Rolf Boldrewood
In Bad Company and other stories
A DRY TIME
As I ride, as I ride,
With a full heart for my guide.
Browning.
The moon has waxed and waned, yet one may not, in 1883, recall with the poet inasmuch as that month in these Southern wilds is for the most part a gleesome, companionable time, rich in flower-birth and fruit-promise. None the less, if the windows of heaven be not the sooner opened, the present year of our Lord will be aught but immemorial in the chronicles of the land.
The lonesome October
Of a most immemorial year,
Surely the blessed dews of heaven, the rain for which in these arid wastes all Nature cries aloud, will not long be denied. How clearly can we realise the force of the strong Saxon of the Vulgate, 'And the famine was sore in the land.'
Here now exists the same hopeless, long-protracted absence of all moisture which drove the Patriarch to 'travel' with his flocks and herds, viz. camels and she-asses, his sons and their families, from dried-out Canaan to the rich 'frontage' of the Nile. Here, as then, in that far historic dawn, is dust where grass grew and water ran. Strange birds crowd the scanty pools, while among the great hordes of live stock, reared in plenteous seasons, the strong are lean and sad-eyed, the weak are perishing daily with increasing rapidity.
The hand of man, which has done so much to reclaim these wondrous wastes, is powerless against Nature's cruel fiat. None can do more than wait and pray; for the end must come, when the days shorten and the nights grow cold, even in this summer land; and utter, unredeemed ruin is the goal towards which many of the proprietors have perforce turned their eyes these many weary months past.
The fair but fleeting promise of the bygone month has been unredeemed. Only a few days of the threatening sun have sufficed to wither the tender herbage, the springing plantlets which essayed to cover the baked soil. The broad road seems that veritable way to Avernus, so bare, sun-scorched, adust is it, for hundreds of leagues. Far away one may note its swaying deflections, and hold a parallel course, guided solely by the well-nigh continuous dust-line of the waggon-trains.
Yet, maugre the terrors of the time, certain feathered inhabitants have their provision secured to them. How else trip and flit from myall twig to pine bough, bright-eyed and fearless, this pair of delicious tiny doves? The most exquisitely formed and delicately lovely of all the Columba family, they are, perhaps, the smallest – not larger than the brown bush-quail. Not half the size of the crested pigeon, there is a family resemblance in the fairy pink legs, the pointed tail, the bronze bars of the wing-feathers, the tones of the soft, azure breast. By no means a shy bird, as if conscious that few fowlers could be cruel to the hurt of so delicate a thing of beauty, so rare a feathered gem, in these stern solitudes.
Not that all the tribes of the air can be described as beautiful and harmless. Riding slowly through a belt of timber, musing, it may be, on the undeserved sorrows of the lower animals, I am suddenly and violently assaulted – 'bonneted,' as the humorous youth of the period has it. I clutch my hat just in time to save it from being knocked off. There are two round holes near the brim, which I had not previously observed, and a cock magpie is flying back to his station on a tree hard by, much satisfied in his mind. It is a well-known habit of this bold, aggressive bird in the breeding season. He keeps watch, apparently, the livelong day, hard by the nest, and, pledged to drive away intruders, is no respecter of persons. Long years since, the present writer was similarly attacked; when essaying to lift his hat some hours afterwards, and finding resistance, he discovered that the bird's beak had penetrated the felt and inflicted a smart cut. Blood had actually been shed, and, having dried, caused adhesion. The 'piping crow,' as ornithologically the magpie of the colonies is designated, is not truly a magpie at all. He is carnivorous and insectivorous. Withal a handsome bird, with glossy raven breast and back, and most melodious, flute-like carol, at earliest morn and eve. He is easily tamed, and in captivity learns to talk, to whistle, and even to swear with clearness and accuracy – more particularly the last accomplishment. As a member of the household, he exhibits great powers of adaptation, has the strongest conviction as to his rank and position, despises children, whose undefended legs he pecks, and will engage in desperate combat with dog or cat, turkey or gamecock. An Australian naturalist of eminence gives his testimony to the courage with which a tame bird of the species relieved the tedium of a homeward-bound voyage by its constant duels with such gamecocks as the coops produced.
Feeding in the open plain, and in a leisurely way inspecting the sparse vegetation with an eye to grasshoppers, strolls a bustard with his mate. This noble game-bird, the wild turkey of the colonists, is fully equal, perhaps superior, in flavour to his tame congener. Longer in neck and limb, crane-like of head, the plumage presents several points of resemblance which justifies his title to the name. He has also the trick of strutting with drooped wings and outspread tail before the female. Shy and difficult of approach by the sportsman on foot, he is easily circumvented by riding or driving around in circles, gradually narrowing, when an easy shot is gained.
A reminiscence arises here of the regal sport of hawking enjoyed in connection with a bird of this species. Hard hit with double B, he found it difficult to rise above the tall grass of the marshy plain where he had been stalked, though gradually gaining strength. As he cleared the reed-tops, a wedge-tailed eagle (the eagle-hawk of the colonists) swooped down from airy heights and dashed at the huge bird like a merlin at a thrush. Very nearly did the 'lammergeier' make prize of him, but the long sweep of the bustard's wing kept him ahead. Presently he got 'way on,' assisted by a slight breeze. Down the wind went hawk and quarry, neck and neck, so to speak, while the sportsman put his horse to speed, going straight across country, with head up and eyes fixed on the pair, as they gradually rose higher in the sky. Ever and anon the eagle would make a dash at the wounded bird, but whether the temporary shock had only staggered him, or that it was nature's last effort, the edible one soared away far and fast, eventually disappearing from our gaze.
While on the subject of hawking, there is little doubt that the 'aguila' referred to might be trained to fly at the larger game – turkeys, geese, kangaroo, and emu – while the smaller falcons, which are sufficiently plentiful, might be equally effective in pursuit of the traditional heron. The beautiful blue crane of the colonists (Ardea Australis) is found in every streamlet and marsh, as also the spoonbill, the white crane (snowy of hue, and with curious fringing wing-feathers), not forgetting the bittern.
Young Australia, gentle or simple, might find worse employment than riding forth in the fresh morn of the early summer, with hawk on wrist, inhaling even this faintest flavour of the romance of the great days of chivalry.
On the broad, still reaches of the river, or the wide sheets of water artificially conserved, behold we the pelican, in no wise differing in appearance from the traditional dweller in the wilderness. Whether the Australian is unselfishly prodigal in the matter of heart's blood in favour of her young is difficult of proof, forasmuch as no living man, apparently, ever sets eyes on a youthful pelican. In the untrodden deserts which surround the heart of the continent is popularly deemed to lie the haunt of the brooding bird; and an Australian poetess has mourned the fate of the gallant brothers – bold and practised explorers – last seen on their way to the unknown, half-mystic region, 'where the pelican builds her nest.'
As the hot breath of the fast-coming summer proves yet more deadly to every green thing, the pelican flocks sail coastward in great numbers from their failing streams and marshes. With them comes the beautiful black swan – 'rara avis in terra,' but here an everyday sight – graceful, with scarlet beak, wreathed neck, and 'pure cold webs'; the wild, musical note clanging from the soaring, swaying files cleaving the empyrean. Rarely-seen waders and swimmers are of the contingent if the 'weather holds dry' – a wayworn, far-travelled host, priceless to the naturalist could he but observe them.
Let but the stern drought continue unbroken, all-heedless of man and his great army of dependants, through the brief spring, the long summer – till the days shorten and (even here) the nights grow cold – unprecedented losses must occur in certain localities. Still, hope is not dead. The dry zone is restricted in area. Outside and around it, what the shepherds term 'fine storms' have refreshed the pastures. Even yet there is corn in Egypt.4 There is grass and to spare beyond the Queensland border. Thither will many a sorely-oppressed proprietor send a section of flock or herd, availing himself of the time-honoured institution of 'travelling for feed.' Such, neither more nor less, was the last resort of those grand historic sheiks of the desert, even Abraham and Lot, when 'the land was not able to bear them'; and to such an alternative must the latter-day, salt-bush sheik turn in his need, or see his live stock perish before his eyes, in thousands and ten thousands.
He will improvise a nomadic establishment with dray and tent, shepherds and cooks, stock-riders and bullock-drivers, horses and cattle, everything save camels, needed in a patriarchal migration. Even these last ungainly thirst-defiers are now bred in Australia. Hard by the tropic he will pass into a land of grass prairies and flooded streams – the promised land of the desert-worn hosts. He will here find himself – 'most ingenious paradox' – in a region where live stock are high-priced, but where 'country' is cheap. He will rent, perhaps purchase another run. The drought which drove him forth may so and in such manner make his fortune yet. Let us hope so, in all sympathy and good fellowship. There he will reach his haven of rest. He may sell out again, or decide to cast in his fortunes with the newer colony, but in any case he will remain there until, as far as King Sol is concerned, 'this tyranny be over-past.'
AUSTRALIAN COLLIES
In the stage of the early history of New South Wales, when her increasing herds bid fair to overspread the waste, the dog, his ancient and faithful servant, came to the aid of man. The Scotch collie, friend of the lonely hill-shepherd in North Britain from time immemorial, was unanimously elected to fill the responsible position – not, however, as being the only available canine connected with stock management, for the Smithfield drover's dog had also emigrated, that wonderful stump-tailed animal, which managed to keep his master's cattle separate at the great London mart, though thousands of beeves be around, unfenced and unyarded. Matchless in his own department, he was gradually superseded by the collie, which came to the front as a better all-round dog, more intelligent, faithful, and companionable; when trained, equally suitable for the 'working' of sheep or cattle.
The breed, at first pure as imported, became crossed with other varieties of the multiform genus Canis, and so suffered partial deterioration. Still, such was the original potency of the collie proper, that many of the mongrels, even the product of the ovicidal 'dingo,' were excellent workers, in some instances even superior to their pure-bred comrades. The climate, too, appeared to be favourable to the breed. The Australian offspring of the imported collies were handsome, vigorous animals, with correct 'flag and feather,' yet reproducing the traits of fidelity and human attachment concerning which so many a tale was told, poem written, and picture painted in the old land. The 'harder' or fiercer animals were chosen for cattle work, and being bred for the qualities of 'heeling,' and even doing a mild imitation of bull-baiting on occasions, became almost a distinct breed. In the old-fashioned cattle districts, like Monaro and the Abercrombie River, where in early days a sheep was never seen, the cattle dogs – true collies in appearance and extraction – were very different in their manners and customs from their sheep-guiding relatives of the settled districts, whose 'bark was (so much) worse than their bite.'
It was quite the other way with the cattle dogs. They were encouraged to 'heel' or bite the fetlocks of the stubborn, half-wild cattle, in a way which bustled them along as crack or cut of stockwhip could never effect. In the case of a breaking beast they would hang on to his tail, and perhaps, when bringing back a wild yearling to the yard, assault tail, heels, nose, and ears impartially, with dire results. They ran their chance of being kicked or horned at this rough-and-tumble game, but from practice became exceeding wary of these and other dangers. A cattle dog has been seen to 'work' (or help drive) a drove of horses, heeling when desired to do so most impartially, and yet managing to keep clear of the dangerous kicks which the half-wild colts aimed at him. Every man of experience with stock will bear testimony to the admirable service which a good cattle dog will perform. Wearied and low-conditioned droves they will 'move' in a way which no amount of whip and shouting will effect. On the other hand, where caution and diplomacy are required, their sagacity is astonishing.
I once had occasion, 'in the forties,' to drive a small lot of fat cattle some days' journey to a coast town in Western Victoria. They had come to me in a deal, and I wished to turn them into cash. It was a good way from home. The vendors simply 'cut them out' from the camp, accompanied me to the Run boundary, and gave me their blessing. I had no mate but an ancient cattle dog. It may be surmised by the experienced how many times the home-bred cattle tried to break back. Again and again I thought they would have beaten me. I kept one side, the dog Peter the other, necessarily. Had either rashly caused a separation the game was up. It was beautiful to see the old dog's generalship. If a beast diverged on his side, he would walk solemnly out, keep wide and dodge him in with the smallest expenditure of voice or emotion. By this time some of the others would be looking back, preparatory to a dash homeward. These he would hustle up promptly, just sufficiently and no more. That I was watchful on my side needs no telling; an occasional tap or whipcrack kept them going. Even fat cattle know when the stockwhip is absent. We – I say it advisedly – yarded them safely that night, when a well-managed hostelry consoled me for the frightful anxiety I had undergone. Next day they travelled more resignedly, and the third night saw them delivered to 'the man of flesh and blood' in Portland, and, what was better still, paid for.
In the Port Fairy district, then chiefly devoted to cattle, were many famous cattle collies. Old Mr. Teviot at Dunmore had three I remember, their peculiarity being that they understood nothing but Lowland Scotch, in which dialect they had, though Australian by birth, been trained. 'Far yaud' (as Dandie Dinmont says), and other mysterious commands, wholly unintelligible to us youngsters, they understood and obeyed promptly. But it was amusing to watch the air of surprise or indifference with which they regarded the stock-riders, who sometimes in time of need suggested 'Fetch 'em along, boy!' or 'Go on outside.' Like most people to whom dogs are wildly attached, Mr. Teviot was austere of manner towards them, feeding regularly, but permitting no familiarity. How they loved him in consequence! If returning from a trip to the township after dark, they would listen for the footfall of his horse, and long before human ear caught the far, faint sound, would rise up solemnly and walk half a mile or more along the road to greet him. These dogs were popularly credited with being able to do anything but talk, and were renowned throughout the country-side for their obedience and thorough comprehension of their owner's wishes.
I once owned a cattle collie of great intelligence, by name Clara, the daughter of a one-eyed female of the species, celebrated for her 'heeling' propensities. The mother was uncertain as to temper, and was often soundly chastised by her owner for erratic work or short-comings. After a good flogging she jumped up and fawned upon him with the fondest affection, thus verifying the ancient adage. But Clara was a gentle and kindly creature though a good driver, and in all respects strangely intelligent, a handsome black and tan as to colour. In yard work she showed out to the greatest advantage. Always keenly observant at such times, and curiously eager to assist – leaving a very young family on one occasion. One day in particular a panel of the stock-yard was broken; there was no time for repairs. But Clara was on guard, and there she stayed, never letting a beast through till the drafting was over.
Poor Clara! she met with an early death. Coming back from a muster, she was forgotten in the hurry and bustle. The weather was hot; the distance greater than usual. It was supposed that she died of thirst, or was killed by the dingoes, for she was never seen alive afterwards.
Peter, a Sydney-side dog, brought down by his owner before 1840 or thereabouts, with some of the early herds, was probably one of the cleverest animals in his way that ever followed a beast. His owner was a Sydney native of the 'flash gully-raking sort,' from whom probably Peter had received his education in indifferent company. We judged this from the cautious and unobtrusive way in which he went about his work. He was a medium-sized, dark-coloured dog, wiry and active. He was not fond of working for any one but his master, who could make him do all sorts of queer things. When he came into the kitchen and the maidservants chaffed him, he had only to whisper 'Heel 'em, Peter!' and the next minute the girls would be screaming and scampering, with Peter's teeth very close to their ankles. When tired – and they often travelled far and fast – he would come to the horse's fore-leg and beg to be taken up. Pulled up to the pommel of the saddle, he would sit upright, quite gravely, leaning against his master until he was sufficiently rested; then, when dropped to earth, he would go to work with amazing vigour. If any particular beast kicked him, he would wait till there was a crush at a gate, and 'heel' that very animal to a certainty at a time when it was impossible to retaliate.
The collie, on the other hand, whom fate had destined to a less romantic association with sheep, was trained and exercised differently. He was expected to guide and intimidate his timorous, delicate, though often frantic and obstinate charge chiefly by the sound of his voice and a threatening manner. Biting was forbidden under severe penalties. 'Working wide' – that is, continually running beyond, ahead, outside of the flock, which was therefore turned, stopped, or directed – was inculcated in every possible way. It is to be noted that the fashion is chiefly inherited, the untrained puppy of pure blood doing most of it as naturally as the pointer puppy lifts his fore-leg. A slight nip now and then in driving weary or obstinate sheep is permitted, but nothing approaching injury to the easily-hurt flock. It is an interesting sight to mark a trained collie walking back and forward in the rear of a large flock, intimating to them as plainly as possible without speech that they are to move along steadily in a given path, and, though permitted to nibble as they go, by no means to straggle unduly.
Then observe that shepherd with his flock of, say, two or three thousand. If strong and in good order, the 'head' will string out fully half a mile in advance of the 'body' and 'tail.' If left alone they will soon be out of sight at the rear-guard. Then a division would follow, and once away, after nightfall, wild dogs and dangers are on every side of them. Nor could the shepherd on foot, as he is always, run round ahead and turn them. By the time he reached the head, the tail would be marching in a different direction. When he turned them, the head would be gone again, etc. etc.
But mark the dog! Despatched by a wave of the hand, he races off at full speed. He flies round the scattered sheep, keeping wide, however, and so consolidating them, until he reaches the leaders, which, directly they see him, scurry back to the centre of the flock. Returning, he walks dutifully behind, with the air of one who has fulfilled his mission. In half an hour perhaps the same performance is repeated. In the middle of the day, if warm, the flock indulges in a 'camp' by a water-hole or other suitable locality. As it feeds home to the yard, very little of the morning activity is observed. Our collie, while watchful and ready for a lightning dash at a moment's notice, walks soberly behind, evidently contented with the day's work.
As the New Zealand shepherd, a man in his best years of strength and activity, is a different man from the elderly and often feeble shepherd of Australia, so the collie of Maoriland, having to climb rock-strewn defiles, and search amid glacier plateaux and savage solitudes, for the scattered, half-wild flocks, has an air of seriousness and responsibility. There is but little frolic and gamesomeness about him. The dogs of Ettrick and Yarrow, accustomed to snow and the blasts of an iron winter, claim kinship with him. Compelled to act on his own discretion, he tracks outliers, finds and collects his flock in all weathers.
'Sirrah, ma mon, they're awa!' says James Hogg to his wonderful collie, the 'dark-grey puppy' that he bought for a pound, if I mistake not. The dog, in the drear darkness of a snowstorm, goes forth, and hours afterwards is found guarding the four hundred lost lambs, not one being missing.
So when muster-day comes, the New Zealand collie makes for the mountain peaks: on the lonely plain far above the snow-line, where in severe seasons a hundred sheep may be found dead and frozen, he beats and quarters his country, till he finds and brings down to the appointed place all the straggling lots that may have summered there.
Independently of the qualities necessary for the successful mobilisation of sheep, the collie is, perhaps, of all the sub-varieties of the canine race, the most faithful and sympathetic. Time after time has one observed the tramping shepherd or swagman and his dog. Poor and despised, 'remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,' the forlorn wayfarer had one staunch friend – one faithful ally – that regarded not his poverty, his lowly condition, his lack of self-denial. Who has not marked the tramp asleep sub Jove at daylight, with scant shelter or covering, his watchful dog sitting near, prepared to show his teeth, or indeed do something more, at the nearer approach of the stranger? The dog of the imprisoned shepherd, immured by Sir Hugo de Pentonville for inebriety, lies stretched disconsolately before the prison gate, howling at intervals, apparently in deepest despair, betraying on the other hand the most frantic joy at his release. The railway favourite goes heavily, mourning as unmistakably as a Christian – more sincerely than some – in abstracted gloom, melancholy gait, and aimless daily search for his master, untimely slain by the remorseless Juggernaut. A hundred times has one caught the watchful eye of affection with which the collie regards his ragged owner, as if fearing to lose the least word or gesture.
And though the recipients of this unstinted devotion rarely appear to appreciate the gift so lavishly bestowed, it must be recorded, for the honour of human nature, that instances of the contrary do occur. But the other day, a lonely pilgrim, who had been ailing few weeks past, was found by the good Samaritan, cold in death, with his arm round his dog's neck. A shepherd will carry the young family of his (female) collie, born during a journey, tied in a handkerchief, at much expenditure of toil and trouble. In many an instance blood feuds, savage conflicts ending in manslaughter – suicides even – have occurred, connected with injustice, real or fancied, to the 'dawg.' 'Love me, love my dog,' is an ancient adage by no means without force in Australia. But recently a farmer deliberately shot a neighbour whom he accused, wrongfully or otherwise, of killing his dog. Prior to that occurrence a shepherd, noticed to be despondent for days past, telling one inquirer that some one had poisoned his dog, hanged himself.
Touching the price of a really good dog, it may range from two pounds to twenty – an owner often declaring that he would not part with his dog for the last-named sum. Within the present month, indeed, two legal processes, to the writer's knowledge, have been put in force in the collie interest. In one case £10 was sued for as being the value of a cattle dog, alleged to have been illegally poisoned. The other was nothing less than a 'Search-warrant for stolen goods and chattels,' commanding the Sergeant of Police and all constables of Bundabah to make diligent search, in the daytime, at the residence of the man referred to, whose name is not known, but who can be identified, for the said black collie slut, named in the information as 'feloniously stolen, taken, and carried away as aforesaid, and if you find the same, that you secure the said black collie slut, and bring the person in whose custody you find the same before me, or some other justice of the peace. – (Signed) John Jones, J.P.'
At the annual pastoral and agricultural shows, the trial of sheep dogs has never-failing interest for the spectators. Most curious is it to note the gravity with which each competing collie essays to drive three wildish paddocked sheep into a very small fold of hurdles.
The free exhibition of strychnine, rendered necessary by the incursions of the dingo, and, 'sorrow it were and shame to tell,' by the increase of foxes, has led to the death of many a valued collie. But good animals are now carefully looked after. Greater attention is paid to breeding. Dogs of the best strains are annually imported. And as the ranks of Australian collies are thus recruited with pure blood and high-class animals, it is not too much to assert, that as a stock dog, our Australian collie is not inferior to his British ancestors, while he may claim even a wider range of accomplishments and experience.
