"THEM DAYS"

Evening Star, Issue 21079, 16 April 1932, Page 2

"THEM DAYS"

[Written by M.K.S., for tho ‘ Evening Star.’] They put tho last load of metal on our road a few days ago. We tried to make a ceremony of it, and all our little world turned out. The chairman of tho county council was there, very important and reminiscent; tho contractor was there, smiling gamely, as though his profit had been high and not the barest margin above working expenses; tho county engineer was there, looking as if that last load of metal had come off his own mind. And there was quite a fleet of cars, honest and battered “ old stagers ” which had been towed a hundred times through a sea of mud where now this metal lay so snugly; some antediluvean buggies, too, and half a dozen sledges which had come from the back roads where mud and slush still reign supreme. 1 am sure that I saw the old draught horses that drew them exchange a selfcongratulatory glance with those ancient cars. “No more heart-breaking tows,” said tho mild brown eyes; and tho radiators winked back “Our day has come—yours is over.” We were not, perhaps, as lighthearted as wo should have been, for in all our hearts there lurks a fear of this winter before us; but presently, with the help of that keg of beer in the back of the contractor’s lorry, our spirits began to rise to the occasion. Soon there were the usual speeches, platitudes enthusiastically applauded. Wo looked'at each other with congratulatory eyes—after twenty, after thirty years wo found ourselves with a metalled road at last. Tho day was perfect, with that rare, sad perfection of early autumn—season of reminiscence. It had its way with mo, and presently my middle-aged thoughts were travelling back across the years to a similar scene some thirteen years before.

It was the day when tho first metal had been thrown upon that long stretch of bush road that lay nearest the coast. Already tho portion that ran through the plains was jpetallcd; already cars were running through all the summer, and a motor mail service, with tho help of wagons in mid-winter on tho clay road, had long replaced Sam Freeman’s “ Pioneer Coach Service.” Sam himself was “off the road,” and had found congenial and independent work among tho horses on a big station near tho coast. The old order was changing. But to-day definitely marked its passing, as wo thought. We had no idea then of tho multitude of delays, of tho slumps and tho “ bad times ” that were to work against the completion of that road. Five years, wo told each other, would see a metalled highway; tho fifty miles to “ town ” would be a couple of hours drive in a fast car. We were very excited about it, and in the place of that meagre keg to-day there were broached a couple of mighty casks. As I listened drearily to the speeches of to-day, with their talk of slumps and remedies and prices, 1 remembered tho witticisms and the local allusions of that other afternoon with a sigh of regret. But that was only another proof that I was middleaged. i Presently, on that far-away occasion, when we had grown tired of our regular spoechifiers, some bright spirit had suddenly called upon Sam for a speech. H-, W as there in the background, the inevitable short, black pipe in his

moith, bis muddy and shapeless boots gaily laced with scarlet wool-bale twine in licnour of tho occasion, his battered and wde-brimmed hut balanced miraculously, ns ever, over his left ear. Yet his air had been aloof and cynical. True, le had drunk every toast, for his was a frugal mind, and beer is beer upon tic Coast; hit we could see that his heait was not in it. “ A hast?” he had drawled, humorously ptofane. '* Why should I call a toastf Aren’t there plenty of you hero to do it? There’s Jim here, all neat and pretty, with his new car, what lias been in these terrible backblecks near a year, and car tel you all about it. Let him give you a toast.” Wo did not argie—ve merely filled his glass again, and yet again,, and presents lie spoke; "I’m not much good at talking, a.< I’ve said before, but, as you gentlemen wat a toast, I’ll give you one. We’ve dunk to folk a-plenty to-day, and we’vodrunt to the future. It’s .i safe, cosyfuture, and I guess we’ll have lots oflittlo gentlemen coming out from to towns to show ns how to farm, nv that wo’ro goin’ to have a metalledroad straight homo to the town and t\ pictures. There’ll be a service car eery day, I hear, and your mail and lapers when you want them. Why, Inind the day when we was incky to )t our letters once a month, and pairs—well, we passed ’em round and too 1 turns at' pasting tho pictures on thditchon wall. Then wo started a week'coach, five horses, and change throe hies on tho trip. We thought wo W socin’ life then, and the children nd to run like rabbits to watch her pa; strainin’ and creakin’, two miles arf 10 " 1 ’ over this bit, the passengers ykin” and generally carrvin’ their I s of luggage. But no one fussed, ( l when wo came to an easy bit wed climbed in and had a drink, and eg a, song or two. _ Last week I hear-hcre was a scandal in the service car'ccause she was a bit crowded, ai6° lTieoil o suggested a lady should sit a chap’s knee, and they not introd-d. That wasn’t the way in them d 5 — an( L as for knees, why, Lord bles.'tou! Yes, them were the days - ]ielf°urself and help each other and make joke of it all. They were good day/ad good ways, take ’em by and that’s the toast I’ll give vou filpur mugs and drink to —them

davs! i)id I drink it? We shouted ourselves h'so, and we carried Sam shonidfUgh, for we remembered those trips fhis; wo remembered how he had st'ed those horses through fifty miles -mud and slush; how he had carrichir mails and our sick wives, nnc l 1 ended triumphantly in the Ban k'tcy Court for his pains. But ho dijmared when we got home. “ In the b 5)” said one of the men. “ It’s that,3 ei ’o metal that’s done it." “Qu I’ll bo movin’ on," says he. 1 n lwadid hate spoon-feedin’. Spoonfeeds Him!" ppie went. Late that night I was sitiplone by the cookhouse fire, when tlie.or opened stealthily, and Sam can?- Where had he been? Whereevci was, he had there found peace. * was forgotten, and his eye jr] c (d with the old adventurous tw./'°Vok at this,” he said, and thrust a nepper cutting beneath my nose. “ jitod, for the backblocks, man wiihorough knowledge of horses and agonied to solitude. No townies n< apply.” “Poor fool,” I said, gjV. “He needn’t worry that tho t/es will rush him. He won’t get „tuiswcr.” “ He’ll got mine,” said jen. in answer to my look of utter (ternation, ho said defensively: In not needed hero now—not like [years ago, when horses was horses.

The road’ll soon be through, and I was never a one for crowds. I’ll get further back. It’s the only life I understand. I knows the backblocks, and they knows me.” “ But you’re getting old,” I suggested. Tho brutal shot missed fire. “ Best place to get old, best place to die,” said my old friend quietly. Persuasions were unavailing; in a month ho was gone—gone “ further back,” where no metal road, and' no offending ears would come between him and the memory of “ them days.”