Grimm Tale of Man IN Snowy River
By L. W. LOWER
I, myself, personally, alone, and unaided, have crossed the Snowy River on foot in my downy underpants.
This, so far as I know, has never been done before.
As for me, it will not be done again within living memory.
Asked by an interested bystander why I did this, I told him in my simple, forthright way that I wanted to see what was on the other side.
This seemed pretty weird to him.
Halfway across I became bunkered in the rapids, but the indomitable Lower spirit triumphed, and nature took a dirty slap to the face.
Innumerable turkeys roam around our caravan.
I missed eight with various-sized rocks, and had just drawn a fine sight on the ninth, with every chance of bringing him down, when a man in dirty khaki trousers came and said: “Waddger thinkyer trianterdo?”
It seems that they were his turkeys.
“I was just teaching your turkeys how to duck,” I replied.
I thought that was rather bright, considering. He didn’t.
My artist companion, Wep, is becoming more tiring every hour.
Today he was squinting at a little church built on the top of a bare rock-strewn hill.
He walked me up and down for miles saying, “It looks better from here, don’t you think. Do you think I’d get the light better from over there?”
I said that it would probably look swell from the verandah of Straw Weston’s pub.
He became temperamental about it, and said I had no eye for beauty, no sense of balance and proportion, and no soul.
I got into my huff and walked off.
I beat him to the hotel by only four minutes.