The Old Shanty

Frank Pryke, Morobe goldfield pioneer, writes cheerily from Brisbane,, where he recently went to say “au revoir” to Les. Joubert and George Arnold, who have returned to New Guinea.

“George,” writes Mr. Pryke, “was a pretty sick man; but a letter from Les., a few days ago, tells me that our friend is much better. They are back on Koranga Creek.”

Mr. Pryke sends along another poem—he is a tireless writer —and it is printed below. It will have its own message for “the old hands”; but the uninitiated may as well know that the “shanty” was on the Tiveri, in the early days of the Lake kamu rush; that C. Lumley, now in the Trobriands, was manager, and Whitten Bros., owners; and that it was the custom there, when the manager wanted to retire, to place so many bottles on the counter, and divide the cost among all present.

What was left, in the morning, was credited, in .strict proportion, to the customers’ accounts. Big drinkers and small drinkers, they all paid the same, and never argued. Someone stiid to an old fossicker who was not drinking: “This arrange ment isn’t much good to you!” “Oh, that s all right,” he answered; “I’ll feel much better than you in the morning.” Mr. Lumley’s cheeses were notorious. He sent them up and down the river, in the “Bulldog’s” enginerocm, to ripen them; “and,” says Frank Pryke, “they could nearly take a walk on their own!”

Not a single stick is standing— For ’tis twenty years, or more, Since at Tiveri Landing You kept that trading store.

The miners had, for many weeks, Been making for the field — When Ironstone and Reeky creeks Both gave a decent yield.

And men will sail across the main, Should they be young or old — A mighty hard thing to explain Is this strange lure of gold. ’Twas khaki pants, and flannels then; Our clothes were rough and scanty— But days and nights were happy, when You kept that store and shanty.

I still think of that cheese you kept, And seem to smell it still; Remember that you nearly wept When I bowled it down the hill!

The “Bulldog’s” navigators, Arrived the following week And told of alligators Lying dead along the creek!

Of course you had to skite a bit About our shooting skill.

I don’t believe we’d got a hit, Or made one single kill.

You may doubt it if you please But I believe it’s true — Those old crocks had smelt your cheese, And met their Waterloo!

At night we round the shanty sat And sang some ancient rune, With husky voices, mostly flat, And sadly out of tune.

Then Ned the Welshman used to sing— His voice both loud and shrill— How Harlech’s men went marching, Or “The Moon Behind the Hill.”

In those old days we used to boast We always played the game— It mattered not who drank the most We’d always pay the same- Those gcod old mates great-hearted, We may never see them more.

The good days have departed.

With The Shanty and The Store.

Frank Pryke.

Mr. R. F. Finder, of the Audit Depart ment of the High Commission for the Western Pacific, was a passenger from Sydney for Tulagi, Solomon Islands, by the Malaita on August 26.