And then for relaxation,
We wash our pans and cradles’ shelves,
And turn to mastication.
It is common in some places for a fellow who first rises to come out and crow like a cock; this is taken up by others, and the diggings are soon wide awake. Some amuse themselves with going out 'possuming. The shrill scream of the marsupial, flying squirrel, and the plaintive howl of the wild dog, follow the last note of the incomparable laughing jackass. There used to be fish in the creeks, but our washings must have choked them all with gold dust. A stray kangaroo once got chased through Iron Bark Gully. The poor creature took refuge in one of the holes, but was soon converted into some exquisite soup for mutton and damper diggers. A sailor lad at Golden Gully was accustomed to give us the eight bells on the frying pan. It is not usual for visits to be made after dark, as a fall down a twenty feet hole is unpleasant. The stupid custom of firing off guns, pistols, and revolvers night and morning is fast going out of fashion. A good fire, a short pipe, and a long story are the usual evening accompaniments.
The diggings would be more tolerable if there could be cleanliness. But with water sometimes at a shilling a bucket, and that not easily obtained, the incrustation has to remain longer than agreeable. Coloured shirts last a good while without shewing decided blackness. The bed clothes will sometimes catch the dust, and a puff does not certainly improve the appearance and taste of our uncupboarded eatables. There is, also, a peculiar unctuous touch about the interior of most tenements. But then what matters? no visitors but diggers are expected, and neighbours are no better off. In the wet season it is only a change from dust to mud. But the nuisance is the flies, the little fly and the stinging monster March fly. O! the tortures these wretches give! In the hole, out of the hole, at meals or walking, it is all the same with these winged plagues. When washing at a waterhole, the March flies will settle upon the arms and face, and worry to that degree, that I have known men pitch down their dishes, and stamp and growl with agony. The fleas, too, are not of the Tom Thumb order of creation, and they begin their blood-thirsty work, when the flies are tired of their recreation. The first good fall of winter rain seems to lay not only the dust, but the destructive powers of the insects.
And yet, in spite of weather, exposure, dust, mud, filth, flies and fleas, the diggings have such attractions, that even the unlucky must come back for another trial. The wild, free and independent life appears the great charm. They have no masters. They go where they please and work when they will. Healthy exercise, delightful scenery, and clear and buoyant atmosphere, maintain an excitement of the spirits, and a glow of animal enjoyment peculiar to bush life. Married men, particularly young married men, are too much bothered with thoughts of an absent home, to realize the pleasures of the mines, which their mates of the bachelor order possess. To them the Post Office is the most sacred spot on the diggings.
There is a clannish spirit abroad. The Irish mostly dwell at one encampment. We had Tipperary Gully at the Bendigo; an Irish row near our tent consisted entirely of families, conspicuous for their order, cleanliness, kindheartedness and happiness. The Adelaide men hang together, and the Derwenters of Tasmania are strongly influenced by party feeling. I was much amused one time by a stentorian voice that rang through the forest, near Friar’s Creek. It proceeded from a man in a cart passing by. The burden of the cry was this: “Ere’s your Van Demonian Happles, and them as don’t like the country needn’t buy ’em.” As a sincere admirer of the “Isle of Beauty” I had a hearty feast on the pippins.