It was a proud moment for the Daily Telegraph Polar expedition when it bought all the eggs in Jindabyne.
The whole six of them.
The hens had staged a stand-up strike. The butcher here is a butcheress, and wields a classy cleaver.
A traffic cop in this town would have to bring his knitting with him if he wanted to keep awake.
There is a small, round, silent cop in the main street, but nobody seems to know why.
I have met the man from Snowy River.
He wears two pairs of trousers, drinks rum, and doesn’t like food with his meals.
He was a great disappointment to me.
He Went Red
Poor Wep, my caravan comrade, has decided to paint something.
None of the scenery around here seems to suit him.
I tried all kinds of scenery on him, but I’m afraid that the Main Roads Board will have to make a few alterations in the general contour of the country before Wep is satisfied.
Another thing is that he just made out his expense account and I had to post it for him.
He must have a conscience, because every time he approached the post office he went red in the face and became boyishly embarrassed, the burglar.
Having no craven inhibitions, I posted it for him.
When I get the courage I will send in my own expense account.
Whip Music
The wee snowflakes have started flickering down.
I’ll tell you something.
Have you ever heard a bullock driver singing “Drifting and Dreaming”?
And accompanying himself with a 20-foot whip?
I have, and you needn’t lie awake worrying about it.
The longer I sojourn in our country districts the more gullible I become.
I am convinced now that the only reason why the man from the bush bought the sundial from the Sydney Botanic Gardens was because he needed a sundial, and it looked like a bargain.
And anyhow, he borrowed the purchase price from the con. man who sold it to him.
That is why, when the local doctor points out to me the very tree where the terror of the ranges was hanged by the infuriated trooper, I just say: –
“Really?”
“Really?”
I believe there was a time when you could sell a farmer an egg-beater and assure him he could get 2BL on it.
Now I, the City Shrewdy, have been loaded with four fox skins – with the bullet holes carefully plugged up and brushed over – at a guinea a skin.
Local Champion
I have a suggestion for the Chief of Police.
Have the Consorting Act repealed and let the city shrewd heads loose in the country.
If they don’t come and give themselves up voluntarily, it will be because they are too ashamed.
But I will tell you something.
I am the best snooker, draughts, domino, and billiards player in the Monaro district.
I am also the best fighting man for miles around.
I am keeping this to myself, however.
Jealousy may rear its ugly head.
Wanted To Sell
This pearl of wisdom I pass on to any adventurous young man who thinks of packing his manicure set and leaving Darlinghurst for life:
Don’t try to give away a 2/6 fountain-pen as a token of goodwill. You will immediately become suspect.
Charge 45/ for it.
Accept 6/ as a deposit, spend 1/ of it in shouting the purchaser, and then go somewhere else.
I have this from a man who is now touring the country on his way to Victoria.
He has his own car.
And, may the saints forgive me, I bought a fourpenny self-propelling pencil from him for 3/6 before he left town. I have some delightful fox skins I wish to dispose of, as I am leaving the country.
No offer sneered at.
I wish I was back in Darlinghurst, where you know what to expect.
