CHAPTER VIII.
LIFE AT A STATION.
Mr. Dooleete’s Station—Sheep-shearing—Patriarchal Life improved—Snakes—Drought.
I did not see much of station life in Australia. I was to have visited Mr. Angas’s in South Australia, one of the show-places of the colony, but the heat prevented me. However, Mr. Dooleete, of Adelaide, very kindly took me to one he has in conjunction with a friend, about 100 miles from Adelaide, and I much enjoyed the trip. We started early in the morning from Mr. Dooleete’s romantic residence among the hills, and were swiftly carried to the junction where the Melbourne train arrives. From here we were to take with us a gentleman who was purchasing horses for the Indian Government, Australia having a breed of horses particularly suited for our cavalry out there. A gentleman in Adelaide told me, when his father was a Congregational minister at Bury St. Edmund’s, in Suffolk, he persuaded the eccentric Rowland Hill to come and preach for him. There being no Great Eastern Railway in those days, Mr. Hill travelled, as was his wont, in his carriage and pair, and was naturally anxious as to who was to look after his horses.
‘Oh,’ said the minister, ‘they will be taken care of by a member of my church—a horse-dealer.’
‘What!’ said Rowland Hill, lifting up his hands in amazement; ‘a horse-dealer a member of a Christian Church! who ever heard of such a thing?’
The horse-dealer who joined our party was, if not a member of a Christian Church, at any rate a particularly good judge of a horse, and was at once able to recognise the animal he considered useful for his work.
It was a pretty country through which we travelled. Here and there we came to a station, around which was rising up a small town; but mainly we saw nothing but forest and scrub with few signs of life. We stopped at a small town situated on Lake Alexandria, and, after lunching at an hotel kept by a worthy colonist from Essex, who seemed perfectly contented with his lot, we got on board a small yacht, the management of which was left to bulky blacks belonging to the mission station at Port Macleay, on the other side. A small crowd of black children greeted us on our landing, and then we climbed up into a commodious waggonette drawn by two horses, and in a couple of hours had reached the end of our journey. All the way neither house nor road was to be seen. On our left was the lake, far ahead was the Murray River, and on our right seemed to be a grand park many miles in extent, only a little more parched-looking than a park at home, and everywhere strewed with trees that had fallen, which would have fetched a good price for firewood in the towns if they could be got there. There were sheep by the hundred, and there were horses roaming, as it were, monarchs of all they surveyed. The scene was slightly monotonous. Now and then we came to a rough fence, through the gates of which we had to make our way, and I was not sorry when we dashed up to a handsome residence on the brow of a hill commanding a fine view of the lake. We had brought with us a respectable young woman, who was to wait on us, and a good supply of eatables, so that my fears on that important head were soon set at rest. One does hear strange stories of life at a station. I heard of a colonial governor who, meeting one of the original squatters in the enjoyment of all the luxury of a Melbourne Club, asked him how, after that, he could put up with such lenten fare at home. He replied to the effect that the governor was quite mistaken—the squatters did live well; and, by way of clinching his contention, he went on to state that he had repeatedly seen at the same time on the table both sardines and pickles! I think we had neither, but we lived as luxuriously as in any gentleman’s house either in the colony or at home. We had the best of everything, and the place was furnished in the most sumptuous manner, including even a piano, which must have come a long way, and which could find but little to do, as the house was only open when we were there, and was again locked up as we drove away. Visitors are rare in that part of the world; and as to the doctor, if his services were required, the patient would have to wait a good while. Death, or, what is more likely, recovery, might occur before the doctor could arrive. There was little time to lose and early in the morning Mr. Dooleete and his friend were driving in a buggy across the plain to look at the horses. After I had had my breakfast I toiled down in the sun to where the sheep were penned in previous to being partially shorn. They had all been driven in the night before, and the men—blacks, who had come from the missionary station, with their wives and little ones—were lodged in tents on the shore of the lake. They were stout and dull-looking, with wives, as a rule, still stouter and duller-looking, with the exception of one young woman—a very pretty half-breed.
A white man was the superintendent, and he had a dry and dusty time of it as he did his duty—that is, divide the sheep, the Merinos from the Leicesters, I believe. First, they had to be driven into yards—and here the sheep-dogs were specially serviceable—till they were all collected, to the number, if I remember aright, of five or six thousand (of course, they were not all in one pen); then they were driven along a little lane, fenced in, where the superintendent stood at a double gate, to divide the sheep according to their breed. This was done by blocking one gate and opening the other side as the sheep approached. Thus separated, they were taken, a few at a time, into the shearing-shed, a large brick building, with the sheep in the middle and the shearers on each side. Operations were at once commenced. The shearer selects his animal, holds it up between his legs, and quickly cuts off the wool, which is swept off the stone floor by women, who separate it and put it into sacks, while the frightened animal, released from the grasp of his persecutor, bounds through an opening in the wall and rejoins his companions who have undergone a similar process. It is warm work this, and every now and then the workman stops to have a drink of water—a beverage available, fortunately, to any amount. As soon as the sheep are shorn, the wool is packed up and sent off to market. A small steamer, which goes slowly up and down the lake, is thus utilised for commercial purposes. I returned by that steamer. It may be sure; it certainly is slow. Being at this station was a vastly pleasant change to me. I had had quite enough of city life. It may be very lonely to live on that hill, in that fine house, with no neighbours with whom to chat, far from shops and post-office and newspapers; but with books and one’s family it must be a noble existence. There may be stormy winds out there, for I saw many a fine tree blown down; but mostly the country round rejoices in blue skies and an unclouded sun. In that region there is no particular chance of overcrowding at any rate, just at present. The worst of the squatter is that he does not require much labour. A very few hands suffice for him—except at the shearing season—to look after his flocks and herds. You realize in such a place something of the life of the Patriarchs, only considerably improved. The owner of a station must spend a good deal of his time in the saddle, and a horse, I imagine, is infinitely to be preferred to the camel. The noble steed enjoys himself as he springs along the turf. At all times, whether lying down or rising up, whether loaded or not, whether ungainly walking or hideously trotting, a camel is a picture of bitter woefulness and abject despair. The station, too, has its innocent amusements. I have a friend who has a station about a hundred miles from Melbourne. To him came when I was there a city gentleman, who betted that he would kill a hundred snakes within the hour, and he shot ninety-eight! A fond mother who lives in a fine station in New South Wales, told me how once upon a time she had to snatch away her little one sleeping on the lawn, as a black snake had crept up to within a foot of its precious head. Then there is a drought, and your flocks have to be taken miles to water. After all, there is plenty of excitement—for those who seek it—even in station life.
CHAPTER IX.
THE HEATHEN CHINEE.
His Persecution—His Usefulness—His Intellectual Ability.