A SQUATTER’S HOME AND DAUGHTER
It was the first time I had seen a real live squatter and his daughter,
and the spectacle produced quite a shock. It was so unexpected, so
utterly contrary to all that I had imagined. Every living word conveys
an image to the mind of him who employs it, and I had my own notion of
what a squatter was. This was derived, at an early age, from reading
books on Colonial life, and later from the unflattering description
given by Darwin in his “Voyage Round the World.” Mr. Darwin described
a squatter as “a freed, or ticket-of-leave man, who builds a hut with
bark on unoccupied ground, buys or steals a few animals, sells spirits
without a licence, receives stolen goods, and so at last becomes rich
and turns farmer; he is the horror of all his honest neighbours.”
Now, such a person is hardly to be desired as an acquaintance, and
when I went out to Australia I firmly determined to give any squatter
that I might encounter as wide a berth as possible. But time brought
disillusionment. I began to see persons in Melbourne who were pointed
out to me as retired squatters. They were gentlemanly in appearance,
splendidly dressed, well-mannered; they stayed at the best hotels,
and some of them went to church. I began to hear stories of wonderful
mansions, splendidly furnished, of sons and daughters going to the
university, and the like, and the truth gradually dawned upon me that
there must be squatters _and_ squatters; and that in squatting, as in
everything else, there had been some remarkable developments.
And then I met this girl, and the truth stood revealed. She was of
Scotch descent, and her grandfather, having come from the Highlands
of Scotland and settled upon the land, had made a fortune, which had
passed into the hands of his son, and this girl’s father. I met her in
the drawing-room of a Free Church elder; she was staying in the house
as his guest. Beyond the fact of possessing a rosy complexion, which
advertised perfect health, gained through an outdoor life, there was
absolutely nothing to indicate that this girl had been born and reared
in the wilds of Australia, far away from human habitation. She was
dressed in the smartest style; she had just finished a boarding-school
education in one of our large cities; she could drive a motor-car
with any chauffeur, and she was as much at home in a modern city
drawing-room as she had been on that vast homestead in the far-away
north.
I confess myself to have been astonished with this amazing blend of a
perfect child of Nature and a perfect woman of the world. Were Darwin
still with us, he would have to rewrite his description of a squatter.
This girl unveiled to us the secrets of her bush home. She told us
a story of life that sounded almost incredible. Reclining upon a
deck-chair, she laughingly poured out a stream of talk about that
northern home of hers. So remote from our life did hers seem to be,
that one might have been excused for believing that, by some chance or
other, she had really come down from Mars. Far away in the north-west
corner of Australia lies the estate upon which this child was born
and reared, and to which, her term of schooling being over, she has
now returned. Her father’s land consists of a trifling _two million
acres_--that is all. Think of it--two million acres! There is no
exaggeration about the figures. And all this land in the hands of one
man! Being quick at figures, I began at once to calculate how many
homesteads of liberal size might be founded upon a territory so vast
as this. How many small towns might be created! How many industries
spring into being! How many congested areas in the great cities of
England might be relieved by means of a population transferred to these
enormous spaces! Two million acres! It takes a little time for the idea
to soak into the mind.
The nearest railway station to this homestead is 219 miles away.
Formerly the journey between the station and the home occupied three
days, by carriage or horse. The camel train occupied a longer time.
Now, even in that remote region, the motor-car has arrived, and the
time of transit has been reduced to one day. The nearest post-office
is more than thirty miles distant, while the next-door neighbour lives
twenty miles away. What solitude! What terrible isolation! And yet to
that family and its staff of servants and shepherds and shearers there
is no solitude, no sense of isolation. They live in a world of their
own; they are self-contained. The estate has its own butcher’s shop,
its own bakery, its own smithy, its own carpenters--all it needs it
possesses. No daily newspaper appears to distract their attention. The
strife of the political world, the changes of the social world never
disturb them. The mail arrives at certain periods, bringing newspapers
a few days old. But what is news to them, who are too far removed from
society to be affected by aught that goes on? I was curious to know
in what aspect life presented itself to people who were removed from
the haunts of men so far as were they. Did life drag? Did monotony
oppress them? How did they employ their time? What about culture? And
the answer was very clear and emphatic. They knew nothing of monotony;
they suffered no fear of loneliness. Every hour brought its task--there
was no time for moping. The cattle had to be fed, watched, slaughtered,
bred, bought and sold. The sheep were sheared. The fields were made to
yield their increase. Sons, daughters, and servants were all engaged in
their respective work.
And what of recreation and social interchange? “Ah!” was the laughing
answer, “we have the best time in the world--a time we would not
exchange for all the cities could offer us.” For one thing, there
is the chase. The daughters of that “station” are accomplished
horsewomen. They think nothing of undertaking a 500-mile ride over
enormous stretches of country. The side-saddle for girls is scorned;
they ride like the men. They leave home, bound for a long scamper. They
take no provisions with them; they simply ride on until they reach
another “station,” where they put up as long as they please. The laws
of hospitality in those remote parts are Oriental in character. No
invitations are issued, no requests are proffered. The “station” keeps
open house; when a visitor arrives, he or she shares the hospitality
of the establishment without question and without payment. In that
scattered world the advent of any visitor is welcome. Even the
“sundowner,” or tramp, easily finds accommodation. He may eat at the
common table in the kitchen, and sleep on a “stretcher,” or, if he
prefers it (as he generally does), he may take his repose amongst the
straw or hay.
After the chase, the race. The sport of horse-racing, beloved of the
Australians, is not lacking in that remote corner of the north-west.
It is conducted, however, without the glamour of the ring and the
grand stand, and without the pestiferous presence of the bookie. The
horse-race up there is a real race of horses for the pure pleasure
of the race. Neighbours for 100 miles around ride in and bring their
best horses to the contest. For a week the homestead is plunged in
festivity. The race is an excuse for good fellowship and for paying
calls. There is more than one race. Station after station is utilised
as a place of meeting, and thus friends and neighbours, despite the
distance that divides them, continually come together. Then there are
social festivities: the ball, the amateur play, the party, the concert.
It is all amateur, all primitive, all natural, and all wholesome.
But the greatest pleasure of all is afforded by Nature itself. To
a city man like myself that remote corner of the world, entirely
hidden from the ken of the ordinary person, would be oppressive by
its silence, its solitude, its aloofness from life. To the squatter’s
daughter this solitude is peopled by wonderful races; this silence
is broken by numberless voices. With modern literature she has but a
bowing acquaintance; of Australian politics she hears but a murmur; of
the vast world movements beyond she knows nothing. As we speak of these
things she listens with a certain acquiescence. She has heard something
of it all--a mere sigh borne upon the breeze--but uninterpreted by her.
There is no quick response. That world is not her world. Emerging from
the wild into the atmosphere of a boarding-school for a brief year or
two, she returns to that same wild with enough of polish and general
knowledge to ensure that certain rays of modern light shall penetrate
the fastnesses of her distant abode.
The moment she begins to speak of her world she becomes eloquent; it is
I who feel an ignoramus. For this girl is a true child of Nature, who
understands her mother perfectly. She speaks to me of insects of which
I know nothing more than any book of natural history can tell me. But
she can teach the professors of natural history a few things. There
is not a bird, not a beast, nor an insect of the bush but she knows
thoroughly. She can trace the white ant from the larva to the carpenter
which bores out with its teeth the interior of table and wardrobe. She
knows every note of that eternal humming with which the forest and the
glade resound. She can name every bird that flies within fifty miles
of her home. She knows the habitat and the habits of all winged and
walking and crawling creatures. Nobody has taught her; all has come
through persistent observation.
With difficulty I get her to speak of certain adventures of which the
rumours had already reached me. At last, with diffidence, she relates
them. She tells how she started a rabbit, raced it, doubled back when
it doubled, and finally caught it, killing it with a blow from her
hand--a soft blow delivered in a vital spot. She speaks of an adventure
with “the naughty, wicked dingo,” which worried the sheep. She and
a younger sister mounted each a horse, and proceeded to enclose the
dingo, chasing it from place to place, until at last it was brought to
bay, and forthwith dispatched with a blow from a stick. This little,
frail-looking girl did this. She does not boast of it; she merely
recounts the deed at my request. And her eyes blaze at the recital. She
can speak with wondrous eloquence about that world of Nature, whose
secrets she has so well learned.
This is the squatter’s daughter. It is the first time I have
encountered her like. The remembrance will live with me. She
represents a type quite distinct on the earth. She comes into city life
with a breeze from the bush, a vision of glory from afar. And now she
is back in the wild, taming horses, running races, or playing on the
piano the airs she learned in the city.