SOCIAL AMENITIES.
Atherton Hospital was a very good country hospital in those days. Now,
what with added buildings, increased staff, X-ray plant, and so forth,
it can hold its head up with a metropolitan institution. It wants to be
good, too, in a rising place like the Tableland, where there are so many
accidents in the bush. I was glad of the change, but my heart being in
the scrub, I welcomed the day when the doctor said I could go back. I
was just in time to see the last trees of my falling go down. The bank
paid me, I settled all outstanding accounts, including storekeeper's
bill for seven months, and had about L5 left. Couldn't do any heavy
work, but got the promise of a wardsman's job at the hospital for the
following January, which, being fairly light toil, I thought I could
tackle.
Meanwhile I put in the time reaping seed in O'Gorman's, to sow my
falling when it was burnt. Len's twenty-first birthday happened, and his
hospitable parents gave a big party to celebrate it. Everybody was
invited, and came as soon as possible after evening milking, and what
with dancing, singing and a splendid supper the evening was a great
success. I made the first speech of my life on this occasion,
congratulating Len, and presented an admirable picture of stuttering
nervousness. "Steele Rudd's" selection stories are somewhat apt to give
the impression that bush folk mostly attend such "do's" in rough boots
and patched clothes. Practically all the settlers here started like
myself, with nothing to speak of, and all were still in the struggling
stage; but there wasn't a bloke among them who didn't have a good suit
carefully packed away for such occasions, no matter how badly off he
was. Same with the girls. All had tasteful frocks, neat blouses and good
shoes; and the bright eyes, rosy cheeks and superabundant energy, which
is imparted by this glorious climate (in which, according to certain
interested persons, the white man can't live), with the laughter and
chatter of happy young people, make a cheerful scene, good to look at.
On such occasions, usually held at the school-house, Mrs. Bloggs and
Mrs. Jimson, who haven't been playing speaks on account of "things I
'eard you'd bin sayin' about me," bury the hatchet, and unite in
condemning the tale-bearing party. Roberts forgets that Robinson's bull
broke the fence, got into his cultivation, and that he had to repair the
fence himself. All is peace and friendly feeling. Everyone is bent on
casting care to the winds and enjoying himself or herself--for that one
evening, anyway.
Music, more or less sweet, is discoursed by an accordion. The M.C., who
usually takes his duties very seriously, bellows his orders at
intervals. Perhaps it is "S'lect y'r pa-ardners f'r a walce." Then is
Bill seen slouching shamefacedly up to Ethel or Maude, "'Ow erbout
gittin' up with us f'r this one?" Maude giggles, squirms, and finally
says, "Oh, all right." They go through the dance amid a fire of such
witticisms as, "'Ello, Bill, when's it comin' orf?" or, "Nar then, Mord,
I'll tell y'r mar!" Bill, not a very brilliant controversialist,
contents himself with, "Ah! garn!" while Maude, with high disdain,
answers, "D'y' think I'd 'ave him? Pooh!" So poor Bill feels sat on.
Now and then you see big men like Pardy bending nearly double, painfully
"treading the mazy" with bits of kids of twelve or thereabout, as there
are often not ladies enough to go round. Now and again the chatter of
voices is stilled and we hear, "Mr. Ransome will oblige the comp'ny with
a song." Mr. Ransome forthwith proceeds to oblige, in a voice hoarse
from long and fervent swearing at refractory bullocks, and is inclined
to crack on the high notes. He gives us "Eileen Alannah." Later on, Mr.
Furney also obliges. He is short and spare, and, to the great
astonishment of his audience, renders "Let me like a soldier fall," in a
roaring basso that makes the roof rattle.
As eleven o'clock strikes certain of us slide off, collect sticks, build
a fire, and suspend a kerosene tin of water over the blaze. When that is
boiled there is a general yell of "Supper," and hampers, which the
ladies have generously provided, are opened, and their hidden wealth of
sandwiches and cake revealed. The community have by general levy long
ago accumulated a large stock of crockery, specially for such ceremonies
at the present. The catering is all arranged beforehand. Mrs. A. brings
tea, sugar and milk. Mrs. B. some sandwiches, and so on. There is always
more than the company can assimilate, and this surplus it is the custom
to divide among any far-out bachelors who may be present--a gift most
acceptable, as I know from experience.
One notices that the gentlemen, no matter how rough in their work-a-day
world, are naturally chivalrous, and take care to see every lady
provided for before commencing to imbibe tea themselves.
It is midnight now, and those who have plenty of cows, and little
assistance, slide off home. The others resume dancing with more vigour
than ever. Mr. Daney obliges with several songs. He is a bit of a dandy,
got up to kill in a chocolate-coloured suit, dark blue waistcoat and
cerise tie. He has rather a pimply face, a perpetual grin and
damp-looking, wispy, straw-coloured hair. He is nervous and continuously
wipes his hands on a handkerchief held for the purpose. He is a fair
tenor, much inclined to tremolo. His first number, "To a manshun in the
cit-e-e-e," etc., is received with much applause, which moves him to a
second effort, "Please, Mr. Conductor, don-putmeyoff the ter-rain,"
which is also taken kindly. Rubbing his hands harder than ever, he comes
up to us, a broad smile on his rather weak face, "Ah! I'm makin' myself
popular, ain't I?" Poor "Algy's" songs always run to sugary sentiment,
so of course, "Don't go down in the mine, daddy," is his closing piece.
Give him his due though, he could work; but, being easily bamboozled, it
was usually for someone else, with little profit to himself. He was also
an excellent hand among the cows.
About 3 a.m. the party breaks up, and you see the hurricane lamps, like
dancing fireflies, disappearing in the scrub, many of the people to go
right on milking as soon as their glad rags are off, and get a few
hours' sleep after breakfast.
Another time, perhaps at the annual break-up of the school just before
Christmas, all hands assemble at the school-house for a picnic. The
school reserve is like a miniature saddling paddock at race time. The
ladies are all there, clad in their best; scores of happy, laughing
kiddies romping round, also togged up, and the men folk in soberer hues,
but all in their best. All forget their worries and try to pretend they
are children again; and the onlooker smiles at the sight of bearded men
and stout ladies playing "Jolly Miller," "Puss-in-the-corner," and so
on, until he finds the infectious spirit of the day seize him, and he
too joins in.
The schoolmaster presently puts the children through their paces under
the parents' eagle eyes, and prizes are distributed--not without some
murmurs and vague insinuations of favouritism from the mothers of the
unsuccessful. Plenty of cash having been collected by weeks of busy
canvassing, the winners obtain substantial rewards at running, jumping,
climbing, etc. The ladies, as usual, provide the more solid portion of
the bountiful spread, but there are always plenty of lollies, fruit and
aerated waters besides.
Usually a bloke with a camera happens along some time in the afternoon,
and then for a few minutes everyone loses his or her individuality, and
combines in one hideous smirk with the conventional idea of looking
pleasant. The long warm day draws to a close, and the kids, tired out,
start off home, some to early bed, others to change hurriedly into muddy
duds and milk cows. The milking is rushed through this evening, and the
elders re-congregate at the school for a dance, which lasts until the
"wee sma' hours ayont the twal!"
It all sounds simple enough in the telling, but go and live in the Bush
a short time, and then see how you will enjoy these unceremonious little
reunions; and contrast that feeling with the blase indifference with
which, when living in town, you attended a theatre or some other
entertainment. Towns? Not on your life! Give me the great, quiet,
hospitable Bush. The life is more natural, less strained--more human.