Government House, Perth,
_June 1884_.
I have never told you of two or three delightful picnics we have
had, lunching in the bush each time. The ground was carpeted with a
quantity of maiden-hair fern, and lovely flowers, though no flowers are
equal in my eyes to the glories of the sand-plains. But it was very
delightful strolling about in the cool green shade, or sitting down
on a fallen log and listening to the whistling and chattering of the
magpies. Louis’s chief delight consisted each time in making a fire in
the hollow trunk of a tree, which served as a fireplace, with a famous
chimney.
He had a still greater pleasure at one larger and later picnic, when
he went with some gentlemen up the hillsides, and set fire to several
“black-boy” stumps. The whole country is a mass of “black-boy.” I don’t
know how to describe it. The name tells you more than I could, for
the dark stem stands up tall and straight just like a black boy, with
a shaggy green head. The trunk is the curious part, for a slender pith
stick runs through it, and round this stick is set a sort of ring,
5 or 6 inches wide, of resinous flakes, black outside, which burn
splendidly, and are the finest things in the world for lighting or
reviving a fire. Inside, they look like varnished splinters, and are
full of resinous aromatic tar, or pitch. We are making gas out of them
for Fremantle and Perth.
I always have a boxful of these chips (they weigh scarcely anything) in
a corner of the drawing-room, and am glad of an excuse for throwing a
shovelful on my fire, so splendid is the blaze, and so nice the smell.
In a country where there is so much camping-out, and consequently where
fires are so often wanted at a moment’s notice, Nature has kindly
provided the best kindling wood in the whole world for travellers and
explorers!
You can, therefore, imagine Louis’s glee at putting a match into the
dead leaves which always hang down beneath the green crown of the
black-boys, and so making a splendid blaze. The hillsides seemed lit,
as though by torches, as each straight stem caught and flared straight
and steadily up in the still sunset air. I often think it might be
worth some one’s while to teach all England, and indeed, all Europe,
the advantage of “black-boy,” as kindling wood. It is just one of the
many things one sees in a new world like this, lying ready to man’s
hand, waiting for him to come and take it, and use it.
Our winter has now set in too severely, however, for loitering picnics,
or other pleasant ways of dawdling out of doors in delightful weather.
It rains a good deal in winter, and blows also; but we have “spells”
of simply enchanting sunny days, and very cold nights. Unless it is a
thoroughly wet day, I seldom have a fire until towards sunset; but by
five o’clock when it is nearly dark we are glad of a fragrant, blazing
wood-fire.
On one of these brilliant Saturday afternoons I made a “kylie tea”
on the racecourse, some 5 miles away from Perth. I took a large
party, riding and driving, and there was also a dog-cart, with the
kylie-throwers—native policemen—and the tea. You would have liked it
immensely, and although it was really very cold, even in the sun, when
we stood still to watch the two men fling their kylies, still I could
hardly get any one to turn their backs on the circling flights, and
come to the fire and have tea. We were obliged to go as far away as we
could from glass windows and people; and the racecourse was the only
place without trees.
“Freddy,” one of the native policemen, flung his weapons very well, but
not quite so marvellously as some of the prisoners I saw at Rottnest.
He was out of practice and too civilised, for he had been “tame” for
many years, and was a good specimen of an aboriginal. The police have
many such men in their employ as “trackers,” and they will always guide
the mounted white policeman on the steps of any one who is “wanted.”
It is not of the least use an evildoer trying to escape here, unless
he does so by water, for a native “tracker” will follow him up without
the least difficulty. Louis’s great ambition is to be a “tracker,” and
he was never so pleased as when I used to pretend, over at Rottnest,
not to know my way about, and he “tracked” for me. He is as sharp as a
needle, and few wayside signs escape his quick eye. All the gentlemen
tried their hands at kylie-throwing; but of course no one could do it
in the least like “Freddy.” Louis is his most promising pupil, and has
really caught some idea of the turn of the wrist which sends the kylie
circling away, exactly like a bird.
The favourite amusement just now of a fine Saturday afternoon, when
all the public offices close at mid-day, is a paper-chase, and I am
always coaxed to take tea out to the appointed place where they finish.
I spoiled the “hounds” by doing so the first chase, and ever after
whenever the “hare” went out to look for a new line of country possible
for the horses, he was sure to add, “and there is a capital place where
you can take tea out, quite easy to get at in a carriage.” Of course,
my road is over quite a different line of country, and I borrow the
famous old van, with its four horses, fill it with pretty girls (_my_
girls!) and take my own carriage, besides a dog-cart for the tea.
The “_meet_” is always here, in front of the house, and a very pretty
sight it is. Between thirty and forty riders, some of them ladies,
nearly all well-mounted, and quite all looking like going. The hares,
with a mounted native to carry the sackful of scent, have only about
five minutes’ start, so you may imagine how fast they scurry off, the
native grinning from ear to ear. The last one sees of those first three
is the flash of this man’s white teeth, as he looks back on the waiting
riders. Of course the hounds have to go quite slowly until they get
outside the town, and then, when they pick up the scent, off they all
gallop, helter-skelter, as fast as ever the horses can carry them.
There is no open country which is not sandy near Perth, so the hares
have to lead through bush more or less thick, where the actual ground
is good enough naturally, but the trees grow very close together,
and you come upon old saw-pits or holes which have been dug for some
purpose or the other. I can tell you it takes a bold rider, and a
clever as well as a strong horse, to go paper-chasing through our bush!
If you could see the line of country they follow, you would think it
only possible to get along if you went _very_ slowly and carefully,
picking your way among great trunks of trees, and keeping a sharp
look-out for the pit-falls which are round every corner. But instead of
this the hounds (on horseback!) pelt along, darting among the trees, as
hard as ever the horses can go. It is of no use whatever attempting to
guide your steed. He guides himself much better than you can possibly
do; and the way a clever “bush-horse” dodges among the trees, leaving
space for his rider’s leg, jumps over the fallen logs, shaves the very
edge of a saw-pit, must be seen to be understood. “Jarrah” covers
himself with glory in these chases, and appears to like the fun quite
as well as father does.
Whilst the hounds are scurrying after the scent—a round of some 10 or
15 miles—I and the van, and the girls, and the tea, all go quietly
out to the finish, light our fire, put the kettle on to boil, and
then stroll about and pick flowers; for, no matter how completely
we are in midwinter, there are sure to be some pretty blossoms too
late or too soon in coming out. And we find curious things besides.
Between the bark and wood of a fallen log, the other day, we found an
extraordinary insect. It was about 3 inches long, and something between
a caterpillar and a centipede in appearance, exactly the colour—very
light brown—of the wood it rested on; but the strange part was its
head. This head was flat, and wider than any other part of its body;
it seemed to be of the nature of a bladder which the creature inflated
and contracted at pleasure. We watched this bubble-like head for a long
time with the deepest interest, until our attention was distracted by
the sound of racing hoofs, and we only just got back to the tea-cloth
and the fire, in time to see the hares dart in like a flash of
lightning, and jump off their horses without being caught.
Only one or two of the hounds were at all close to them, and there was
plenty of time to loosen the girths, throw a blanket over each steaming
horse, and revive the equally breathless hares with tea, before the
rest of the hounds streamed in, in groups of six or eight at a time;
all laughing and full of their own or their neighbours’ adventures.
The servants, as well as the mounted orderlies we bring with us, have
always plenty to do in looking after the horses, and taking care that
they don’t catch cold, for it is simply freezingly cold out of the
sunshine, which is fast waning, in the short winter afternoon, by the
time they all reach the finish and the tea. I am very proud of the
way the ladies ride. They are always among the first arrivals, and
have evidently been more careful than the men; for there are fewer
scratched faces, or torn garments. Indeed, a needle and thread always
comes out with these hunt-teas, and is in great request before we start
homewards. I don’t wonder that they are anxious for me to take out
something for them to drink, for they are all so thirsty, so thirsty!
Whilst I and my staff of girls are as busy as possible, pouring out cup
after cup of tea, I sometimes hear the pop of a soda-water cork behind
me, then a silence, a deep sigh, and a murmured “That _is_ refreshing!”
and a hound comes round the corner wiping his lips, and looking very
contented.
I believe they all delight to horrify me by tales of the hair-breadth
escapes they have had, and the dangers they have run; and I confess to
a feeling of deep thankfulness when the last straggler arrives safe,
though probably without a hat and rather ragged, having missed the
scent and got hopelessly “bushed.” I anxiously count all my ladies, and
after them the married men, to make sure that none are missing. I tell
the young gentlemen-hounds that they are not so valuable, and can take
care of themselves! If I ask where Mr. So-and-so is, the answer has
occasionally been, “Oh! I last saw him standing on his head in a clump
of bushes;” or else, “I should think he was trying to catch his horse,
and find his hat;” but it is capital sport they all declare, though I
secretly wonder what pleasure _can_ lie in going full speed through a
thick forest after little bits of paper! I suppose the danger is the
chief attraction; and the exercise is certainly a fine thing for men
who are kept a great deal at their desks.
So we all finish our tea, leave the servants to pack up the empty cups
and saucers, and set out homewards in the crisp evening air. We, in the
carriages, get home long before the riders, who only jog easily along
the good road, out of consideration for the fagged horses who have
threaded the bush so gallantly under them. Just before they enter the
main street they generally form into cavalry order, “by fours,” and, in
this military fashion, ride steadily up to our gate, where the leaders
break off and turn in. After that the squadron rapidly melts away, with
many a cheery “good-night” ringing through the crisp air; and so home
to dinner, and a sleep such as generally only you schoolboys know how
to sleep.
There used to be capital kangaroo hunting round Perth, but of course
you would now have to go a good long way, probably 100 miles or so,
before you would come across kangaroo tracks. They keep a good deal in
the bush, but always choose country where the feed is good, and where
water can be found. So the sheep and cattle farmers don’t like this,
and chase the poor beast still farther and farther away. I have had
several kangaroo tails sent to me, and they make capital soup, like
oxtail soup, with a strong flavour of hare. The meat is rather dark and
stringy; but when it is well and slowly cooked, cased in dough as the
gipsies bake, and eaten with currant-jelly, we declare it is nearly as
nice as red-deer venison!
Just now, in consequence of a good reward offered by Government, all
the professional hunters are going after the “dingoes” or native dogs.
A handsome beast enough, something like a jackal, with a very bushy
tail. These dogs are the worst enemies the sheep can have, worse than
a “black fellow,” for _he_ sometimes misses, and the dingo never does;
then you can track and catch a native and send him over to Rottnest, if
he is very incorrigible, whereas a dingo is almost impossible to catch.
One of the hardest cases I know about dingoes has occurred at the
station of a friend of ours. Last year he fenced in a good large bit of
“country,” what he calls a “paddock,” but what you would call a shire!
There was good feed and water, and everything a sheep’s heart could
desire within these stout post and rails. Alas, the fence had been run
round the favourite camping-ground of at least one or two dingoes, and
when the poor sheep were driven into their carefully prepared paddock
to fatten, it became simply a case of providing the dingoes with a
nightly supper, without their having much trouble to get it. In vain
the owner of the station, as soon as ever he discovered the state of
affairs, called his shepherds and stockmen and his sons together, and
carefully organised raids upon these beasts. Night after night the
hunters perched themselves in trees, near to where a mob of sheep had
camped. The dingoes knew quite well the men were there, and went off
to sup elsewhere. The paddock was carefully “driven,” but the dingoes
rushed past, and escaped the fire of every gun. They seemed to bear a
charmed life. The most carefully aimed shot missed, or the gun hung
fire. All sorts of accidents happened to the huntsmen, whilst the
dingoes got off scot-free, and the poor dear sheep grew thinner and
fewer every moonlight night. I think I should take out a _mitrailleuse_
and see if that would not “fetch them”! They laugh at poisoned meat and
won’t even sniff at it. It is really too provoking, and quite a serious
trouble. Every time I see the master of the station I anxiously inquire
whether he has caught even one dingo yet.
I am coming home soon for six months to put Louis to school (he is
really getting too much of a larrikin!). And I assure you, delightful
as it will be to see you all, I am sorry to turn my back, even for so
short a time, upon our friends here. It is such a thoroughly home-like
place, one has no feeling of strangeness or uprootedness in it.
We have been here now just a year, and it is impossible to imagine a
happier, healthier, or pleasanter time than we have all had. The Colony
itself is in a most interesting and hopeful stage of its existence,
and daily attracts a greater share of public attention. We are going
to have made for us, in exchange for some of our millions of acres,
long lines of railway, which will link our distant places together.
Harbours are to be improved, lighthouses built, a web of telegraph
wires spun from one end of the huge territory to the other, all sorts
of long-needed improvements undertaken. Some day, perhaps, in the near
future, we shall be more on a par with our wealthy and prosperous
sister-colonies; but whatever may be our gain in those coming golden
days, I hope, with all my heart, that Western Australians may never
lose the loyalty of nature, simplicity of life, or manliness of heart,
which they now possess. “Poor, but honest,” might well be their motto;
and I, for one, look upon it as a proud one.