The ‘Dolly Pot’ column which was started in the Western Mail newspaper between 1936-1942 was initiated by Cyril Longmore and later taken over by Malcolm Uren. The column started out to collect the reminiscences of the pioneer prospectors and was remarkedly successful. Dolly Pot remains the most significant source of information on the Westralian goldfields pioneers. It is the voice of the men who made the country. They wrote of sadness, of gladness, of humour, and hardship in a way that only experience can.
I personally came across these articles in the two books published by Hesperian press in the 1990s, long before the articles became readily available through TROVE. These two volumes are full of stories, photographs, and poetry that will delight any reader. Both books are available through Hesperian Press and will be enjoyed by all who love a good story.
Each week we will be having a story from this wonderful collection, some from the books and others from TROVE. I hope that you will enjoy them as much as I do.
The Spirit of the Fields – Western Mail 31 December 1936, page 13
One summer afternoon in 1910 a sorrowful-looking turnout came down Hack Street, Sandstone, and pulled up in the scrub on the Northern side. It consisted of a very rickety spring cart, the wheels of which were tried up with chaff bags and fencing wire. It was drawn by a horse so poor that the wonder is he stood up to the strain. The harness, with the exception of the collar, which was good, was mostly green hide and rope.
In the cart was a woman of about 35 years of age with three children ranging from one to seven years. She sat on a box and the children sat on some old rugs. On the opposite side of the cart was a bundle rolled up in a rug. The husband! He had died that morning about six miles out from Sandstone. The only food they had was about half a tin of condensed milk, the remains of some supply given to them at Maninga Marley.
Hack Street, Sandstone 1913
The woman tied the horse to a tree, left the two elder children under the cart, and, with the younger one, made her way to the police office, where she told her tale. For the past ten months, they had been on the road from the eastern fields. Her husband was a very sickly man when they started and could do no work, but he thought if he got near the western coast where he could get sea air and fish he might get better.
The woman did the battling on the way. The husband looked after the children, while the woman did whatever jobs came her way, washing, scrubbing, and odd jobs around hotels and boarding houses. By this means she earned enough to carry them from place to place. It was seldom she had cash to spare for horse feed and the animal had to do the best he could on what he could pick up.
When camping along the road the horse was hobbled out and the woman hunted him in the morning. He was so poor that travelling was slow. A few miles a day. Teamsters and travellers, seeing the woman’s plight, gave her what food they could spare. As the months went by matters became worse. She was out of range of any work; the husband was getting weaker and the children and she were not only poorly clothed but often nearly starved.
In this state, she reached Maninga Marley, about 20 miles east of Sandstone, where she got her last helping. It took five days to do the journey to Sandstone, where she hoped to get her husband into hospital. He died early on the morning of the fourth day, and she took until late in the afternoon to complete the journey. Immediately after she told her story there was a transformation scene. Arrangements were made to have the dead husband taken to the morgue. The horse and cart were taken to the police yard where the horse for once could put his nose into a manger well filled with plenty of good forage.
The woman and her little ones were taken in at the Roscommon Hotel by John McManaway, who provided them with the best of everything-bed, bath, and food in abundance. For once the kiddies slept in a beautifully clean bed and the hunger was gone. The woman had scarce a stitch to wear, but the deficiency was soon made good by the womenfolk of the hotel. John McManaway himself saw to it that ample new clothes were sent from the store for the use of the children. The news soon spread. Subscription lists were filled as soon as opened. Part of the proceeds was used for burial expenses and the balance set aside for the family.
McManaways Hotel, Sandstone
The horse and cart – the most pitiful turnout ever seen in that part were put up by auction by “Spud” Murphy. It was not worth five shillings. Yet bidding was spirited and it brought £12. The purchaser would not take it. “Put it up again” was his instruction. It fetched a tenner. The second man had no use for lt, so he presented it to an old fossicker who thought he might “build up a bit of a horse on the old frame.” He might. He had his work cut out with the cart, though.
The woman originally came from Ballarat and wished to return there. The nippers were “Gropers.” Rail tickets were procured, and the day following their arrival in Sandstone the family left by train for the coast in the first stage of the journey to the mother’s hometown, amazed no doubt by the overwhelming kindness of total strangers.
It’s a way the ‘goldfielders’ have. – SUTER ABIS, Perth.
Moya Sharp
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