WE ARE TREATED TOO MUCH LIKE HALF WITS BY THE CHURCHES.

We refuse to believe that we are the mental deficients most Church Officers treat us as. What is wrong with the Christian religion of today (circa the 1930s) is that Christians are an ill-organised crowd wandering spiritually starved and chilled in an apparently impenetrable ghostly mist?

We know not where we came from, nor to where or what we’re aiming, and our leaders are certainly as befogged as we are. It was never the case before and it should not be the case now. Once upon a time, Christianity was a live force in the world. It’s units perfectly disciplined soldiers led by magnificent generals. For centuries the Christian religion swept on it’s conquering way and those who were its enemies were crushed into nothingness.

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Pope Pius XI

Christianity has not exhausted its power but today it is hard gripped by Bolshevistic influences and its officers are as helpless as it’s rank and file. Modern developments have paralysed the Staff responsible for guiding the Christian Army into positions favourable to renewing the offensive against paganism.

BolshevikBoris Kustodiev, 1920

Church leaders are in a hopeless position as regards modern weapons for smashing modern defences of pagans. China cannot fight Japan with bows and arrows nor can Christianity win victories with childish promises and ghostly threats.

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Modern reason revolts as much at pictures of halo crowned saints playing golden harps as at those of tailed and horned devils uniformed in scarlet, thrusting people we know into wickedly dancing flames.

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No normal man who uses his mental powers denies the possibility of the existence of spiritual powers or that he himself is apparently a being in which a spiritual personality inhabits an animal body. It is only logical to presume that man was either created with or in the course of his evolution given his dual personality for some specific purpose by the being who rules the Universe.

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There appear to be logical grounds for believing that the ruling power was and is in conflict with some other influence in the spiritual world. Consideration of the subject immediately results in the realisation that we are creations of a spiritual elevating power who is actively opposed by one of a debasing nature.

Man is the Child of Good who is wrestling in a life and death fight with evil. Man was therefore created to help Good. We call Good, God the Father and enlist in our Father’s army. Throughout our human life, we are recruits, cadets, soldiers in training. When considered to be fit for use we will leave the world, our depot, to proceed on active service.

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So far we are on plausible grounds but what about the snatching away from life of young children, of life in all stages of preparation? Surely they are victories of enemy agents due entirely to our slow realisation of what our duties are, of the bad generalship of our leaders, and of our own grudging response to the rules and regulations of the Army in which we have enlisted. These are all undoubtedly owing to the idiotic system by which Christians of the Twentieth century are trained on methods found satisfactory to the First.

Jesus Christ a being of the power we call God came down to earth nearly 2000 years ago to reorganize the Army of God,  to rearm it with modern weapons and revise its archaic code of rule and regulation. Church officers killed him then. Today they’d put him away in some other form if possible. God could only be recognised, be accepted, by an army so trained to his methods and personality that his presence in the world could not remain undetected.

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To train humanity to recognise God, to fear him and to reverence him, it is vital to teach Man that he is a being under a modern spiritual military training, a recruit to the noble profession of Arms. That he or she is not a miserable sinner existing only through the infinite compassion of God but a very proper decent lad or lass who will revel in a spiritual army life once he or she understands the Whys and Wherefores of spiritual discipline “God so loved the world that He gave His only Begotten Son to the end that man be saved.”

A soldier attends parades properly dressed, clean and smart in appearance. Absence from the parade, slovenliness on parade, improper attitudes are offences against army rules and regulations providing for the maintenance of discipline.

As soldiers of God, we commit an offence by being absent from Church, by praying in improper attitudes, by parading before our Commander-in-Chief in fatigue or undress uniform. 

Our fathers understood this perfectly. We, so near the time of the Great War, so well organised in Defence Force systems, sporting organisations, Guides, Scouts, V.A.D.s and the like, surely we do not need to be told with what impatience God must regard the parades and drills by the present rabble known as the Christian army.

Prayer, fasting, abstinence, Good works, make up the spiritual drill necessary to turn us into soldiers. In ordinary armies half-hearted drilling is punishable and so it is in the Roman Catholic corps of that of God. But even here we find that Catholic officers, the priests, are afraid to enforce more than nominal penalties. An order to an ordinary penitent nowadays to walk ten miles with peas in his or her shoes would meet with a bitter and sulky reception if not with desertion from the unit.

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Whose fault is it? The fault of those who refused to treat the men and women of today as reasoning beings and train them properly. Of those who strive to officer educated men and women as though they were children. Who is so afraid of desertion and so distrustful of their rank and file that they prefer training for the parade ground rather than the battlefield.

Small forces of badly trained soldiers accompanied by hordes of derisive spectators never won a great war. Big offences have never been successful without cadres of well-trained soldiers in good heart and spirit. To train such for God’s army it is little use eternally impressing men in the training depot with their natural rottenness, with their  dependence on God’s charity but to imbue them with the knowledge that they are being honoured by their selection for training to help in God’s offensive action against Evil in the world beyond the mists.

B.M.L.
Valley Farm
Lynwood Estate
P.O.Brooklyn
Pretoria

PUBLIC SCHOOL BOYS AS AFRICAN SALESMEN

Every South African newspaper contains advertisements for travelling representatives and with the cry of Buy British a field of unlimited possibility is open to the English Public School Boy and well educated and adventurous Britons of both sexes.

Britishers abroad are full of British sentiment – a travelling representative of an agricultural machinery firm will often do a large amount of business simply because he was at Christchurch. He will meet hundreds of Public School fellows in a country like Rhodesia or Kenya and an evening spent laughing over Bluecoat scraps with those who jeered at their uniform might nett him a tractor sale.

British-built Vickers tractors in the early 1920s

British-built Vickers tractors in the early 1920s were equipped with a sunshade
for export to Australia

His host will probably introduce him to Rugby men – to Winchester chaps – to a stray from Eton or Harrow – and all will give him orders.

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Unlike the American trained salesman, he will endeavour to arouse clannish instincts rather than make direct appeals to business considerations. He will feel that he is a member of the British Diplomatic Corps and that his mission is to show the world that British workmanship is worth more than glaring advertisements – that a few pounds more or less in buying a car or tractor don’t matter when such a purchase is a help to Blighty.

Let us take direct instances. I myself found that service with the 9th Division gave me a standing with every Scotsman in the district I was working for an agricultural implement firm. My lines were British implements of undoubted excellence, but travellers far more experienced than myself were busy selling American implements at cheaper rates than my firm could consider.

At one farm I was offered accommodation for the night but told that I hadn’t a chance of pushing the tractor my employers were handling. I left the subject of agricultural machinery and remarked that my hosts’ accents gave me a memory of South Uist. I wasn’t allowed to leave for two days. Sold a tractor, a windmill and some hundred feet of piping – was introduced to a dozen Highland folk and tipped as to their requirements.

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Comparing notes with a fellow traveller I found that he had secured orders amounting to thousands of pounds solely because he had met a man who like himself had been at the Merchant Taylor’s School.

Salesmanship and Journalism are kindred spirits. In both human appeal is irresistible and there are few unsophisticated folk left these days and a man knows that no trashy article can possibly survive the strain of competition.

Ten travellers may work a district with the same type of article – one will place all the orders he can deal with and nine will fail – why simply because the successful traveller is of the people with whom he is dealing.

By AN EX-COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER
21st October 1930
Valley Farm
P.O. Brooklyn
Pretoria
South Africa

LET’S DISCUSS COSMETICS SAYS A MAN

My typist, a girl in her early twenties, always looks fresh and pleasant. If asked if she used any ‘make-up’ I’d have answered ‘Not in your life!’.

Maybe she uses a little cream at nights and dabs a bit of powder on her nose but she’s a natural type brought up as one of a big family and she knows men hate paint and powder.

On asking her what she did use it came as a bit of a surprise to find that as part of her daily routine she used powder, lipstick, rouge, foundation cream, cleansing cream, witch hazel, hand cream, mascara, nail polish, polish remover, cuticle oil, shampoo, and body talc.

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Though she didn’t mention them I take it that she also uses soap, bath salts, toothpaste, some form of hair oil and probably a few other items. She told me too that she had powder puffs, tissues, emery boards, a nail file, an eyebrow plucker and nail scissors.

On visiting a barber’s shop and watching a dozen men being attended to I noted that besides shaving soap or cream, toothpaste, soap and brilliantine men liked face spray after being shaved, an application of alum or spirit to heal any scratch of the barber’s razor and took a powdering as a matter of course. Most men wanted a little oil on their hair. The barbers appeared anxious to persuade their customers that a little dandruff preparation, a hair restorer or some brilliantine was really necessary to take with them.

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Cosmetics have become as much a part of civilized life as clothes. Even women convicts are nowadays allowed to use a little ‘make-up’ and reports show that this privilege has resulted in a great improvement in morale with consequent better behaviour and more discipline.

We know that cosmetics have been used for thousands of years. The very word alcohol comes from the black antimony powder used by Eastern women in darkening their eyelashes and eyebrows. Probably most prehistoric chemistry was devoted to the search for beauty preparations and spirit, playing a big part, became confused with eyelash darkener.

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With the general use, cosmetic fortunes have been made, are being made and will be made in business. Unfortunately, the immense profits have brought plenty of unscrupulous people into the advertising, manufacturing and selling branches of the cosmetic industry.

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We know or should know that nowadays scents are made from coaltar derivatives more than from flowers.

Hairdye is not only from henna or sage but is from many synthetic substances.

Face powder can be manufactured from zinc oxide as well as from rice, chalk, orris root or talcum.

In hair oils and brilliantine lard, glycerine, beeswax, coconut, castor and olive oils as well as from petroleum jelly and paraffin whilst quite a lot of spirit is also used as is quinine.

Lipstick maybe mostly lard or other heavy fat coloured and perfumed.

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Investigations made under the United States Pure Food and Drug Act show that despite the provisions of the Act there is still quite a lot of harmful substances being used in cheap preparations. Salts of bismuth, of copper and of silver and even really poisonous spirits of lead are continually being found.

All of which proves the necessity of only using the products of world known firms who could never dare the risk of being brought before the Courts for use of harmful or noxious ingredients.

It is surprising how little use is made of the many cheap, easily got or made up materials always next to us. Oatmeal, buttermilk, fresh milk, eggs, Epsom Salts, bicarbonate of soda, lemons, Fullers Earth, glycerine, talcum powder, salicylic acid, lanoline and eau-de-cologne to mention a few.

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Fuller’s Earth

Lemons can and should play one of the most important parts of the toilet table and bathroom. There is no other dandruff remover as effective, it can be used in place of bath salts or in combination with them. Epsom Salts as bath salts and lemon juice is unequalled in cleaning the nails and preparing them for polish and cuticle treatment.

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Whatever preparation helps to improve the appearance of man or woman can be classified as cosmetic – that which aids to adorn. So oatmeal mixed into a paste with a little olive oil and a few drops of lemon juice makes a face and neck cleanser and food which is unbeatable.

Who has ever tried powdered charcoal as a mouthwash and most wonderful teeth cleaner?

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Still, it requires a strong mind to use it as one’s first impression is that the inside of the mouth and the tongue have been blackened permanently. Salt and Bicarbonate of soda, however, combine to form a very effective tooth powder and gargle.

Cosmetics, what they are! To what extent are they used? How do they influence the average person’s monthly budget? How many are employed in the industry? These and a host of other questions and ideas are suggested by the word.

A fascinating world of flower gardens, of laboratories, of factories, is conjured up. How many know that thousands of acres are planted to a species of geranium from which an oil is expressed to form the base of exquisite, very highly priced Parisian scents. How much lipstick will come from whale fat or groundnuts?

How many superlatives or poetry has been and will be conjured from the minds of advertisement writers?

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It is a fascinating subject well worth studying and knowing about.

OFFICE ROMANCE

After eight years adventuring in the bush and four years soldiering war disabilities forced me into a tobacco warehouse. Through the windows, I could see a patch of unspoilt bush and granite crag. It was just the friendliness, the homely feeling given by that bit of wild that kept my heart from wilting under the deadly monotony, the foreign atmosphere, the unliked occupation of tobacco grading. So often it is some girlish sunbeam in an office that holds the ex College athlete, the Rugby man, the fellow with personality to the dull routine of the ledger and cash book.

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Office romance is not necessarily office neglect. The clerk sees his dream girl in the typist and the typist feels the clerk needs her mothering, feels he would be the good companion down the long trail. He knows to support a wife he must get his nose to the grindstone, she knows that if both make themselves nearly indispensable her man’s position in life is more or less assured, that the memory of her devotion to his interests will always weigh favourably with her employer’s view of her husband.

Even calf love in an office tends to greater efficiency. The office boy deeply smitten by the winsomeness of his employer’s secretary becomes a very knight without reproach. That beauty is only skin deep is just as quickly realised in office companionship as in that of marriage.

Romance disappears very quickly if the atmosphere created by Beauty is unpleasant and the pretty typist whose first week in the office created a chaos of love feelings soon finds her sex appeal has vanished at the almost instant realisation that her inefficiency has brought more than ordinary burdens on her fellow workers.

“Phyllis is leaving to marry the boss and we won’t be sorry to lose her,” is often heard even from the male section of the office who have helped patch up her work – but “Ann is marrying young Jones at the end of the month and we’re awfully sorry to lose her still having a topping kid like Ann to look after will be the making of Jones” is even more often heard.

B.M.L.
Circa 1920s

Extra Lateral Rights

I am watching a video with a Year 10 class called Storm Surfers in it one of the big wave surfers comments on how finding never-before-surfed breaks is like prospecting for gold. 

A glance at a fissure in a cliff or even a wall – following it from the top it will probably run down more or less vertically. It may be almost a straight line – it may be only a surface split – may go halfway down or right through to the bottom. Gold reefs are the fissure veins.

The dip here is heading ever downward.

David Baird owned a gold mine in Southern Rhodesia – he also owned an eighteen-year-old daughter a fact which filled Eric Ferguson on the adjoining mine with all sorts of longings quite unconnected with gold mining.

Eunice Baird liked Eric which was not very surprising for he was tall and broad-shouldered, had blue eyes and was in his early thirties all factors which to lonely young females make an excellent base around which to weave romance.

Eric shaved every evening and bathed with the aid of a bucket – neither of which acts are looked upon as essentials by all men who live far away from civilisation. Eric also never wore a white tie with a dinner jacket though why he or anyone else wanted a dinner jacket at all frankly puzzled Eunice’s father.

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Mr Baird was also tall and broad-shouldered and had blue eyes but he was not in his early thirties. David Baird was in his early seventies and not the sort of man who needed a pension though he usually needed a shave and quite often a bath.

But though Mr Baird did not consider razors or baths to be essential in his life he did believe that life without the Baird Reef and Miss Baird would be a very miserable existence.

Mr Baird did not believe that the Almighty had been good to him with regard to either his mine or his daughter. He took all the credit for himself. As proof that God had nothing to do with giving him the Baird Reef, he pointed to the adjoining claims where Eric Ferguson and his father before him had worked for twenty years on a 9-inch reef.

He David Baird had worked for old Ferguson and studying the formation evolved a theory. In his spare time, Mr Baird had worked on his theory which was that the Mascot reef of Ferguson’s was only a minor fissure near a major one.

This theory resulted from studying the formation in which the Mascot reef lay. Much of the rock walls of the vein contained gold and numerous threads of rich ore ran into it. After long study of the surrounding country, Mr Baird pegged next to Mr Ferguson, dug many long cuttings and found a four-foot reef full of gold just outside his late employer’s boundary. So while old Ferguson and later his son ran a little stamp battery which yielded a living Mr Baird ran a ten-stamp mill which yielded a nett profit of £2000 per month.

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When nearing sixty Mr Baird married the daughter of a bankrupt Irish gentleman who had committed suicide – he thought farming was an easy way of making money and found it wasn’t. Mr Baird bought the farm together with a stock of solid old furniture and a good range of implements. He also erected a handsome granite cross over the resting place of Eunice’s grandparents for her grandmother had died of heartbreak – an example followed soon after Eunice’s birth by Mrs Baird. A Scottish nephew was called in to make the farm pay (and he succeeded). Mr Baird was anxious to keep both farm and mine in his family.

Mr Baird decided to marry Eunice to his nephew Colin but Colin wanted to marry a Bonnie Highland lass in the land of his Father’s. Eunice, though she liked Colin liked Eric more. However, all realised that what David Baird liked was that everybody connected with him would have to like as well.

John van Niekerk, a miner, scratched his head and gazed worriedly at a pile of broken rock next to his feet. Mr Baird on his hands and knees worked frantically with a tiny prospectors pick in the pool of light given by a red candle held by a half-naked black man.

“Don’t stand looking the hyphen fool you are van Niekerk” bellowed Mr Baird looking up to see whether his assistant had found a solution of a puzzle which was causing the aged blood to chill.

“She’s run dead into blue granite,” said the miner with conviction in his tone “That’s why she’s been pinching the last week.”

Blue granite (Credit: MS International)

Blue granite (Credit: MS International)

Mr Baird spat and resting from his labours filled an old black pipe and lit it.

“You cursed fool” he growled – “the Baird’s a true fissure vein it’s only an intrusion of granite that’s pushed the reef over – maybe cut it clean. We’ll find her in place below or maybe the fissure is diverted. We’ll pick her up again John – Don’t you think so Man?”

“Maybe Mr Baird maybe you’re right – there’s always strange things happening in mining.”

The old mine owner glared savagely through the candlelight “You bloody fool” he shouted, “there’s nothing strange about underground earth movement – don’t you know enough ’bout mining to know that when two rock formations are up against one another it’s only reasonable for there to be all kinds of breaks in the contact with the newer rock dovetailing into the rotting older formation.”

“That’s so Mr Baird! That’s so, but even fissures come to an end and when a reef runs into granite…”

His employer rose gripping his pick menacingly “See here van Niekerk the man that says that the Baird’s pinched in the granite will get his neck twisted. Got me?”

“Yes, Mr Baird.”

Alright! Shove on a double shift – sink and keep on sinking, also drive into the walls – the granite mebbe fifty foot thick mebbe ten – she may have pushed in a couple of hundred feet and mebbe only twenty – we’ll pick up the Baird if it costs me every damned farthing I’ve got.”

But as van Niekerk remarked, “Strange things happen in mining.”

Supposing one dark night you or I armed with a lantern walked along the edge of a cliff two thousand feet deep. If we came on a small crack and climbing into it tried to trace it to the very bottom of the cliff our chances of success would be small. A ledge might run across it and yet quite possibly the crack might continue below but then again it mightn’t.

The intrusive bar may have caused our crack to narrow almost to nothing but it could possibly have found a way around the obstruction or be behind it. Quite likely, however, the crack ends for good.

Mr Baird was in the position of such searches. He believed the fissure which contained his gold to be under the bar. But there was no proof to encourage Mr Baird’s optimism. For four hundred feet from the surface of the earth, a hole showed how nicely Mr Baird’s gold reef had behaved – on two sides of the hole a dull white streak stained with oxidised metals showed what a very nice reef Mr Baird possessed.

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Along the roof of many tunnels, the same milky band proved that the reef was a four-foot wide wedge which was like a white wedge that went into a solid mass of grey stone.

What Mr Baird disliked was the thought that all the wedge had been taken out of the material. For years he had broken the milky wedge out bit by bit working from its top until now it seemed suspicious there being none of it taken out – that a molten stream had forced through the middle of the wedge and cooled, melting away only a little of the middle. Perhaps it had broken the wedge and pushed the bottom half deeply into the material.

To be continued…

 

 

 

 

 

Skullduggery

Morag Mac Donald and Reginald Lumsden find an experienced prospector. 

True to his promise Le Roux brought Coralie’s adopted father Bill Higgins to the hotel the next morning.

A week’s careful supervision and the combined efforts of Coralie, Le Roux, a barber and an outfitter had succeeded in making the old prospector a presentable figure. Tall and gaunt, his impression on Morag was that of a typical pioneer. The broad-brimmed pinched in Stetson hat, the mahogany tanned hands, face and neck, the white combed beard and hair conveyed an atmosphere of the picturesque past which filled the girl with sympathy and romantic friendliness.

Bill Higgins was neither rogue nor actor. Too old for employment, too accustomed to the life of prospecting camps to accustom himself to a town environment he had sunk into disreputable old drunkard but throughout his chequered life he’d done the same whenever a lucky venture had given him funds for a spell in town.

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Old as he was Bill reckoned a few months back in the bush would set him up again and Le Roux had told him here was his chance and one might find him a mine over which he’d dreamed for many years.

Le Roux beyond, telling the prospector that the girl was a niece of his old partner and the youth of a friend of hers interested in the venture of seeking MacDonald’s mine, had not thought it necessary to prompt Higgins. Le Roux did not believe in his tools knowing too much.

“Let the old devil think I’ll find the money to open up the mine if it’s found” he chuckled to himself “and let the two innocents think they’ve found a real honest Old Timer to help them find it.”

Knowing the girl’s nature exceedingly well Le Roux shook his head when Morag lunching with him at the Grand informed him that she and Reg had decided to engage Old Higgins as their prospector and that the three were leaving the day after next.

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“He’s far too old and cranky to suit you Morag” Le Roux objected, “besides when she hears of it Mollie O’Connor will believe her worst suspicions confirmed. She’s a tongue and a good deal of influence has Mrs O’Connor and I certainly don’t want rumours spread about my deliberately setting a dastardly trap to catch two youngsters from the old country. Leaving out myself there’s Coralie to be considered. In a little one-horse town like this, a young girl dependant on secretarial work for a living can’t afford an influential lady telling people she’s a minx and worse.”

“How perfectly ridiculous” retorted Morag indignantly “Mollie isn’t like that at all. She doesn’t like you or Coralie I know and she has some strange ideas about your knowing all about the mine but Mollie O’Connor wouldn’t do a dirty action or say an unkind word about anybody. She’s spoken to Reg and I because she thinks it’s her duty to, but I couldn’t or wouldn’t believe it possible of poisoning other people about you or Coralie. Mollie O’Connor has been like a mother to Reg and I and Mr Le Roux! I couldn’t be a friend of anyone who insulted her.”

Le Roux’s teeth caught and gnawed his lower lip with vexation. It wasn’t often he made mistakes with girls he reflected but he’d certainly put his head in a hornet’s nest this time.

Too old a campaigner to show his annoyance Le Roux felt for his …

Climbing Taba Mhlope

From Romance and a Quest: Now and again glimpses had been caught as the car topped on one of the countless ridges which traversed the country but the realisation of the magnitude of her task came to Morag until Anderson stopping brought his arm round in a circular sweep.

“There’s Taba Bomvu Miss MacDonald – now somewhere on it or round it or about it, there’s an ancient fissure in the earth which has been filled with quartz. Thirty-five years ago old Mac O’ The Hills stumbled on a few white boulders pushed by earth movements out of the fissure. The boulders were rich in gold and he blasted a great hole into the hard rock contents of the fissure. Natives murdered him threw the body down the hole filled it in, removed all outcropping rock and made gardens on the site.

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During the years since then, the country’s gone back wild, big trees have grown up – now find the old mine. Where are you going to look, for what signs will you seek? It’d take you years to quarter the odd forty thousand acres of wild timber and bush and you might camp on top of the old mine and not see a sign of it.

Her chin resting in her cupped hands, elbows on the car’s side Morag stared at the hill, its slopes and the broken savage country about it. Ruarií whining softly crept against his mistress and the three men stole away.

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“Pretty brutal,” muttered Anderson “but it was the only way to convince her. Poor kid bit of a shock after off her dreams and seven thousand miles of travel.”

“She won’t chuck it,” said Mick.

“Well dash it all why should she?” asked Reggie wonderingly “We didn’t expect to come along and walk up to the blessed mine saying Hullo there.”

Anderson looked at Reg and raised his eyebrows, “Can’t you grasp the absolute futility of it Mr Lumsden? An experienced prospector studying the formation might gradually work to the likeliest spot for gold in the area. He’d stand chances of finding a dozen gold-bearing reefs all or any or none of which might prove good but it’s purely prospecting with everything that word in entails.

“Naturally” answered Reg “but that’s what we intend doing.”

Anderson laughed, “Come on you fellows no wonder the British won the war.”

Back at the car, they found Morag quite determined to carry on. “

“Isn’t it funny Mr Anderson, when you broke the facts to me I felt as though I’d fallen into the sea. I don’t quite know myself what I expected but now it all seems just what it should be and what has been behind the mists my thoughts have strayed in.”

“Let’s take a walk up the hill then,” suggested the miner and I’ll explain how to begin and whereabouts I’d start. It’s years since I went over the ground and I’ve learnt a lot about mining since.”

Toiling through long yellow grass often five or six feet high they reached a tiny plateau halfway up Taba Mhlope. Seating them Anderson explained his theories.

“Mac probably stumbled on the reef. First, we’ve got to consider the lower slopes of the hill as they were thirty-five years ago. Matabele Villages scattered about with gardens spread all over. Little of this time could have been about for there were too many natives – in fact, thirty odd years ago when I was here first as far as I can remember it was mostly cultivated land.”

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“Now Mac would have wondered about looking for quartz, and it being June or July most of the lands would be full of high maize and Kaffir corn. He’d hunt about ledges and islands of rock between lands most likely and that’s what you’ll do. Wherever you find quartz crush a bit and pan it then look for more – likely enough the Matabele carried away all quartz outcrop from the vicinity of the mine and scattered is about but they’re a lazy crowd. If you find bits of quartz carrying gold you’re likely enough somewhere near and the job is to visualise yourself as Matabele carrying and throwing away stones from and that’s the whole question.”

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“Now let’s go down and hunt a bit along the slopes – of course, the reef may be on the hill – maybe anywhere.”

Morag looked up at the wild cliffs far above. Uncle had been a shepherd and he was Highland. Wouldn’t he perhaps have climbed up there and maybe just accidentally come on the reef.”

Anderson scratched his head and looked with a touch of seriousness at the girl.

“There’s something in that” he admitted, “come to think of it he might have found it when looking for a leopard or lion. You’ll have to be careful about hunting. A place like that swarms with wild beasts. Wouldn’t be so risky after it was burnt out but you’re on a cattle ranch and God help anyone starting fires.

“Didn’t you prospect up there, Mr Anderson?” Morag asked.

“Me – no damn it all it never crossed my mind or anybody else’s I bet, but it isn’t likely anyway.  It’s not likely country for gold.”

Morag passed the next few hours in a dream. Try as she would the country around Taba Mhlope held no interest for her – hadn’t scores searched there and found nothing. Hadn’t even Mr Anderson admitted that probably no one had searched the cliffs. Yet wasn’t her Uncle’s very name prophetic Mac O’ The Hills, “Oh what a pity I promised to go to Mollie’s ranch.” Her thoughts were that the gold and the bones of Donald MacDonald are in the crags.

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Anderson seeing the girl’s absorption in the cliffs contented himself with striving to impress the salient points of prospecting on Reg. Mick listened with keen attention but his face wore a worried look.

“Anderson,” he remarked when the two were alone for a few minutes “For the Lord’s sake make it clear to them that those cliffs are full of leopards and snakes. The leopards or the chance of a lion will probably make them keener but snakes won’t. Tell them a few mamba yarns.”

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The miner did and on the way back Reginald’s expressive features blanched at some of the awful tales of snakes in general and the deadly black mamba in particular.

The Robertsons insisted on the party remaining overnight a proposal acceptable to all after a long day of motoring and tramping.

Mick whose horse had been brought on departed to fetch his cattle and after an interesting round of stables, byres and other ranch buildings the others sought baths and a change of garments, Ruarií finding friends apparently much to his liking amongst three silky haired red setters.

After a well-served dinner, Anderson brought the subject of conversation around to Taba Mhlope and the many attempts to find MacDonald’s mine. Robertson had been many years on the ranch and laughingly confessed that as a young cattleman he himself had wasted much of the Company’s time searching for the old shaft.

“There’s no doubt the claims are there” he stated emphatically “But to my mind, they’ll only be found by accident. A heavy rainy season might wash away ground and reveal the reef. Perhaps the plough might open up the site in one of our lands. The whole question rests as to whether the reef is on the hill itself or in the country surrounding it. On one side the country is schist and serpentine formation in which anything might be found, on three sides it’s granite were nobody would dream of prospecting.”

“There must be plenty of old Matabele about who know where the mine is.” Interrupted Mick who bathed, shaved and attired in civilised garments had joined them.

“Ah, but they won’t tell. I’ve had a few old fellows tell me yarns and actually show me the campsite of the regiment of Matabele who murdered Mac. After the Rebellion a Native Commissioner spent a week or two there making the Matabele dig up their lands and he even destroyed their huts in case one had been built over the mine – nothing has ever been found except one corner beacon plate and that was found close to Mapeta thirty miles from Taba Mhlope.”

“Ever climbed up to the top of the hill, Mr Robertson?” asked Mick casually, “looks pretty wild up there.”

“It’s worse than wild it’s absolutely hellish. The cliffs swarm with baboons, the gullies with wild pig and you can imagine it’s ideal breeding ground for lions and leopards. I’ve often wanted to have big drives up there but no native will climb into the head. Too many mambas and pythons over and beyond Carnioora. The Natives reckon it’s full of ghosts as well, but I reckon mambas are their real worry.”

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“Couldn’t you burn it out?” said Anderson.

“Aye, it’s been burnt out several times but I couldn’t get Natives to go up even then. I’ve climbed it with white men but beyond the game, we saw nothing though it was an eerie atmosphere and I was glad to get down. In fact, we all felt the same and kept in a bunch. Just went straight to the top, had a smoke and came down – marvellous view.

The conversation turned to cattle and the two older women began to discuss Mrs Robertson’s state of health which she believed would very likely necessitate a trip to England.

“Honestly, Mrs O’Connor, I thought at first that you had come for a preliminary survey of the ranch,” remarked Mrs Robertson. “My husband is seriously thinking of resigning as he is getting old for the work and I suppose Mr O’Connor would get the Ranch.”

“Oh but Mrs Robertson you didn’t think I’d ….” The older woman laughed.

“Please don’t worry Mrs O’Connor. I’m glad you’ve come for I’d be quite happy at the thought of you here.” bending Mrs Robertson dropped her voice.

“If Miss MacDonald remains on the ranch you must try and wangle Mr Osmond as stockman or Section Manager. One or two of our men would be all the better for a change and I’m sure Mr Osmond is very fond of the girl. She’s very sweet, isn’t she?”

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Romance and a Quest

End of last entry: But chaff was wasted on Morag at the mention of their goal being in sight.

The car had topped a rise and from it, the party looked down into an immensity of space broken by countless low hills and wooded basins. Slightly westward of a long curving range stood a great solitary hill crowned with white cliffs. Anderson brought the car to a standstill.

“Taba Mhlope – The White Mountain rather a decent view isn’t it?”

Morag spell-bound held her breath gazing into the fast extent of wooded country. “Oh, Mollie” she murmured as the car shot on ” I never thought – I never dreamed a land could be so immense, so lonely.”

“Dashed good shooting down there I should think.” came Reginald’s voice.

“Pretty nearly everything,” answered Mick “but the cattle are driving the game out. That’s our company’s ranch. They’ve got a hundred thousand acres and about ten thousand head of stock running on it. Not nearly as good cattle country as where we are Mrs O’Connor!”

“Not as good for cattleman,” teased his owner’s wife “only seventeen miles from the main camp to the railway station, Mick, none of the sections more than twenty miles from the main camp. Heavens what a life Dennis would lead with some of you mad boys. If we came here I could, I would insist on you all getting married.”

“Not a bad idea,” rejoined Mick, a note of deep sincerity in his voice and Morag felt the warm blood coursing tumultuously through her veins.

“Dashed uncivilised place for a bride to live in though'” declared Reg, “All right for a lark but dash it all one would soon start getting bored.  Wouldn’t she Morag?”

Mick glared venomously at Reggie the while he waited anxiously for Morag’s answer.

“It depends.” was the noncommittal reply but Mick’s heart leapt at the softness and shyness of her tone.

“Quite right Dear,” joined in Mollie O’Connor “Dennis and I and scores like us haven’t found it boring but pull up Jock here’s Bankwe Main Camp and I must tidy myself. Heavens I hope the Robertsons won’t think it strange my coming out. I’ll have to explain that I thought it a good opportunity to visit them. Jock, I think I’d better stay and you can pick me up on the way back. One never knows what weird yarns fly around these ranches.”

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Anderson grunted. The same thought had struck him. Headquarters staff would wonder quite a lot at a manager’s wife from a sister ranch flying out to look for gold mines on one of the company’s stations.

“Good idea, Mollie – Now Miss MacDonald you start your new life – Write out a notice addressed to the Manager Zambezi Pioneering Company’s Mapeti Ranch informing him that by virtue prospecting licence No. 01 you hereby give notice that you intend prospecting on the ground under his charge.”

Flushed with excitement Morag hunted for a fountain pen and writing pad whilst Mrs O’Connor attended her appearance and the men took Ruarií to stretch his legs. 

Ten minutes later the journey was resumed and in a short while after the party were being warmly welcomed by Mr Robertson, the tall grizzled ranch manager and his wife, a little-worn woman, whose appearance brought a pang of pity to the Hebridean girl’s heart.

“Come away in! Come away in!” cried Mrs Robertson cheerily.

“We’ve only stopped to drop Mrs O’Connor and serve you with notice that Miss McDonald and Mr Lumsden intend prospecting on the ranch. Osmond is bringing you a mob of cattle and is taking a run out with us whilst the stock are resting.”

“Five minutes and a swallow won’t hurt you, Anderson. Come along in. What are you bringing Osmond?”

“Five hundred Hereford, two-year-old heifers Mr Robertson.”

“And I suppose half a dozen new diseases” finished the ranchman his eyes twinkling.

“So Miss MacDonald’s a prospector – Lord Jock pity we didn’t have a few like her in the old days. Glad you’re not wearing shorts Miss MacDonald, dammit I like a girl to look like a girl don’t you Jock?”

Half an hour later amidst a chorus of laughing farewells the party minus Mrs O’Connor left, Morag’s ears still tingling with roars of laughter which is had greeted Anderson’s explanation of her quest.

“Mac’s Mine! Lord Miss MacDonald, I’ve had prospectors of all sorts around Taba Mhlope every year since I’ve been here. My own natives and cattlemen have ridden every inch of the country and if ever there was a mine the natives covered it up and the old needle in a haystack would be easier to find after all these years.”

An hour’s run through what seemed a gigantic park where red bodied white-headed cattle grazed in hundreds brought them to the foot of a huge hill. Now and again glimpses had been caught as the car topped on one of the countless ridges which traversed the country but the realisation of the magnitude of her task came to Morag until Anderson stopping brought his arm round in a circular sweep.

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Nguni Cattle

Morag MacDonald goes prospecting

End of the previous post: Rory barking ferociously sprang at the horse and whistling him Morag darted forward. “Morag by all that’s Holy” shouted the dust-covered rider “Down Rory/Ruairí (the Gaelic spelling is also used in the original) Down! or you’ll have me off, Whoa! Ginger Whoa!”

Absolutely bewildered Morag stood staring into a red cloud in which a frightened horse was rearing and plunging before a frantic Highland collie. From the rider came a stream of ejaculations, protests and shouts ending in, “Hold on Morag I’ll be back in the second” and down through the Hamlet tore the thick red cloud with Ruairí’s voice yapping with it.

“But what on earth is Mick doing here?” cried Morag as she stepped out after the cattleman’s trail. Halfway to the hotel, she met the Rhodesian skipping along like a schoolboy with Ruairí racing round, springing and twisting in the air.

With a wild whoop from Mick and a deafening din from Ruairí, man and dog swooped down on the girl.

“Morag! What lucky wind blew you here? Mick cried seizing the girl and waltzing gaily round the dog.

For a few moments, Morag romped lightheartedly vainly striving to sober not only her assailants but her own surging blood. But Mick was for no sobriety and hand in hand the two raced for the hotel, Ruairí, his muscular body stretched flinging up dust clouds ahead.

Panting and laughing the boy and girl drew up before the scandalized Reggie, a greatly amused Mr Anderson and a wondering Mrs O’Connor.

“What on earth are you doing here Mick?” asked the latter severely.

“Just what I’ve been asking Morag” laughed the cattleman, “I brought a mob of cattle down here from the ranch on transfer to the Bankwe people, Hello Reg, Hello Mr Anderson.”

“Well, we’ve come down to look for Morag’s gold mine.” Mrs O’Connor informed him “Have you delivered the cattle?”

“Not yet, they’re coming, there are about five hundred heifers in that dust behind.”

“Then,” said Mrs O’Connor sweetly “we’d better not keep you, Mick, you’ll be busy watering and settling them, I’ll tell Mr O’Connor we met you, any message?”

“Just that all’s gone well. I left two lame heifers behind at the Emerald Ranch and lost one,” replied Mick sulkily.

“Tata then Mick, you’ll see Miss MacDonald again one of these days I suppose. Rightio Mr Anderson! Climb in Morag.”

“Mollie you’re a pig,” said Anderson as he drove off Reggie and Morag waving to a disconsolate figure standing next to a horse.

“I couldn’t resist the temptation Jock! ‘Sides we couldn’t really let him leave his cattle and come along. What would Dennis have said?”

“Rot Mollie! It’s pure devilment! The cattle will rest most of the day at Mapeta with poor little Mick sipping whiskey and cursing Manager’s wives and his darn bad luck. Let’s pick him up – Lord you never even told him Miss MacDonald was coming down to the ranch and his face looked as though the news would have cheered him.”

“Have it your own way,” answered Mrs O’Connor laughing, “only I don’t like spoiling men. What do you say Morag?”

Morag flushed. Her whole being was running riot to the reaction of a cheery voice filled with joy at meeting her just when her spirits had dropped into the dust of Mapeta. Mick’s sinewy frame swinging easily to his horses’ plunges, the light of overwhelming joy in the grey Irish eyes, the boisterous schoolboy welcome he’d given her were all pictures filling Morag with longing for Mick and Mick alone.

Anderson swung the car around and running back found Mick mournfully opening the bar with a key borrowed from the storekeeper to busy himself in serving natives to attend to the hotel business.

“Where’re you resting your stock, Mick?” shouted Anderson applying the brakes.

“About three miles from here on the Maputa River,” answered the other, “I reckon to push on this evening and hand over at main camp just after dark.”

“Well jump in. I’ll run you back to the mob so you can tell your boys where to go. Mrs O’Connor thinks you might as well come along. We’re stopping at Bankwe Ranch so you can tell them about the cattle.”

Even Reggie guffawed at the change in Mick’s expression.

“Push the bus along Mr Anderson” he yelled swinging a leg over the door, “Gosh you people are tramps.”

Unceremoniously Mick made room for himself between a shy, blushing girl and an excited collie and a much amused Reggie.

“Well, I don’t care if it snows” Mick laughed “I’m happy, Gosh Reg I haven’t had time to say Hullo, What do you think of Rhodesia?”

“A dashed good country, Mick – Jove you look a sort of two gun man” said Reggie as he gazed admirably at Mick whose appearance was undoubtedly that of a desperado with his pinched in grey Stetson, wide khaki drill trousers, spurred boots and unbuttoned shirt its sleeves rolled above the elbows of a pair of lean sinewy arms whose colour was tanned to that of Maputa dust.

“I keep them much cleaner on the ranch Morag,” Mrs O’Connor remarked looking disapprovingly at the cattleman. “Why haven’t you shaved Mick and can’t you sew on a few buttons? Surely you didn’t intend presenting yourself at Bankwe headquarters in that state ?”

“Sorry, Mrs O’Connor” grinned the culprit “I’ve been more or less in the saddle for three days and there isn’t much encouragement riding through Mapetu in a ducky bowtie and Saville Row suit.”

“Personally I think Mick fits in well” chimed in Reginald “Dash it all I’m going to grow a beard once Morag and I start prospecting.”

Prospecting, you and Morag?” exclaimed Mick “What the devil are you wanting to prospect for Reg, I thought you were going tobacco growing?”

“Nothing so dull Mick me boy. Dammit, one doesn’t come to the wilds to grow things. Gold mining’s the thing. You just wait and see the blessed nuggets with diamonds sticking in them. Dash it De Beers will hide their dashed faces when we start opening Morag’s reef.”

“Don’t be stupid Reg,” said Morag severely “one doesn’t find diamonds stuck in gold does one Mr Anderson?”

“Only in engagement rings” shouted back the miner with a burst of laughter “There’s  Taba Mhlope sticking up Miss MacDonald, let’s hope you find both the diamonds and gold in all their fashions.”

But chaff was wasted on Morag at the mention of their goal being in sight.

Mick Osmond’s story continues

This links to The Mine of Mac of the Hills with some changes.

When Le Roux called next morning at The Criterion, he found to his disgust that Mrs O’Connor had left early on a sightseeing trip with Morag and Reginald (MacGregor).

“It was made up on the spur of the moment,” explained Mr O’Connor from the warm comfort of his bed. “Jock Anderson (the mining commissioner) was thinking maybe Miss McDonald would like to see a gold mine and my wife thought an extra day or two in town would not be hurting myself or the ranch.”

“They’ll be back tonight then?” inquired Le Roux trying to conceal his vexation. “Tomorrow more likely. We’re catching the 6 p.m. and there’s nothing to interest Mrs O’Connor in Bulawayo. Trot away Gerald it’s grieved I am at your missing them but it’ll be more vexed I’d be if I myself was to lose the chance of sleeping past the sun.”

Realising there was nothing to be done Le Roux left mentally cursing Mrs O’Connor and all friends of hers. But whilst Le Roux liverish at the unaccustomed hour of rising was consigning her to perdition Mrs O’Connor was at peace with all things.

The early spring splashed the veld with masses of colour, the morning air crisp and fresh filled her with the joy of homecoming, best of all her protégées happy and brimful of laughter were safe under her wing speeding to what the experienced Anderson had assured her would kill the mining nonsense forever.

“Great things cars are,” the mine owner remarked, “In the old days we’d have spent from a fortnight to a month on a trip we’ll do comfortably in two days now.” And to Morag’s delight, he began to reel off tale after tale of pioneering days.

“No roads, no bridges and no shops – living by the rifle in a country of sullen unconquered foes, the veld one’s butcher shop, wild beasts and fever always threatening. But you’ll see quite a lot of the old life at the ranch yet, won’t they Mrs O’Connor?”

“I hear lions are pretty troublesome down young Mick Osmond’s way?”

“So Dennis was saying but it’s wild country all over the ranch. We’ve even elephants – no bathing either Morag for the rivers are swarming with crocs. You’ll have to be careful with Rory (Morag’s Highland Collie dog), crocodiles love dogs.”

“Reminds me,” said Anderson and again came the recital of frontier tales. Four hours sped by through open Savannah country.

“It’s mostly ranching land” the mine owner explained “rather uninteresting but we’re following the railway on a sort of Hogsback. This is the main watershed and a few miles either side the country begins to drop off into terraces then you’re in real Rhodesian scenery and the lower the altitude the more tropical the climate. We’ll soon turn off and you’ll see some wild looking country.”

“How did Uncle get his name Mac o’ the Hills?” asked Morag suddenly, “was it because he was so very Highland?”

Anderson grinned, “He was pretty wild and Woolly from what I remember, most of us were, but it was some theory about gold formation that really gave him the name. We all went more or less by nicknames such as Mickey the Goose, and the like.”

“Whereabouts is Taba Mhlope?” Mrs O’Connor broke in “Our company’s got a big ranch down here somewhere – in fact, Dennis thinks there’s a likelihood of our being shifted to it.”

“Oh, I do hope you are Mollie! Is their Ranch near where Uncle was prospecting Mr Anderson?” Morag cried excitedly.

“I’m not sure,” answered the mining man, “Taba Mhlope’s on some big ranch maybe it’s the Zambezi Pioneering Company’s. It’s years since I was down there and the country wasn’t taken up then. How about brekker Mrs O’Connor, dso we stop or eat as we go?”

“As we go, Jock I think, I’ve two thermos and bags of sandwiches.”

At last Anderson pulled up at the little Frontier station with its usual surroundings of trading stores, hotel and cattle loading ramp.

“Well here’s Mapeta where we branch off. Stretch your legs youngsters while I make enquiries about roads and Mrs O’Connor fills the thermos. “Care for a drink, Lumsden, the beer won’t hurt you.”

As the men disappeared into a native trading store housed in the same building signboards proclaimed as an hotel and bar, Morag alive with interest decided to give her a collie a run and utilise the opportunity to see something of the hamlet she presumed would be her headquarters.

Not even the glamour of frontier life could make Mapeta a place of desire. The centre for many big cattle ranchers and several mining enterprises what comprised Mapeta was mostly dust. A few doleful ragged eucalyptus trees heavily burdened with quantities of Mapeta’s outstanding product (the dust?) grew bravely round the stationmaster’s tiny garden, a tiny oasis in a pan of thick red powder.

An American windmill creaked and groaned for lubrication behind the crumbling bricks of what buildings weren’t of unpainted corrugated iron. Old tins that had once contained beef of other ranching countries, broken paraffin tins, disused jam tins lay scattered everywhere and starved dogs slunk curlike by or scratched for fleas. A few natives in what appeared the diseased rags of scarecrows looked with unemotional incurious eyes after the girl, pot-bellied naked picaninnies scurried to their mother’s rags.

Morag felt her spirits fail. Such desolation she had never believed could exist. Swiftly that curse of the Celtic race – the reaction to atmosphere descended like clammy mist swirling about her heart. Was it an omen of the future she wondered looking about for Rory who had gone in hot pursuit of a starving mongrel?

The clatter of galloping hooves and a wild chorus of barks in Rory’s voice dispelled the gloom. Down came a whirling torrent of dust, a horse shied violently across the road, a wild-looking man cursed freely as swinging his mount around he hauled it on its haunches. Rory barking ferociously sprang at the horse and whistling him Morag darted forward. “Morag by all that’s Holy” shouted the dust-covered rider “Down Rory! Down! or you’ll have me off, Whoa! Ginger Whoa!”