THE ENGLISHMAN'S DROUGHT.

Oamaru Mail, Volume XXXVI, Issue 11655, 10 June 1912, Page 2

THE ENGLISHMAN'S DROUGHT.

PIONEERS AT HOME. (By Harry S. Gulieit, in the Sydney -. Sun.) Tin? Englishman is amusing on his -drought. He tells you-that trie countrv is drought-stricken at this moment, an ft. ii you smile, he thinks you an irrelevant, irresponsible ass. I speak of the particular Londoner who lives ; r. the suburbs and who talks on the desperate plight 'of his garden, and insist? that this delightiul April sunshine will not last. It will, he croaks, coax the buds to open before their time and the iiowers to ccme forth, and then in May i.'s shall have, frosts and a fail of snow, and all the tender leafage will be blackened and spoiled. ' "The seasons are changing," he' insists'-; "we didn't- get these droughts a few years ago." And if his sense of humor did not save him you know he would blame Lloyd-Gsorga and the trades unions for it.

"Droughts," you begin, in a tone of amused contempt; "droughts. Do you call this a drought?. I'd like to see you after a rainless half-year with one of our westerlies blowing over vour green island. And then he "has you. "Ah'" so you do have droughts in Australia? I understood that in these days of immigration you had done with' droughts, "just as Canada has-done ■ with snow But, really, though, this is serious her.-, at present. Everything is drying no. If we don't get rain at c-nce our fanners will be .ruined'. Crops are being withered to nothing. Butter and. meat will go up in .price. . I tell you it's a verv scrious thing for country and citv people alike." It is interesting-to not:: .that the Bytisher continues to cherish the -belief, that local farminrr is still a great industry, and that the. price of his-fresh-produce, most of "which is imported, is dependent upon local suopr.es. -- • There is a little truth in the storv of the drought. The rainfall in tin's country is not heavy; London has less than half the fail of Sydney. Bur, the rain comes in small doses, and often; the sun is seldom or never reailv hot and drying; the island' is generally dr.nip. and not in cne summer out of tin -s

it cthsr than groat. Lust summer tho mo.Kiows and commons turned to bsoirsi and- went, asiii'si rewinding the Austra- . nan of home as it is possible for this quite d:iferez:t. land to 20: here and there- they b,ad ''bush" fires. Cat- th.it was p.. rare burst of heat. England is a .rainy country, and. like al: rainv

countries, it has no resi.-tono? Co a spell of dry weather. This April the pci'ous soils are .giving off their innbOvtre to the unusually warm sunshine, and tiu "young crops are touched with ydiow. while even, over the meadow.; gay wit:: dowers you can sec by looking ckseiy th;>t rain is necde-d. But- the suburban ganteugr ir.ay lament -and the farmer loci-: grave—the Australian, witii thesis .<rey. damp'." winter. months behind Ij:;:i. is careless of. gardens and eicps x ar;u pastures. Ho remembers drought.: at bwiw l<: hi:-, ow:; land. real droughts, an-.; U'j h.iijilis and prays for sunshine, On Zilonday afternoon I went- through ti;.- streets to the Great- Western Radway station to Paddingtou, to take a t:ain to Gloucester. 'A pleasant smell of dust-'was :ii the city air. Within the station-it was really hot. My feilowpasrengeis "htid sweaty faces, which reminded me - very haopiiy of Sydney. You had a drink for tho purpose o: a thirst—a rare thing in London. We ran out in the country toward* Reading, and d-rspite all protest. a robust- man c-f somo fifteen stone closed thr window, and' then sat with the Hind down to keep iho sun of? him: and over his bt'oad back a heavy overcoat.-;' C': six of us. four wore overcoats, and, with the window down, we talked drought. It was to an. Australian very ridiculous. A few miles out We went past two big nurseries, plotafter plot- of brilliant flowers, ouarteraeres of tulips grouped' according to color. And all the way the delicate spring foliage of the trees hurrying out

into the sun. And still they grumbled on about the drought. After ail. though, it isn't much of a boast- that our droughts beat England's. There, isn't much satisfaction or profit in telling the childlike Britisher who hasn't been fortunate enough to be born in Australia that you've seen sheep sold for the price of their shrunken skins. Nor is it ii:-:- laast good continuing the thought that John Bull a.t home is very soft and simple. "When he makes a similar fuss about, our trifles,'it is very dangerous to hold', him cheap, to think perhaps that he would! curl, tip in the face of hardship. When men aiid women here who have never, seen a dust--.torni, or had to drink or wash in water other than that which flows from. taps or is pumped 'from' springs, make inquiries about life on,' say the new wheat country in Western Australia, you think of what is before them, and you hesitate to reply. You tell them of the little wooden country home with, the corrugated iron roof which catches the;:i their drinking water, and: of the taiik ploughed and scooped out of the en: t;i which gives them their supplies for washing and scrubbing! They shake their heads. "Isn't it very dirtyP" And you answer: "Only a, bit muddy, bur- a"litt!e lime and Epsom salts clears it in no time." You feel a' little hopeless about them. i3ut they smila, the restless light of advensure in their ejes. And they go outfrom their little five weeks' droughts, a;id their winds which carry no dust, anil their clear spring water, and a few veins later they are Australians almost even as-the native born. It is whe-n the drought is on him that you appreciate to the full the colonising genius of the Britisher. He has no schooling here- for either Australia or die tropics, or even Canada's snows; and yet lie .eo. ! = out with the same success into then: all. You talk to the •juiigsaut abei;i to start, and: you feel a c-u:t of fai-hc-r to him. in that you are a n:;tiw br;rzi. Bui then you recall that it was the- emigrant fresh from" •L-ng!and':> green and narrow pastures who went first, and that a whole; generation of the loneliest and heaviest of the pioneering was over before the na.tiveoens began—you recall this, and you see the emigrant in a new light. ~n sin.:!, you giro up your inclination to ii:ugii at the Eg'iishman's drought, and abandon your attempt to reach ay d'efin:'.:<_• conclusions about his strength and his weaknesses. The Englishman is the dr.i'kot of dark horses.