson accompanied his guests in a horseback ride over a portion of his grounds. As the sheep run covered an area of about one hundred square miles, it was too much to expect that they would examine the whole of it. They visited two or three of the out-stations, and saw the shepherds caring for their flocks. Each of the out-stations that they visited consisted of a hut for two men, and two yards where the sheep were kept at night. As already mentioned in our account of the visit of the party to a sheep farm in South Africa, each shepherd started out in the morning with his flock, moving it slowly along so as to reach water about noon, and then slowly feeding it back again, reaching the station about nightfall.
Nearly every shepherd has a sheep dog, partly for the sake of companionship and partly for assistance. A good sheep dog is a very useful and valuable animal. He aids the shepherd in keeping the flock together whenever any of them show a disposition to straggle, and the sheep speedily learn to know him and regard him as their friend. He never injures them, though he frequently makes a great pretense of doing so. Sometimes he takes a refractory sheep by the ear, or seizes it by the wool on his neck, but the case is exceedingly rare where he perpetrates an actual bite.
The favorite dog for the shepherd is the collie, but other kinds are employed, and many an ordinary cur has been trained by an intelligent master so that he made an excellent sheep dog, though he can never attain the excellence of the genuine collie. The real shepherd dog will accomplish more than would be possible for a man under the same circumstances. He will drive a flock from place to place, gather them together to be counted, and take them from one field to another much quicker than a man could do it. A story is told of an instance that happened in Scotland, to James Hogg, known in literature as “The Ettrick Shepherd.” Seven hundred sheep broke loose one night from his charge, and scampered off in three divisions across the plain. It was too dark to see anything for any appreciable distance, and the shepherd supposed he would have to wait until morning, and then take his chances of collecting his animals. Shortly afterwards he missed his dog. In the morning he went out to look for the sheep, but saw no sign of them until he reached the edge of a ravine and looked over the side. There he saw the dog guarding the entire flock, not one of the seven hundred being missing. How he ever managed to collect them in the dark, his owner could not imagine. A dozen, or even a hundred men, would have failed where he succeeded.
Near the end of the last century there was a sheep stealer in Scotland, who was finally discovered and hanged for his crimes, who used to carry on his trade by the aid of his dog. He traveled about the country under pretense of buying sheep, though he rarely bought any. While looking at a flock, he would pick one of the fattest and give a secret signal to his dog, indicating the animal. That night the dog would come to the flock where the sheep belonged, often traveling several miles to do it; then would pick out the identical animal and drive it to his master. If he happened, at any time, to meet his master on the road while going on one of his stealing expeditions, the dog would give no sign of recognition, and treat his master as a perfect stranger. When the man’s guilt was discovered, and he was tried and condemned for his crime, the dog was also condemned to be hanged; but it was afterwards concluded that the dog was simply an instrument, in the hands of his owner, and not responsible for his actions. He was given to a shepherd, who kept the animal as long as he lived; and, according to the shepherd’s account, the dog was never afterwards guilty of any crime.
During their ride among the out-stations of the sheep run, our young friends learned several things connected with the industry of raising wool for the market.
One fact which they learned was, that for a portion of the year, a great many sheep farmers are in debt to the bankers at the ports where they send their wool. They have a considerable amount of money to pay out during the course of the year before shearing time, and consequently they require advances from their bankers. It is not at all difficult to obtain money in advance on a crop of wool, and in this respect a sheep run has an advantage over a cattle run. Even when the sheep farmer is growing rich, and has money laid by, he often prefers to obtain advances on his wool crop rather than use his own money for carrying on business. When the crop comes in, all the indebtedness is paid off, and there is usually a good balance left. This may be set aside and invested, or it may remain at the banker’s, to be drawn whenever wanted.
Sheep farmers keep very little money at their stations in the country districts for fear of attracting bushrangers, or other individuals, whose ideas of the rights of property do not harmonize with those of society in general. In many cases laborers are paid off by check, and not in cash, and it is no uncommon sight to see a laboring man, in an Australian town or village, flourishing a check previous to turning it into money, which he proceeds to spend with a liberal hand.
Another point that they learned was, that there are certain portions of Australia between the mountains and the coast, particularly in Queensland, that are not adapted to sheep, though they make excellent pasturage for cattle. In these localities there is a grass that has a barb on its edges, and when once it becomes attached to the wool of the sheep, it steadily works its way inward until it pierces the skin of the animal, and eventually causes its death. Cattle are not affected by this grass, as it does not penetrate their skins. They walk in it and feed upon it with impunity, and in any of the regions where this grass is found there is no attempt at rearing sheep, but the land is devoted to cattle raising.