That word reminds me of the remarkably clever display given to us by the natives of boomerang throwing. The boomerang is an innocent-looking weapon which the ignorant would never suspect could be applied to dangerous work. In appearance it resembles a rude Tee-square, and each side is about a foot long. Thrown by an ignorant Briton like myself the weapon merely careers along the ground for a space of thirty or forty feet and nothing further happens, save the ironical laughter of the natives, who receive a demonstration that even a Briton does not know everything. But when the native throws it, the weapon accomplishes wonders. It suddenly becomes alive. It defies all general laws. The black sends the wood from him in a straight direction, but lo! it whistles and sings and describes circles in the air like a bird, and then suddenly descends to the earth in a vertical direction, landing at the very place from which it was projected. When we saw how easily the thing was done, we all caught the fever and became boomerang throwers. Lawyer, doctor, parson, and merchant stood in the field and went back in an instant to the primitive hunting ways of the savage. The boomerang is an ugly instrument to play with, however. After a flight of thirty seconds, during which it gains momentum, it descends like lightning, sometimes where it is not wanted. The doctor threw his boomerang with such precision that it returned twice and struck him violently on the hand—the hand that had thrown it. If boomerang throwing were introduced into England it would become a perfect craze. It would completely eclipse the diabolo craze. But then it would be necessary to increase the number of surgeons and ambulance men, for a blow from a boomerang might inflict serious damage.
Another native custom was shown to us, and proved to be most fascinating. It was the art of the fire-stick. Here, under our eyes, was exposed the primitive way of obtaining fire. The apparatus looked most unpromising. It consisted of a piece of soft wood about a foot long and six inches wide, a piece of dry fibre, and a short, narrow cane made of hard wood. Placing the cane between the palms of his two hands, the operator swiftly turned it into the soft wood beneath with a friction so powerful that the cane pierced the wood, causing it to smoke. The air, blowing through the hole thus made, fanned the spark which, falling upon the dry fibre beneath, set it on fire. Thus in one minute, by simple friction, a fire equal to any kindled by a match was blazing. The process was picturesque and exciting. In that group of darkies gathered round a piece of wood, a handful of fibre, and a hard cane, we beheld primitive man engaged in the task of kindling his fire. It was, for the moment, ancient history incarnate. And when it was over, a member of our party, drawing forth a box of vestas, remarked, “Good old Bryant and May.” He remembered his mercies, and was thankful.
The one pathetic scene of the afternoon’s visit was our encounter with the “King” of the natives. From the distance we observed a venerable figure approaching. As he came nearer we perceived a brass plate suspended by a chain around his neck. The apparition resembled, for all the world, a facchino of an Italian railway station—brass plate and all. Inscribed upon the tablet was this legend:
Anthony Anderson,
King of Birchup.
And this was the deposed chief of the district, vanquished by the white man, chased out of his patrimony, and reduced to the proportions of an exile! I could not discover the native name of the ancient chief; it was certainly not Anthony Anderson. Nor could I discover why he had assumed the name of Anderson. He was a truly pathetic figure. Skin black as coal, his hair and beard were nearly white. The odd costume he affected served only to set off the antiquity of his own person. An ancient pair of light trousers, no longer white; a begreased coat; a flaming red tie with the flame expiring, and a shapeless billycock hat dyed through and through with grease—such was his dress. The old man wept as he told us that all the friends of his youth were dead: he alone was left. Once, in the long ago, he was an agile chief, master of all that great stretch of property around the hills. But the white man came, and his reign was over. All that remains to him is a memory of the past, and a quiet asylum for the few remaining months or years of his life. The king wept as he recited his story, and then—bathos! he asked for a pourboire—and got it. But, then, all kings get their “tips,” some in one way, some in another. And Anthony Anderson, King of Birchup, was primitive in his manner of asking—that is all.
CHAPTER XIX
THE GOLDEN CITIES
Two cities of Australia lay claim to the designation of the “Golden City”—Ballarat and Bendigo. Needless to say that the cities are rivals, and needless further to say that I am not so foolish a man as to enter into any dispute as to which is the better city.
Both cities have been very kind to me, and each of them has its own peculiar charm. Ballarat is built upon an eminence many hundreds of feet above the sea level, while Bendigo is built upon a plain, and is, therefore, a much warmer place than Ballarat. In both places gold has been discovered to an enormous extent, and to-day each city calls itself the golden city. And there, from that point of view, my interest in the matter ends.
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