I was very happy to receive ‘Beyond the Sea’ CD and love listening to Sinatra and others of the fifties.

I was amazed, but delighted, to see you had printed my list of authors and titles and the anecdote of my childhood near Mackay. Last thing I expected, as I felt it was all far too long.

My dear Dad was the head teacher at Coningsby, a little country school near the canefields – and the snakes. They turned up in many varieties – even the taipan.

How could I have forgotten my other companion, Jock, a handsome dog – not only a ‘lady-killer’ but our expert snake killer. He’d grab them behind those venomous heads and shake them to death – and thoroughly enjoyed it.

That was the era of the Great Depression, but the five years we spent there were rich with good memories.

The mellow voices of the descendants of the South Sea Islanders – some of whom were forcibly taken from their homes (it was called ‘black birding’) to labour in the cane fields, would float over from the school to the house, singing ‘Home sweet home’. The first time my homesick mother heard it she cried her heart out.

Am enclosing a poem about a tiny event of that time. Wish Dad could read it.

Enid Smith
Deception Bay Qld

Vignette

“What’s that sound I hear, sir?”
“Sound? What sound, Mattie Vella?”
“Sir, I hear little bells.
Please may I go out, sir?”
“You all may .. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Out streamed the children, crowding the school fence –
Only to see padding along with its nose in the air,
A pampered racing camel.
Its colour was pale cream, the harness fashioned of red leather,
Tasselled and hung with little bells.

The rider was an Afghan, robed in black and white,
Turban neatly wound,
Guide stuck on a lean hand.

As they passed, he gave the stick a little twirl,
For us, a dignified nod – then they were gone,
And the sound of little bells faded into the distance.

I was one of those happy kids that day,
Never saw such a pretty sight before,
An Afghan on his racing camel –
No-one will ever see it again –
Faded like yesterday into the distance.
They’re long gone and forgotten,
But the memory lingers
Of the tinkle of little bells –
And an Afghan rider passing by,
On a pampered racing camel.