Off to School
New South Wales

*There’s a little house a-peeping o’er the swaying and the sweeping
Of the wheat that nods and ripples as the breezes skim its top;
And the days of pioneering in the ringing and the clearing
See the first-born of their labours in the house behind the crop.

There the fallow land is showing where the box and pine were growing,
And a sweet hope gilds the future with the colour of the grain;
Gentle visions softly tripping in the ploughing and the stripping,
While the kookaburras chorus once again.*

John O’Brien. Around the Boree Log and Other Verses, Angus & Robertson, Sydney, 1921

*To the mothers who’ve raised with care so true,
Guiding their sons with a love that’s new,
In the heart of the bush and the city’s hum,
Their wisdom shines like the morning sun.

To the wives who stand by through storm and shine,
Their laughter and grace, a love so fine,
In the land of the kangaroo and star-filled night,
They’re the anchor in every fight.

To the daughters who dream with a future bright,
With courage and hope in their eyes alight,
They’re the pride of the outback, the city’s cheer,
A future shaped by love held dear.

In the rugged hills and the ocean’s roar,
Australian men cherish and adore,
Their mothers, wives, and daughters so dear,
In a bond that’s true, in a land we revere.*

William Chaffey Memorial Statue,
Mildura, Victoria

Chaffey’s years in Mildura as Mayor, Pioneer irrigator and man driven to the development of the export of dried fruits to the United Kingdom found great favor, regard and respect from the community. He was known commonly as “The Boss” and “The man who saw it through”. He was known to be easily approachable, keen to help fellow farmers and irrigators with advice and support.

In his 1889 obituary one of his fellow irrigators and member of the Irrigation commission, Mr S. McIntosh described Chaffey as “One of the whitest men who ever lived.”

Sir Francis Forbes
NSW Supreme Court Justice 1823-1837

Oh, that bark hut! Never shall I forget the first day when I, a slim and somewhat effeminate youth, with London smoke not yet cleared from my throat, beheld its dilapidated walls. “You will sleep here,” said Jack, pointing to a skillion which seemed to have been used as a sheep-pen, so marked was the “spoor” of those beasts. “With all my heart,” said I, as that organ sank within me—down, down, down, until I could feel it palpitating in the very tips of my riding-boots. But I did not regret my acquiescence. How many nights in that humble shelter have I listened to the skirr of the wild cats, and watched the one bright star that pertinaciously peeped through the chinks of the bark sheets. How many nights have I lighted my lonely pipe, and wrestled alone with my own particular angel, even as Jacob wrestled at Pennel. Happy Jacob! would I owned thy cunning of wrist and elbow. How many nights have I trimmed the reed in the pannikin of tallow, and read the half-dozen books I possessed until I could read no more. How many nights have I slept the unutterably sweet slumber of virtuous weariness, until my Jack, bursting in with clanking spurs, would rouse me with his “All aboard!” Aye, old skillion, I have had some happy hours in thee; so peace to thy ashes, for, sooth to say, thou art now but fit for burning.

It is proper to boast of the Australian summer. Those who have lived in tents, camped by rocky waterholes, kept dew-sprinkled watch beneath the yellow moon, and ridden through fiery noons hard upon the tails of the head-long herd, can with justice boast of the wild intoxication of that burning ether. I have known it, I! Not the draught which the great spirit gave to eager Faust maddens so gloriously. Australian summer, dost thou say? I am with thee. With open shirt ballooned behind thee, with streaming hair and bloody spurs, urge, urge the straining steed across the level plain! No tree mars the prospect of immensity. In front, the flying emu, and behind—naught but the whistling air! The grey grass spins, the grey plain reels, the cloudless sky glows molten brass above. It comes—the hot wind of the desert! Bitter—fierce from the sand—hills of the scorching north, it sweeps upon thee! Ride! Ride!

Marcus Clarke
Learning “Colonial Experience”
1896

*"Australia has rightly been named the Land of the Dawning. Wrapped in the midst of early morning her history looms vague and gigantic.

The lonely horseman, riding between the moonlight and the day, sees vast shadows creeping across the shelterless and silent plains, hears strange noises in the primeval forests, where flourishes a vegetation long dead in other lands, and feels, despite his fortune, that the trim utilitarian civilisation which bred him shrinks into insignificance beside the contemptuous grandeur of forest and ranges coeval with an age in which European scientists have cradled his own race.

There is a poem in every form of tree or flower, but the poetry which lives in the trees and flowers of Australia, differs from those of other countries.

Europe is the home of knightly song, of bright deeds—and clear morning thought. Asia sinks beneath the weighty recollections of her past magnificence, as the Suttee sinks jewel-burdened upon the corpse of dread grandeur, destructive even in its death. America swiftly hurries on her way, rapid, glittering, insatiable even as one of her own giant waterfalls.

From the jungles of Africa, and the creeper-tangled groves of the Islands of the South, arise, from the glowing hearts of a thousand flowers, heavy and intoxicating odours, the Upas-poison, which dwells in barbaric sensuality.

In Australia alone is to be found the Grotesque, the Weird, the strange scribblings of Nature learning how to write. Some see no beauty in our trees without shade, our flowers without perfume, our birds who cannot fly, and our beasts who have not yet learned to walk on all fours. But the dweller in the wilderness acknowledges the subtle charm of this fantastic land of monstrosities. He becomes familiar with the beauty of loneliness. Whispered to by the myriad tongues of the wilderness, he learns the language of the barren and the uncouth, and can read the hieroglyphs of haggard gum-trees, blown into odd shapes distorted with fierce hot winds, or cramped with cold nights, when the Southern Cross freezes in a cloudless sky of icy blue.

The phantasmagoria of that wild dreamland termed the Bush interprets itself, and the Poet of our desolation begins to comprehend why free Esau loved his heritage of desert sand, better than all the bountiful richness of Egypt."*

Marcus Clarke
Australian Tales
1896

"Bob's catch" Mervyn Bishop, 1974 Shoalhaven Heads, NSW