Part 12

“Freddy,” one of the native policemen, flung his weapons very well, but not quite so marvellously as some of the prisoners I saw at Rottnest. He was out of practice and too civilised, for he had been “tame” for many years, and was a good specimen of an aboriginal. The police have many such men in their employ as “trackers,” and they will always guide the mounted white policeman on the steps of any one who is “wanted.” It is not of the least use an evildoer trying to escape here, unless he does so by water, for a native “tracker” will follow him up without the least difficulty. Louis’s great ambition is to be a “tracker,” and he was never so pleased as when I used to pretend, over at Rottnest, not to know my way about, and he “tracked” for me. He is as sharp as a needle, and few wayside signs escape his quick eye. All the gentlemen tried their hands at kylie-throwing; but of course no one could do it in the least like “Freddy.” Louis is his most promising pupil, and has really caught some idea of the turn of the wrist which sends the kylie circling away, exactly like a bird.

The favourite amusement just now of a fine Saturday afternoon, when all the public offices close at mid-day, is a paper-chase, and I am always coaxed to take tea out to the appointed place where they finish. I spoiled the “hounds” by doing so the first chase, and ever after whenever the “hare” went out to look for a new line of country possible for the horses, he was sure to add, “and there is a capital place where you can take tea out, quite easy to get at in a carriage.” Of course, my road is over quite a different line of country, and I borrow the famous old van, with its four horses, fill it with pretty girls (_my_ girls!) and take my own carriage, besides a dog-cart for the tea.

The “_meet_” is always here, in front of the house, and a very pretty sight it is. Between thirty and forty riders, some of them ladies, nearly all well-mounted, and quite all looking like going. The hares, with a mounted native to carry the sackful of scent, have only about five minutes’ start, so you may imagine how fast they scurry off, the native grinning from ear to ear. The last one sees of those first three is the flash of this man’s white teeth, as he looks back on the waiting riders. Of course the hounds have to go quite slowly until they get outside the town, and then, when they pick up the scent, off they all gallop, helter-skelter, as fast as ever the horses can carry them. There is no open country which is not sandy near Perth, so the hares have to lead through bush more or less thick, where the actual ground is good enough naturally, but the trees grow very close together, and you come upon old saw-pits or holes which have been dug for some purpose or the other. I can tell you it takes a bold rider, and a clever as well as a strong horse, to go paper-chasing through our bush!

If you could see the line of country they follow, you would think it only possible to get along if you went _very_ slowly and carefully, picking your way among great trunks of trees, and keeping a sharp look-out for the pit-falls which are round every corner. But instead of this the hounds (on horseback!) pelt along, darting among the trees, as hard as ever the horses can go. It is of no use whatever attempting to guide your steed. He guides himself much better than you can possibly do; and the way a clever “bush-horse” dodges among the trees, leaving space for his rider’s leg, jumps over the fallen logs, shaves the very edge of a saw-pit, must be seen to be understood. “Jarrah” covers himself with glory in these chases, and appears to like the fun quite as well as father does.

Whilst the hounds are scurrying after the scent—a round of some 10 or 15 miles—I and the van, and the girls, and the tea, all go quietly out to the finish, light our fire, put the kettle on to boil, and then stroll about and pick flowers; for, no matter how completely we are in midwinter, there are sure to be some pretty blossoms too late or too soon in coming out. And we find curious things besides. Between the bark and wood of a fallen log, the other day, we found an extraordinary insect. It was about 3 inches long, and something between a caterpillar and a centipede in appearance, exactly the colour—very light brown—of the wood it rested on; but the strange part was its head. This head was flat, and wider than any other part of its body; it seemed to be of the nature of a bladder which the creature inflated and contracted at pleasure. We watched this bubble-like head for a long time with the deepest interest, until our attention was distracted by the sound of racing hoofs, and we only just got back to the tea-cloth and the fire, in time to see the hares dart in like a flash of lightning, and jump off their horses without being caught.

Only one or two of the hounds were at all close to them, and there was plenty of time to loosen the girths, throw a blanket over each steaming horse, and revive the equally breathless hares with tea, before the rest of the hounds streamed in, in groups of six or eight at a time; all laughing and full of their own or their neighbours’ adventures. The servants, as well as the mounted orderlies we bring with us, have always plenty to do in looking after the horses, and taking care that they don’t catch cold, for it is simply freezingly cold out of the sunshine, which is fast waning, in the short winter afternoon, by the time they all reach the finish and the tea. I am very proud of the way the ladies ride. They are always among the first arrivals, and have evidently been more careful than the men; for there are fewer scratched faces, or torn garments. Indeed, a needle and thread always comes out with these hunt-teas, and is in great request before we start homewards. I don’t wonder that they are anxious for me to take out something for them to drink, for they are all so thirsty, so thirsty! Whilst I and my staff of girls are as busy as possible, pouring out cup after cup of tea, I sometimes hear the pop of a soda-water cork behind me, then a silence, a deep sigh, and a murmured “That _is_ refreshing!” and a hound comes round the corner wiping his lips, and looking very contented.

I believe they all delight to horrify me by tales of the hair-breadth escapes they have had, and the dangers they have run; and I confess to a feeling of deep thankfulness when the last straggler arrives safe, though probably without a hat and rather ragged, having missed the scent and got hopelessly “bushed.” I anxiously count all my ladies, and after them the married men, to make sure that none are missing. I tell the young gentlemen-hounds that they are not so valuable, and can take care of themselves! If I ask where Mr. So-and-so is, the answer has occasionally been, “Oh! I last saw him standing on his head in a clump of bushes;” or else, “I should think he was trying to catch his horse, and find his hat;” but it is capital sport they all declare, though I secretly wonder what pleasure _can_ lie in going full speed through a thick forest after little bits of paper! I suppose the danger is the chief attraction; and the exercise is certainly a fine thing for men who are kept a great deal at their desks.

So we all finish our tea, leave the servants to pack up the empty cups and saucers, and set out homewards in the crisp evening air. We, in the carriages, get home long before the riders, who only jog easily along the good road, out of consideration for the fagged horses who have threaded the bush so gallantly under them. Just before they enter the main street they generally form into cavalry order, “by fours,” and, in this military fashion, ride steadily up to our gate, where the leaders break off and turn in. After that the squadron rapidly melts away, with many a cheery “good-night” ringing through the crisp air; and so home to dinner, and a sleep such as generally only you schoolboys know how to sleep.

There used to be capital kangaroo hunting round Perth, but of course you would now have to go a good long way, probably 100 miles or so, before you would come across kangaroo tracks. They keep a good deal in the bush, but always choose country where the feed is good, and where water can be found. So the sheep and cattle farmers don’t like this, and chase the poor beast still farther and farther away. I have had several kangaroo tails sent to me, and they make capital soup, like oxtail soup, with a strong flavour of hare. The meat is rather dark and stringy; but when it is well and slowly cooked, cased in dough as the gipsies bake, and eaten with currant-jelly, we declare it is nearly as nice as red-deer venison!

Just now, in consequence of a good reward offered by Government, all the professional hunters are going after the “dingoes” or native dogs. A handsome beast enough, something like a jackal, with a very bushy tail. These dogs are the worst enemies the sheep can have, worse than a “black fellow,” for _he_ sometimes misses, and the dingo never does; then you can track and catch a native and send him over to Rottnest, if he is very incorrigible, whereas a dingo is almost impossible to catch.

One of the hardest cases I know about dingoes has occurred at the station of a friend of ours. Last year he fenced in a good large bit of “country,” what he calls a “paddock,” but what you would call a shire! There was good feed and water, and everything a sheep’s heart could desire within these stout post and rails. Alas, the fence had been run round the favourite camping-ground of at least one or two dingoes, and when the poor sheep were driven into their carefully prepared paddock to fatten, it became simply a case of providing the dingoes with a nightly supper, without their having much trouble to get it. In vain the owner of the station, as soon as ever he discovered the state of affairs, called his shepherds and stockmen and his sons together, and carefully organised raids upon these beasts. Night after night the hunters perched themselves in trees, near to where a mob of sheep had camped. The dingoes knew quite well the men were there, and went off to sup elsewhere. The paddock was carefully “driven,” but the dingoes rushed past, and escaped the fire of every gun. They seemed to bear a charmed life. The most carefully aimed shot missed, or the gun hung fire. All sorts of accidents happened to the huntsmen, whilst the dingoes got off scot-free, and the poor dear sheep grew thinner and fewer every moonlight night. I think I should take out a _mitrailleuse_ and see if that would not “fetch them”! They laugh at poisoned meat and won’t even sniff at it. It is really too provoking, and quite a serious trouble. Every time I see the master of the station I anxiously inquire whether he has caught even one dingo yet.

I am coming home soon for six months to put Louis to school (he is really getting too much of a larrikin!). And I assure you, delightful as it will be to see you all, I am sorry to turn my back, even for so short a time, upon our friends here. It is such a thoroughly home-like place, one has no feeling of strangeness or uprootedness in it.

We have been here now just a year, and it is impossible to imagine a happier, healthier, or pleasanter time than we have all had. The Colony itself is in a most interesting and hopeful stage of its existence, and daily attracts a greater share of public attention. We are going to have made for us, in exchange for some of our millions of acres, long lines of railway, which will link our distant places together. Harbours are to be improved, lighthouses built, a web of telegraph wires spun from one end of the huge territory to the other, all sorts of long-needed improvements undertaken. Some day, perhaps, in the near future, we shall be more on a par with our wealthy and prosperous sister-colonies; but whatever may be our gain in those coming golden days, I hope, with all my heart, that Western Australians may never lose the loyalty of nature, simplicity of life, or manliness of heart, which they now possess. “Poor, but honest,” might well be their motto; and I, for one, look upon it as a proud one.

THE END.

_Printed by_ R. & R. Clark, _Edinburgh_.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.

Perceived typographical errors have been changed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.