Western Mail 29 September 1938, page 11
OVER THE PLATES
One Day in Early Kanowna.
A couple of young Victorians blew into camp one morning with a spring cart loaded with fresh vegetables, no more than a week old at least. Every man on the field was troubled with ‘Barcoo Rot‘, so the half-withered green food received a cordial welcome, and the whole consignment was quickly bought up. Prices were 2/6d for a cabbage, 2/6d per pound for onions, and so on. Nothing was under 2/6d per pound, but no one grumbled at the extortion, as vegetable food of any kind was badly wanted. In fact, the enterprising young merchants had such a pleasing way, that they won the hearts of all at once.
It happened that a camp concert had been arranged for that same evening, and, when it became known that the young strangers had been connected with a popular comic opera company back east and that they had consented to sing at our beano, our hopes for a pleasant evening ran very high. It would certainly be a change from the old “Come all ye’s” we usually got.
Stimulated with an enjoyable evening meal of real vegetables, the whole camp gathered for the occasion in front of Paisley’s store. The weather was clear and cool, and a bonfire had been built to shed light and warmth, and, close to hand, was a huge pile of wood that had been supplied by willing hands.
Early Kanowna (White Feather) 1895 – Photo SLWA
Mr Bissenberger, chairman of our progress committee, opened proceedings in his hearty, bland way, and announced the items. There was no musical accompaniment, so each performer had to struggle along as best he could. A few regulars started off, and individually wrestled with their selected old chestnuts, some in time and others out, but all were lustily encored as a matter of good fellowship. I sang a couple of rollicking sea songs. I started a bit too high and got the rollick a bit wobbly, but the crowd cheered to the echo, to encourage my acrobatic attempts to reach the top notes. Tom Doyle had no more voice than a frog and did not sing, but his interjected absurdities and lively witticisms always created a laugh. We were certainly a happy crowd, and readily forgave each other’s shortcomings.
The star turn happened when the young visitors stood up, their voices were a treat to hear. They were trained singers, and every note came beautiful and clear with all the expression that a true artist knows how to put into his work. They sang old favourites in solo and duet, such songs as “Sweet Genevieve,” “In the Gloaming,” etc., and they rendered each item in such splendid style that the audience was absolutely carried away.
They applauded until the surrounding bush echoed again and again.
After having responded time after time to encores, they retired for a spell behind their spring cart. Shortly after, they were noticed moving among the crowd, each with a bottle in one hand and a tin pannikin in the other, serving drinks around. They reached my mate and me and handed us a pannikin containing some liquid. I took a gulp, felt the fiery stuff scorch my palate, and my pulse gave a kick. They whispered, as they went, “This one is on us in good fellowship. If any man wants more, we’ve got a limited quantity which we will dispense at one bob per tot.” Billy, my mate, always took a paternal interest in me. He took my arm.
“Come along now, Jack,” he said, “it’s time we got back to camp,” and he led me away.
Early the next morning I visited the scene of the concert. It looked like a recent battlefield. Men were lying about like corpses, still unconscious from the vile liquid. A few were sitting up, bewildered faces were flushed, many of them bruised and blood smeared. Empty whisky bottles strewed the ground, silent witnesses of the wild orgy that had passed. Dave Smith, the condenser man, always a very temperate fellow, was not in his tent, so I called aloud for him. To my surprise, he put his head from out of an empty 200-gallon tank in answer and spoke while rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Crazy Drunk – Photo SLWA
“Mercy John, that was an awful drunken time we had last night. Every man was as drunk as a fiddler’s besom, an’ talk o’ fighting! Ah never saw the like o’ it. Ah had tae tak’ shelter in this tank, or I’d a’ bin slaughtered like a sheep.”
That was the only occasion when Kanowna departed from sobriety before the hotels were built. Our young visitors were never seen again.
John Meiklejohn, Nedlands.
Moya Sharp
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