Australian Town and Country Journal at KellyGang 22/6/1872 (3)
Evident and beautiful indications of design were manifest throughout the whole of the bower; and also in the decorations formed by these birds, particularly in the manner in which the stones were placed within the bower, apparently to keep the grasses with which they were lined fixed firmly in their places. These stones diverged from the mouth of the avenue on each side, so as to form little paths for the birds to run. An immense collection of decorative materials, bones, shells, &c, were placed in a heap before the entrance of the avenue; this arrangement being the same at both ends. As the bower-birds feed exclusively upon seeds and fruits, the shells and bones could not have been collected for any other purpose than ornament; beside, it is only those that have been bleached perfectly white in the sun, or such as have been roasted by the natives, and by this means whitened that attract their attention. The collection, and transportation of these heavy bones, &c, must be a task of great labour and difficulty. There were about a dozen bower-birds at this rendezvous, running and playing about.
Leaving Mooloka, Mr Patterson kindly accompanied me for several miles up the Billabong. About three miles from the station we came to Conargo (the aboriginal name is Gooriara (meaning "Hopping or Kangaroo Ground")) twenty-two miles from Deniliquin. Conargo is a small village, and has three hotels, and a store and post-office, both the latter being carried on by Henry Levy and Co. There is one respectable hotel at Conargo, kept by Mr Ross. Almost adjoining the village is the station and residence of Mr F Parker, and a few miles beyond, Mr Robert Patterson's. Neither of these gentlemen were at home, so a description of their station must be deferred till a future time.
When half-way across a plain I bid adieu to Mr Patterson, and continued the journey alone. For twelve weary miles across the plains the country was uninteresting. It was evening when I got to a pine forest, in which was Currabungannung , the station of Mr Blackwood . I was most hospitably entertained there, and in the morning I had an early start. Eight miles from Mr Blackwood's I came to Coree station, Wilson Brothers', and the remaining twelve miles to Jerilderie was ridden over in the afternoon.
The track lay across a sandy desert or plain, and the day was blazing hot. My guide from Coree was a huge black-boy called Jacob, whose fatness seemed to make him too lazy to speak, or give information. Under these circumstances I could echo the words in the following poem:-
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the present, I turn to the past;
And the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And the shadows of things that have long since fled,
Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead –
Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon –
Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's noon –
Attachments by fate or by falsehood reft –
Companions or early days lost or left –
And my Native Land ! whose magical name
Thrills through my heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood - the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time,
When the feelings were young and the world was new,
Like the fresh bowers of Paradise op'ning to view !
All-all now forsaken, forgotten, or gone;
And I, a lone exile remembered of none,
My high aims abandoned, and good acts undone –
Aweary of all that is under the sun;
With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan
I fly to the desert afar from man.
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent bush-boy alone by my side,
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife;
The proud man's scorn and the baseman's fear;
And the scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear;
And malice and meanness mid falsehood and folly,
Dispose mo to musing, and dark melancholy,
When my bosom is full and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the sufferer's sigh –
Oh, then ! there is freedom, and joy, and pride.
Afar in the desert alone to ride.
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