Читать книгу Life in the Australian Backblocks - Edward S Sorenson - Страница 5

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Slabs, bark, greenhide, and dog-leg fences were the leading features of the old bush home, and still are in many places; but in settled districts shingles and galvanised iron have taken the place of bark, and two-rail and wire fences succeed the dog-leg. Neat cottages gleam everywhere in the deep forests, and carts and buggies rattle in the wake of the primordial slide. Yet I doubt if the man in the modern cottage is happier than his progenitor in the little bark hut, whose saddle reposed on a peg in one corner, his bagbunk rigged up in another; who stepped out on a cowhide mat, stood his dampers on a packing-case, and slung his billy on a wire hooked to a blackened trace-chain.

Though a resourceful person in the main, the bushman's home does not always show to advantage. There is so much for him to do when he goes on his land, and housing being an urgent desideratum, he sticks up a temporary structure with the handiest material about him, the principal object aimed at being to make it keep out rain. A married man, with little or no capital, begins with a two-roomed hut—intended later for a kitchen—but any sort of jerry-built humpy suits the bachelor. When he can cook and eat and sleep comfortably in a one-roomed hut, he sees no reason why he should erect any more, while there is other and more pressing work to which to devote his time and energy. By limiting his domicile to one apartment, he makes a considerable saving in cleaning and general housekeeping. Behind many places there is a galley, or lean-to, where much of the cooking and baking is done.

The crudest habitations are found among the giant timber of Gippsland. The upper part of a big hollow tree is sawn off, and a roof put on. Sometimes the top is left intact, and there may be two or three floors built inside the trunk, with little windows cut out here and there. This tree-house makes a capital first residence, and may afterwards be turned into a kitchen, stable, store, or poultry-house. It is more roomy than a stranger might suppose. Commissary Hall, who lived at O'Brien's Bridge, Hobart, recorded of a tree on his property: "It is a trifle over 300 feet, and there are some 50 feet of the top blown off. I myself have seen fourteen men on horseback in the hollow of it. In 1854 Sir William Denison, the Governor, and seventy-eight of the Legislative Assembly and their friends, dined in the hollow of it."

In the early days many a settler's house was built of solid logs and pug. It was roofed with stringybark, the latter being hung with greenhide and held down with poles ("riders" and "jockeys") pegged together. This was, no doubt, a replica of the log cabins of Yankee backwoodsmen.

It was a formidable structure, more comfortable than elegant. Then there was the mud house. Many squatters in Western Queensland lived for years in this kind of dwelling, the walls being built of stiff clay, with grass for binding. Similar structures are still in use west of Windorah, the walls built of earth and tallow, and the floors of ashes and tallow, which set like cement. Currawilla Station, in this neighbourhood, is surrounded by a great wall, 8 feet high, built of the same material. The enclosure prevents the homestead being inundated when the flood comes down Farrar's Creek. It is a unique sight to see this place low and dry in the midst of miles of seething waters. The blending of tallow makes the walls waterproof, and also prevents erosion when subjected to a strong current.

Mention of the log-and-pug recalls that it was from this kind of building that our wattle-trees got their name. The earliest settlers around Port Jackson found these trees handiest for building purposes. The trunks were laid horizontally between uprights, and the interspaces filled with stiff mud, a process known as wattling. They were thus called wattle-houses.

Our backblock architectural styles and their periods have never been definitely named or classified. In the central parts the gradation from the canvas humpy and bough or cane-grass shed to the galvanised iron dwelling, and thence to the stone or brick house, is distinct. But along the coastal belt, with its wealth of bark and timber, there is such a heterogeneous mixture that it would take an architectural genius to sort them out. The bark hut is recognised as emblematic of the first period of settlement; it is walled with slabs, and roofed in the same way as the log-and-pug house; but nowadays many people begin on the land with a little capital, and start with a good house built of sawn timber and roofed with galvanised iron.

What may be taken as a typical settler's house, all considered, is that built of rough timber—with slab walls and shingle roof. There is usually a veranda in front and a skillion at the back. It is sometimes floored with slabs; often there is nothing but the bare earth, which requires frequent watering to keep it firm. Bags, kangaroo skins, and an occasional cowhide are thrown down here and there for mats. The gaps between the slabs are stuffed with bagging, or nailed over with strips of tin, and the walls inside covered with newspaper. The room is thus an open book, plentifully illustrated. It is not, however, a convenient book to read. One has to stand on a chair, or "the stool" to start at the top of the page, and go down on his hands and knees on the floor when he gets to the bottom.

The fireplace is one of the main features of the domicile. It would put to shame many of the rooms in city lodging-houses. When a couple of big logs have been put on the fire, there is room enough around them to accommodate a large family. It is a sitting-room in winter. The youngsters play with fire-sticks, see visions in the flames, and kill centipedes, scorpions, and other things that crawl out of hollow logs. The good housewife whitewashes the walls once a week with a solution of ashes.

Just outside the door is the water-cask, standing on a slide; another cask, or an iron tank, at the corner, under an assortment of homemade spouting, the roof being the catchment area; and by the step is a scraper, made of hoop-iron, supported by two stakes. Here, too, is a tin dish on a bench, or propped up on three stakes, with a sardine-tin nailed to the wall above it to hold soap. Here the family perform their ablutions. The towel, which serves for all hands, hangs on the inner side of the back-door. The bath is a hole in the creek—"down below where we dip our water." These little items are pointed out to you when you call, if you are staying for the night and look as if you hadn't had a wash for a week or so.

The furniture is of the sort that can take care of itself, scorns polish and varnish, and smiles serenely at rough usage. One notices that the table and cupboard legs stand in tins of water, or have bands of rabbit-skin round them to prevent ants from climbing. The family sit at table on stools, cases, blocks, oil-drums, and the sofa. A row of brightly-polished mustard, groats, and other tins invariably decorates the mantelshelf. They represent the family silver. The women often go about barefooted, and outside they wear the cast-off hats of the men.

Distributed about the place in the customary haphazard fashion are the sapling-yards and pens, gallows (with bullocks' heads and hoofs lying about), pig-sty, and hen-roost; and across a clear spot, where it is most likely to catch a horseman round the neck and half strangle him, if it doesn't drag him out of the saddle, is the inevitable clothes-line, stretched from tree to tree. Another ever-present item is the big stack of wood, with half an acre of chips around it, dumped down very often in front of the house.

The fences near the homestead show some variety of style. There is the dog-leg afore-mentioned; the chock-and-log, the log-and-stub, the brush, cockatoo, sapling-rail, and the zig-zag. All require a mass of timber and a lot of hard labour to construct; and they make a great blaze when a bush fire happens along.

The fowls hang about the place, following the shade, but never venture inside while there is any one about. They gather at the door at mealtimes, just behind the dogs, waiting for crumbs and scraps; and when it rains they range up on the veranda. They are an accidental breed—cunning, wiry, and self-reliant. They hunt for themselves, mostly living on grasshoppers and caterpillars. They lay anywhere in the grass and brush, consequently egg-hunting is a frequent diversion among the family. Stolen nests are hard to find in such places; the existence of many are not known until the hens appear with broods of chickens around them. Occasionally one rears her family in the scrub. These go wild, and later on the owner shoots them, as he does the scrub turkey and Wonga pigeon.

You will see the cart standing in one place, generally near the wood-heap—if somebody hasn't borrowed it; a plough in one corner of the cultivation patch, and a harrow in another, rusting and splintering in the sun. The maul and wedges are a mile away, where the last tree was split; also the cross-cut saw—jambed under the remains of the trunk. There is no particular place for anything. It is sufficient that they are on the premises—somewhere. It sometimes takes a week to find the axe, or the shovel, or the crowbar. "Where did we have it last?" is a common query when anything is wanted.

The bullock-dray is also a conspicuous detail in the picture of home. It stands near the yard. As a means of enjoying a drive this vehicle has pretty well gone out of fashion. One doesn't often see it going to the races with a load of Long Gully enthusiasts now as in former times. The carts which take the family to church on Sundays and wherever else it wants to go, with an over-tame horse in the shafts, are not much better. But there is less risk of dropping through the floor, or rolling out through the dilapidated railings. They are a trifle swifter, and much easier to steer; they look homely with the old man sitting near the front board, his legs dangling under the shaft, a part of a sapling in his hand to keep the horse awake, and his tobacco smoke keeping the flies and mosquitoes away from those near him; the mother, and as many olive branches as can find room, sitting in a row on a plank; the rest stowed behind, with the exception of the baby, who leans over the front and helps to drive.

The dogcart is the dream of the small settler, though many rise to the pre-eminence of a buggy or sulky. Any peregrinating bush worker may possess a "horse and trap" to travel about in; but the man who goes on the land is usually a long while getting past the dray-of-all-work. Once in a while you will see a family driving into a backblock town in an alleged spring cart, with the tyres wedged all round and lashed on with wire, the spokes rattling, the springs straightened; while one shaft has been broken off and a round stick bound on in its place. The harness is an object-lesson in emergency patchwork. There is some leather in it, curled and perished, likewise rope, hide, twine, hoop-iron, and dog-chains, besides a yard or two of blanket, some bagging, grass, and wool, which make up the collar.

Some curious turn-outs were those used by the early Richmond River farmers. They were mostly slides, though made in a variety of ways. The commonest was simply the fork of a tree, with a couple of pegs at each side. This is still much used for drawing water, the cask being stood on or laid across it, with a wet bag over it to keep the water from splashing out. One has to be careful in turning corners with it, as it always has an inclination to turn turtle, except when going straight ahead on level ground. This work is not infrequently left to the girls, many of whom can manage a horse or a pair of bullocks as well as their brothers. One of the prettiest girls I ever knew, the daughter of a well-to-do farmer, was an expert bullock-driver. A mounted constable married her afterwards while I was up-country.

The queerest habitation I have seen in the bush was built on four high stumps, which were sawn off eight feet from the ground. The owner, who was a "hatter," had to climb a ladder to get into it. The stumps had sprouted, and almost covered the bark roof with greenery. He said he built it so that he could see when the cockatoos were on his corn, and also to get away from snakes. This was near Tomki, on the Richmond River.

In and around Broken Hill many people live in houses built on wheels, and it is common to see cottages travelling about, leaving gaps in one street and filling vacancies in another. Removing in the Silver City means taking the house with you. They are sometimes drawn up to the auction-mart and sold. I saw only one selector in a habitation of this kind. He had been a travelling saddler and cobbler, and when he selected he simply drew his saddle and harness shop into position and settled down.

In the north-west of New South Wales the dug-out is common, only the low roof showing above ground. It is cool in summer and warm in winter, besides being free from flies. A fossicker and gardener lived for years in one of these in Mount Browne district. One night, during a heavy storm, a dam alongside burst, and the inrush of water washed him out of his bunk. He escaped through the roof, and spent the night watching the overflow to see that nothing got away. It took him two days to pump his house out, then he had to leave the roof off for a week to let it dry. To dive below like a wombat was his ideal of comfort. But most people look upon the dug-out with horror. As one remarked, "Let's keep on top while we can kick; we'll be underground long enough."