MEN WHO BLAZED THE TRACK.

Otago Witness, Issue 2467, 26 June 1901, Page 77

MEN WHO BLAZED THE TRACK.

By C. Morton Harvey..

To the fightmg band who won the land From bitterest wastes out back 1 From hut and hall to the King of all— The men who Blazed the Track. — W. H. Ogilvib. My series of aiticlei— "Men Who Blazed the Track"'— w ill be connected directly with Australia, but will appeal to all who have Uoiiwn those distant fenceless areas through a freemasonry unwrifc and uncultivated, that exists amongst "bushmen" of every clime. The hardships, the wonderings, and the "dolce far niente" of leisure hours, and a thousand other little nothings or somethings of bush life will draw many sympathetic hearts round the phantom flames of long dead campfires. Stockmen will recogni&e stockmen, diggers thrill at the remembrance of the ring of a slug in the dish, and axemen turn to the bladetune of a distant axe. Dear Bushland ! with your soft and low, or wild, weird music, your many voices and coloured volumes of quaint 'lore— how can men call you lonely? " Jeer who may, I can say in all sincerity that I never experienced a feeling of utter loneliness except ir> the heart of a city, where the gray sea of poverty and rags lapped tbe golden sands of wealth and prosperity. But my pen is not charged to record the wondrous doings or hideous misdeeds of massed humanity m the cages of civilisation. It has a," cleaner, a more wholesome mission in recalling memories of men — undecorated heroes — who fought, in flood and drought, more ruthless foes than battalions of steelarmed murderers backed by belching cannon. They fought in grim silence, yielding, when the hour-glass was spent, their fouls to the Great Unknown — their caskets to the mother earth whence they sprung. Their bodies may have been feasted upon by the watchful crow or the prowling dingo, and their bones may have bleached beneath the burning sun or pelting rain ; but what matter? Their sleep is a?°peaceful, their rest as secure as that of the coffined King. As the earlier parts of my experience were gained on cattle stations, I shall devote my first article to an old mate— "The Stockman." Ko. I.— THE STOCKMAN. It is here, in the southward, under The rays of a sun that fall Where the stockuhin's gathering thunder Is music sweetest of all. Where the " scrubbers " undei the dust-clouds Are challenged, and caught, and passed ; Though flanks may bleed ere we wheel the lead, At the wings of the yard at last. —Will. H. Ogilvie. The stockman, to the average city man, is a thin, bronzed, wiry creature, who talks through his nose, and accompanies every second remark with expectorations or an oath ; wears thin elastic-side boots, long-necked spurs, leggings, white moles, cotton shirt, green or yellow silk handkerchief round his neck, cabbage-tree hat with nose or chin-strap, and walks with a lolling gait. This v correct in some, but not in all instances. I have known stockmen living in hut quarters — college and university men — capable of entertaining a drawing-room of the "Naicest," or if put into the regions of the kitchen, equally capable of carrying on a pleasant flirtation with your "prettiest housemaid, or the cook on a pinch, age and appearance overlooked. The average stockman may not be an educated man ; but from whatever grade of society they spring, stockmen are rough, tough comrades, with hearts as large as those of the cattle they muster. No country, scrub or mountain, can block them — that is, where a horse can claim foothold. They sit with an easy grace in the saddle, and handle their reins with as delicate a touch as that of an artist caressing the keys of a loved instrument, or a tender bridegroom placing the golden circlet on his fair bride's finger, in the presence of a limp sky-pilot and a churchful of gaping gossips. The outside world, or rather the inside world, have no idea of the reckless manner a stockman carries his life in his hand ; and the most daring feats are not always performed in daylight. It is during moonlight, w*3ien running a mob of wild cattle, commonlj knowr as clean-skins, that the marvellous is accomplished. To traverse country that had been galloped over 'neath the moon's pale gleam would simply stagger the uninitiated. Stockmen themselves are often astounded, but nothing dounted, tackle a similar task, probably the next nighfc. It is a weird sound — the low, angry challenge of scrub bulls who have picked up tho scent of the coachers. The seasoned horses know it. Pricking their ears they shake off night's drowsiness, paw impatiently, and with beating hearts that can be heard and felt against the saddleflaps, jingle their bit-bars, eager for the gallop they know irust follow. The best men (if it has not already been done) make a wide detour ie single file, the head man taking the lead, and all the horses moving with a light, dandy spring that would scarce break a twig. An electric affinity passes froir man to horse, and from horse to man, giving an elated feeling of power and confidence to perform something akin to devilish perfection. At last the scrubbers sniff danger and break for their beloved haunts ; but the man who steadies the lead, well-backed by his fellow-stockmen, wheels them back into the open. There may be trouble here, but such men are prepared for any emergency, and finally land the greater portion, if not all of them, among tho coachers, which are generally lively but tractable steers. The men who have been holding the coachers are now fired with the subtle charm oi the run. They have heard the ring of flying hoofs, the crashing of low brush, and their heart-beats thrill as they hear the subdued but soothing "Woa, boys — woa, boys!" of the incoming stockmen. As the dustcloud made by the linging mob clears, tongueing cattle appear L»t the outside of the quieter steers^ only

to darfc back agair out of sight. Horses open their red nostrils to let draughts of cool air into their overcharged lungs. The white foam on theii sides is tinged with cnmson spots, drawn by steel rowels, unheeded and unfelt, in the spell of excitement. When the cattle have again settled, and lior&es tad a spell, the mob is moved 1 carefully to another position, the scrubbers ever on the alert for an opening to break and stockmen equally alert to check any such attempt. A dozen or more run*, with varying succe&s, may be accomplished while (he" moon is sufficiently high or clear, and then heads are turned *foi the yards. As a rule scrubbers and very touchy station cattle yard better at night than in daylight. They are borne up the wings and safe behind the rails before they can realise what has happened ; in fact, the open rails at the end of narrowing wings seem to them a way of escape. The last peg is driven, the la&t rail secured, and with a sigh of content the subdued tones and low ci.rlew-like whistles give place to joyous laughter and lilting song. The '"kookaburra," earliest of early birds, is roused f2om slumber. Casting his eye east, he fails to catch the breaking line of early dawn ; but, nothing daunted, cocks his short tail with a savage jerk and mocks the hilarity of the happy stockman with his harsh laugh. The watchful and suspicious crow leaves his bare perch with a hoarse "caw-caw." The "wagtail" chirps his conceited chirp of "Sweet-pretty-crea-ture, sweet -pretty-creature' 1 ; and wild duck splash from the swamp reeds with a scared "Quack — quack — quack. "' As the yards for receiving and working scrub cattfe are always a considerable distance from the head station the stockmen camp out. It is a free life, a healthy life ; and to the man who makes use of the faculties possessed by him and denied brute creation, it is an interesting life. There is not always scrub to smash and crash though, spinifex deserts to travel over, or droughtstricken plains to drag weary stock across. There are scenes that photograph themselves on the heart, never to fade ; music that nestles into the soul, never to die ; and secrets to be wrested from Nature, of more intrinsic value than wealth of gold — all this is denied the office drudge, who lives a being of set habit ; who dies, with a slumbering soul. The very camp of the slockman is surrounded by a wonderland. The song of bird, ripple of horsebell, jingle of hobble-chain, cry of plover, Vail of curlew, howl of dingo, hoot of owl, splash of stream, murmur of winds, and challenge of bull to bull, with bellowed answer of defiance, are familiar and dear to every stockman ; and these are only a few strayleaves in the wondrous book of Nature. Stockmen will ever remember the old cry that roused them from slumber and blanket land: "Daylight, boys !" This practically meant that white stars still glistened above, but daylight would appear when breakfast was over, horses saddled, and the station yards lying a mile or two behind. Oh, these cold winter mornings, when, in the grim grey dawn, with bridle on arm, you approached the yard rails, uncertain what you were going to ride, but perfectly certain that it would have a cut. Then the long day's muster, broken by the sweet hour's dinner-camp and pipe beneath an old-man "Coolabah," a giant "ironbark,"' a shady apple tree, oi friendly bottle tree. Possibly there was drafting to be done on this open camp, but if not, there was the excitement at the yard at sundown, with a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs. After the day's work there was no luxurious abode to feast or rest in. Only the dear old hut. that was drawing room, dining room, bedroom, kitchen, and saddle room all in one. The piano was concertina or banjo, the carpet a green hide, the spring mattress bark, the kerosene lamp a tin of fat with a strip of moleskin for a wick, and the cooking utensils an old oil-drum and quart pots. This was the stockman's town house. His country residence was the camp beneath the blue dome of heaven, jewelled with its countless star jets, and lit by the great arc-light, the moon. These were happy days, and in remembering the* old bush commandment must not be forgotten : "Six days shalt thou labour and do all thy branding,' the seventh all thy washing." Year in, year out, in sunshine and rain, the stockman rides his way over trackless areas with as much confidence as a city man. evinces when standing at a street .corner waiting for tram or buss. rfis hours of work are unlimited ; his duties anything from cowboy to horsebreaker, and although neglected in the pages of history, it must be acknowledged he has been one of our greatest Empire-builders. He fights and falls in the front rank of that gallant army of "men whe blazed the track," and rides forth in his far bush wilds, a very king. But this free life is coming to a close. Civilisation is creeping out, ever out, and with it, unfortunately, the city germs of corruption. Scrubs, downs, and bluegrass ridges are being divided into small paddocks. Boundary riders, who, until the champions of cheap labour picked them up, never lode anything rougher than a bus or tram car, take the place of stockmen. As they crawl along a fence armed with wire, strainer, key, and tomahawk, old cows look up at them with disgust, and younger stock rh-U up their heels in derision, the expressions of some saying "Pooh! you couldn't yard a pet bandicoot." No more big brxndings with three sets of irons going at once : one foi the large or heavy stock going thrcigh the bail, one for the mediuin-si^ed Le;ng pulled up by the head-rope, and one for the calves being scruffed. Make out, lads, where you -will still have room to swing your stockwhips ; country to ride, iraclcief-s and unfenced, and horses to cross that can do their 50 miles, and then cany yon home on their mouths, full of go, full of heart. Enjoy the free old life while yt." may. for Civilisation is closing you" in on every side. When it jams you into the last comer, put away your gear, hang up your >vhij',«, ?i d beneath them write "In memory oi." Are you troubled . ' h< ■ „j'i > 7 bago, Gout, Sciatica >> ril'-r r J. aWITCHES' OIL. Seki ' „' - V- .u'* ; Mlt »gent»j Kempthtv- . >r .;;* i