Australia, particularly in its up-country places, needs more vegetables most terribly, if it is to escape at all from the scourge of cancer which already lays such a heavy toll on its inhabitants; and if it needs more vegetable gardens to satisfy its human needs, it certainly needs more flower gardens for its spiritual needs, as a humanizing, home-making influence, nothing striking the new chum more forcibly than the utter lack of any attempt at beautifying the outside of up-country cottages, save with empty condensed milk and jam tins.
For many years squatters in the drought-stricken districts have employed Chinese gardeners, to whom they often owe the fact that their families grow up healthy, and their wives find some solace, some reminder of their girlhood’s home in the lonely wind-swept plains, where the poor despised John Chinaman has—with unceasing toil, with infinite manceuvring, by means of prehistoric wind-wheels and pumps old as Egypt in design—made a little oasis to blossom for them.
“I would give anything to have a Chinaman to teach my boys vegetable growing,” said the Principal of a Horticultural College near Melbourne to me some years ago. “But the Minister would never allow it, and if he did I should have the whole country about my ears.” He was right, for no freeborn Australian boy would tolerate for a minute being taught anything by an Asiatic. But are they right in this. One may perhaps despise certain traits in every race, in every phase of Nature even, but is that any proof that they have not much to teach us? And after all, as wise men of all ages have realized, it is from our enemies, not from our friends, that we learn most, and the Chinese native is after all perhaps a trifle older than the Australian—though you in my dear foster-country must really forgive me mentioning it.
CHAPTER VIII
THE AMUSEMENTS AND THE ARTS
Once I lived in a house where there was a dog kept named Turk, presumably a watch-dog, but only presumably so, for he would follow anybody, welcome anybody, and almost go into hysterics of joy at a word of favour even from the veriest sundowner. At the gate-house of the railway crossing near by dwelt a fat old Irishwoman with a brood of children, one of whom, little Jack, a most lovable rascal of some seven or eight years, made a regular practice of stealing Turk, bringing him back after several days, and claiming a reward for having found him—usually in the most unlikely places. First of all he was paid for his trouble with a shilling, then sixpence, then the reward dwindled to a penny or an apple, as we all began to realize how we were being had, though we still kept up the solemn pretence just for the sake of the amusement we got out of it. Little Jack was a born bragger. His great boast was: “We’ve been keepin’ gates fur years and years, ever since I wur quite a little chap; and we ain’t never ’ad our gate carried away, all the toime we’ve been at thur job. Why thur’s some as ’as thur gates carried away pretty near every week!” Jack had a great idea of fair play for everyone. Once he brought a very small brother with him, when he came to return Turk, and the master of the house took both of the boys into the orchard for the so-called reward. The tiny one, enchanted with the quantity of fruit, the pink-cheeked peaches and golden apricots, ran hither and thither ejaculating, shouting, and appealing for sympathy in his delight, till at last his elder brother, out of all patience with the constant interruptions to what the master of the orchard was saying, caught him by the shoulder, and, with a sharp shake, whispered hoarsely: “Can’t yer ’old yer jaw, an’ give the bloomin’ bloke a show.” It was his way of showing respect for his elders and betters.
Some time later I was away for several months, and on my return was met by a still older brother—with all Jack’s rascality and none of Jack’s lovableness—who was returning Turk, oozing with easy affection, after some days’ absence.
“Where’s Jack?” I inquired, not at all in the mood to waste pennies.
The boy’s eyes opened wide, with the peculiar hard stare of Australian youth. “Ain’t yer ’eard?” he demanded. “Our Jack’s drowned; we gets knocked out, an’ our Jack drowned the sime day. Australia goin’ ter ’ell, that’s wot it is.”
True enough the Australian eleven had lost the first test match of that season against the Britishers, and little Jack had been drowned in the river the very same day. What does the boy’s calm account of the two events show? An immense patriotism or a lack of natural affection. Neither the one nor the other, but simply and entirely that the very heart and soul of the Australian of to-day—even of the smallest larrikin—is completely engrossed with games and sport; not so much personal sport, such as hunting or shooting, but anything that brings with it a chance of gambling. If you walk through any wide bit of park land or open country near Melbourne, in some hollow or other—perhaps in many—you will chance on groups of men squatting on their haunches, with bent heads, engrossed in some mysterious occupation, while one of their number stands at a little distance on watch. If a policeman comes anywhere within sight the sentry whistles, and the men—or youths, as they mostly are—disperse aimlessly in every direction; hands deep in their pockets, hats on the back of their heads, complete vacuity on their countenances; for it is a “Two-Up School” that they have been forming, and Two-Up is illegal, though it is still played persistently in every quiet nook and corner.
Australians are born gamblers. It is in their blood, I suppose, like restlessness, for there are still to be found in Tasmania secluded spots in the middle of the forests, much like the old native “corroboree” grounds where cock-fights used to be held by the convicts in the early days, and every possible stake that could be mustered laid on the contending birds. Now the tiniest children bet, and bet on anything and everything, while the newspaper boys have a bit on each important race or football match, and an intricate system of gambling with cigarette cards. I think Melbourne is, on the whole, a very sober town—most extraordinarily so—considering the dry heat and the dust. Men go on the “bust,” and “paint the town red,” but there is very little of that persistent soaking that one meets with in London, where the drunkenness, particularly among the women, strikes me as more and more horrible every time I return there. I have been in Melbourne during elections, and high days, and holidays of all sorts, and have always been struck with the good-tempered sobriety of the people. During the five years, 1893–1897, which was a period of general drought in Australia, there was even a further decrease in drunkenness, people having no money, I suppose, for what out here they call “irrigating.” Now that good times have come again the convictions for drunkenness have, unfortunately, also increased. Still, though Victoria drinks more wine than the other States, she consumes considerably less beer and spirits than any, excepting Tasmania. While as for Denmark, which has been held up to her as a model, it consumes 2.54 of spirits per head to Victoria’s 0.67, and 20.6 of beer to Australia’s 11.92. Might it not therefore be suggested that some of the pats of butter, on which Mr. Foster Fraser lays such stress, may perchance have been seen—and counted—twice over?