Man From Snowy A Rum Chap
By L. W. LOWER
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.
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.
You haven’t missed anything.
Well, we must be getting along.