On August 27, 1908, Donald George Bradman, who was to become the wonder man of cricket, was born in the New South Wales country town of Cootamundra. Before he was three years old his parents moved to Bowral, in the Blue Mountains.

Youngest of a family of five, four years separated him from his only brother, so he was, as it were, an odd one out when it came to a matter of shared interests and amusements. At borne there were no children of his own age with whom to play, so he had to use his ingenuity to invent games he could play alone.

From his earliest years a ball was the centre of Don Bradman's playtime; it mattered not whether it were a cricket, golf, tennis or football. His most constant game, however, was an improvised one of cricket. This he played with one stump used as a bat, and a golf ball which he threw against a brick wall and struck on the rebound, a feat requiring an extraordinary co-ordination of eye and muscle. He devised means by which he could declare himself to have hit a boundary or to have been caught out. Often he imagined sides for his match, naming his players after the great cricketers of the day.

Even at school there was no real cricket field, but the boys used to manage a game with such primitive appliances as a bell-post marked with chalk for the wicket, and gum tree sticks as bats. The first match in which Bradman played was when he was eleven, on the football field of Glebe Park, Bowral, where there is now a beautiful cricket field bearing the name -The Bradman Oval." The match began inauspiciously for Don's team, as a left-handed bowler dismissed their two opening batsmen with his first two balls. Nervously the lad went In to bat, expecting to see the hat-trick accomplished at the expense of his wicket, but he survived the initial attack, and went on to score fifty-five runs.

Although in all sports at the country school up-to-date facilities were lacking, the boys managed by their ingenuity to devise means for overcoming their absence. While a scholar at Bowral, Bradman played for his school in cricket, tennis and Rugby League football teams, and also won the hundred yards, two hundred yards, quarter mile and half mile races. His interests in school work itself centred round mathematics and science.

One of the greatest joys of the boy's life was to be allowed to act as scorer for the Bowral men's cricket team, of which his uncle was captain. This occupation was to give him his first chance of playing in senior cricket. He was only thirteen at the time, and still in short pants, and the team was playing at Moss Vale, six miles from home. One of the men failed to show up, so Don's uncle was faced with the alternative of either going on the field with a man short, or of including his nephew. He decided on the latter course, and Bradman justified his decision by scoring thirty-seven in the first innings, and twenty-nine not out in the second.

In recognition of his ability as a cricketer, a member of the Bowral team gave the boy an old and cracked bat as a present This his father sawed down to a more suitable size. The same year Don saw two days' play in the Fifth Test Match between Australia and England on the Sydney Cricket Ground. It was an experience which made him reach the final decision that cricket would be his game above all others, and as he left the oval with his father he declared he would never be satisfied until he played there himself. At seventeen Bradman became a regular member of the Bowral team, many of the players of which were in their forties. It was while with this team he met Bill O'Reilly, the future famous bowler, for the first time and also distinguished himself sufficiently for his name to reach the cricket "powers-that-be" in Sydney.
Highlights in his first season's play with Bowral occurred in two matches. In the first, in which O'Reilly was playing with Wingello, the opposing team, Bowral was finding it hard to stand up against the wizard bowler, but Bradman was too good for him and finished the day with 234 not out. Unfortunately, on the next Saturday when the match was resumed, he was dismissed first ball round the leg by O'Reilly. The young batsman's score attracted a certain amount of attention, but the final match of the season was even more sensational. In it Bradman distinguished himself by totalling over three hundred runs and taking four wickets for thirty-nine. His fine record brought a letter from the N.S.W. Cricket Association at the opening of the next season asking him to attend for practice at the Sydney Cricket Ground on 11th October, 1928.

Nothing could have kept Don away from that practice, and carrying with him his dearest possession, a bat which his mother had given him, he made the journey to the city for the try-out. Cricketers and Press critics were alike impressed by the young player, and he was offered a place in the St. George team, one of the first grade clubs. He accepted, of course. VVhat did it matter to him that to play he had to rise before dawn and catch the six a.m. train from Bowral? He would have done the journey had it taken twice as long.

The following year Bradman was chosen as 12th man to represent New South Wales. It was perhaps fortunate for the team that Archie Jackson developed a boil on the knee while in Adelaide, so that Don had to take his place on the field. It was his initiation into first-class cricket, and a worthy one, too, for he scored 118 in the first innings. Not very long afterwards, however, he was playing for New South Wales against Queensland, on the Sydney Cricket Ground, and was clean bowled by the opening ball—his first duck in first-class cricket.

The season ended with Bradman having played in the New South Wales team against Victoria. South Australia and Queensland. He had learned much by the experience. Ile knew now more about the differences to be found in bowlers and wickets, and he had also determined that attack was the best means of defence for a batsman.

He was at this time cherishing the hope that he might be selected for the Australian team to play New Zealand, but he was disappointed. His omission, however, decided him to move to Sydney, where he could have constant practice on a turf pitch, which was impossible in the country. His purpose was to gain selection in the team for the 1928-29 Tests against England, to be played in Australia. He gained his ambition, but the Tests opened disastrously for Australia. The first of the series was won by England with a margin of 675 runs. Bradman's score was low, and he had his first experience of playing on a sticky wicket. He was relegated to the position of 12th man in the Second Test, and, although he did not bat, fielded during the match in place of Ponsford, a bone in whose hand was broken by a hit from a ball. Don was brought back into the team for the Third Test and he redeemed his good name by scoring 79 and 112, not a sufficient total, however, to prevent Australia from losing as in the two previous ones. The Fourth Test was far closer, with England gaining a win by the narrow margin of twelve runs. But the Fifth Test was won by Australia, her only win in the series, a success which resulted from the fine play by the younger members of the eleven, Jackson, Fairfax, Wall. Hornibrook and Bradman.

Don finished the season with a total of 1690 runs in first-class cricket, an aggregate which still stands as a record for one season in Australian cricketing history. The 1929-30 season was also one of records for him. In a match between Ryder's Eleven and Woodfull's Eleven he was closing batsman for the latter team with a score of 124. Woodfull's Eleven was forced to follow on, as the opposition had the magnificent total of 663 in their first innings. Bradman was put in as opening batsman and knocked up 205 before play closed. This meant he had made a century and a double century in the one day. Another record was a world one which still stands, a total of 452 runs not out in a Sheffield Shield match against Queensland. The former holder of the world record, Bill Ponsford, sent him a telegram after this achievement: "Congratulations on your great feat—a batsman of your ability deserves the honor."

Don Bradman's position was now assured in any Australian team, but there were many who were troubled by the unorthodox manner in which he held his bat and executed his strokes. Amongst them was Maurice Tate, who suggested tactfully that to do well in England he must play with a straighter bat. Bradman gave his advice, and that of others, his full consideration, for he knew that his habit of using a cross-bat, for instance, was risky, but he also knew his methods got results, so in the end he decided to stick to them.
In 1930 Bradman was included in the Australian Eleven for England, and the series of five Tests, which resulted in the bringing back of the Ashes, was a memorable one for him. To begin with, he gained much knowledge and experience; he learnt that English wickets behave differently from Australian ones, and that they could change their character during a match. Then he distinguished himself throughout the tour by his con of the bowlers concerned, and Jardine, the captain of the English Eleven, to be a fast leg bowling theory. The theory was designed, primarily, as an effective attack against Bradman at what was considered the weakest spot in his batting. To use Jardine's own words, he "was far from convincing on the leg stump whilst there was any life in the wicket." Several men were injured, including Oldfield and Woodfull, in these Tests, and feeling on both sides ran high. Bradman did not play in the first one on account of ill-health, but in the Second Test he was bowled first ball by Bowes for a duck in the first innings, but reached his century in the second. The remaining Tests continued unhappily, with all concerned glad when they were over.

Bradman felt the strain of the season greatly and also the necessity for continuing his business life and cricket at the same time. Further, his contract in Sydney was running to its close, and he decided it would be better if his business life in future was not tied up in any way with cricket. He was. therefore, grateful when a member of the Cricket Board of Control offered him a position in his stock-broking business in Adelaide, to which city Don moved in February, 1934.

He had been feeling generally unwell for some considerable time, but believed it all to be due to the strain and uncertainty of the past months. Once settled in Adelaide, however, he found his condition did not improve, and decided to consult a specialist. His trouble was diagnosed purely as a "run-down condition, and he was ordered to rest and not play any more cricket before the English tour that year, for which he had been chosen as vice-captain of the Australian Eleven.

Bradman's health was still not good when he reached England, but he steeled himself to play in the opening games, knocking up 206 in the first innings of the team's initial match of the tour, against Worcester. Although it had not been defeated by the time the Tests commenced, the Australian team had not, however, played with distinction, and the critics were unimpressed.

The First Test went to Australia when there was only ten minutes left to play. The crowd of spectators was kept back by a rope and not a picket fence. During the excitement at the end of the game they surged forward on to the field, obscuring the rope in their rush and blocking the means of exit for the players, who were eager to escape the throng. As he ran towards the dressing-room, Bradman fell and brought those
behind him down, too. His thigh was so seriously injured that he had to use a runner in the next match, and withdraw altogether from the following one.

Illness seemed to dog the Australian team throughout the earlier Tests. Several of them developed what was known as "Wimbledon throat," among the victims of which were Bradman, Chipperfield and Kippax. The last named was too ill to play, but the other two left their beds for the match and returned to them as soon as it was over. In the Fourth Test, Bradman, who made 304, was so worn out that he had to be undressed by his team mates and carried to the massage room. Later, when he was fielding, he tore a thigh muscle, was forced to enter a nursing home, and was unable to play until the Fifth Test, three weeks later.
This final Test, which resulted in a glorious victory for Australia, and the winning of the Ashes, found the Eleven once more physically fit and in top form. Bradman and Ponsford's partnership of 451 in this match created a new world record.

The visitors were back in London, preparing for the return journey home, when Don Bradman once more became ill. Specialists were called in, and, despite certain contrary symptoms, it was decided he had acute appendicitis, and an immediate operation was performed. For a time it seemed a matter of touch and go; rumors even reached Australia, and, more unfortunately, his wife, that he was dead. But, slowly Bradman bevan to regain his strength. He was ordered a long rest, and, indeed, did not leave hospital until his wife arrived in England. Thus it was not until late April. 1935, that he landed in Adelaide to start work in his new profession of stockbroking.

Don Bradman was appointed one of the selectors for the Australian Eleven for the 1936-37 Tests, and also captain. The series opened most inauspiciously for the Australians, as England won the first two matches. Such misfortune caused a great deal of criticism regarding Bradman's captaincy, and also the suggestion that the strain of the position was upsetting his play. The Third Test, however, gave the lie to this latter suggestion, for he totalled a score of 270 runs. He also exhibited brilliant tactics in this Test in the handling of the game on the Saturday when the wicket was sticky. He closed the innings at nine for two hundred, and England went in to bat. Bradman realised they were being got out too quickly, and instructed his bowlers to avoid taking wickets, if possible, so the Australians would not have to go in again that day. At nine for seventy-six the English captain, Cubby Allen, closed the innings. Bradman showed remarkable strategy by sending in a very surprised Fleetwood-Smith as opening batsman. None knew better than Fleetwood-Smith himself that he was no bat, but, as Bradman explained to him, the only way he could get out would be by hitting the ball, and in the circumstances he was very unlikely to do that. Such, in fact, proved the case, with the result that Australia's real batsmen went in on Monday on a good wicket and won the Test.

Strangely enough, it was Fleetwood-Smith who saved the Fourth Test by a magnificent ball which dismissed the Englishman, Hammond, who seemed a permanent fixture at the wicket. The Fifth Test went to Australia also, and once more the Ashes were won.

In 1938 the Australians were in England again under Brad-man's captaincy. The first two Tests were drawn, but the Third, at Leeds, was the most exciting he was ever to remember. There was a race against the weather as storm clouds banked up and a deluge of rain threatened. Wickets were already falling fast, but caution had to be thrown to the winds in order to amass sufficient runs to better the English total. Don himself was so tense with nervous excitement that for the first time in his life he could not bear to watch the match, but instead paced up and down in the dressing-room eating bread and jam and consuming quantities of tea. It was Hassett who saved the day by continuing to hat in reckless abandon until the game was won.

The Fourth Test was not played because of rain, and the Fifth went to England in an overwhelming victory. In the first innings they scored 903 for seven wickets. Bradman, to ease the strain on his overworked bowlers, took the ball himself. Unfortunately, he twisted his ankle in a hole in the ground which his predecessors had worn, and broke one of the bones, thus excluding himself from further play on the tour.
It was about this time that he began to feel the effect of captaining the team and also the concentrated playing itself. lie decided then that one more season at most would be his before he retired from the game, but there was, nevertheless, still much further to go before he would say farewell to cricket, and a World War was to intervene.

In 1940 Bradman enlisted as a member of air crew in the R.A.A.F., but his assistance was required by the Army for special work and he was transferred. The rigors of camp life brought a recurrence of the muscular trouble from which he had suffered on and off for years, and for some months he was at a convalescent camp near his old home, Bowral. a victim of fibrositis. At times the complaint was so bad that he could not even comb his own hair, and his wife had to learn to use a razor in order to shave him—a pitiful condition for a man of Bradman's enormous energy.

Back in civilian life once more all thought of cricket was far from his mind, and then, in 1945, when his condition was gradually improving, the firm for which he was working went bankrupt. His whole idea of going to South Australia had been to protect his and his family's future, and now the security on which he had planned was gone. Things looked very dark indeed. But Don was not one to admit defeat, and, in face of poor health, and with the encouragement of his wife and friends, he went into business on his own.

In December of that year he was well enough to return to cricket to play in two charity matches, but soon afterwards he was down again with a severe attack of fibrositis. It was then that a friend persuaded him to visit a Melbourne masseur. The result was so amazing that the idea began to grow in Bradman's mind that he might even be able to play against England the following year, a hope in which his wife encouraged him, saying it would be a pity if their son, John, should never see his father in a Test game. Finally, in spite of medical warnings against his doing so, Bradman agreed to play in the 1946-47 series.
In the opening game, England against South Australia, he was like a shadow of his former self. After the match one critic wrote, "I have today seen the ghost of a great cricketer, and ghosts seldom come to life."
But Bradman was to prove that his was one ghost which could live again. The days of records were not even passed for him, and with Barnes he established a new fifth wicket world record for first-class cricket in the Second Test, played at Sydney. The Ashes were retained by the Australians, who won four of the Tests and drew the other.

By the year 1947, Bradman had scored ninety-nine centuries in first-class cricket, and his ambition was naturally to reach the 100th century before he should retire. It seemed fairly obvious that this end would be achieved, but he had set his heart on making this particular century on his favorite pitch, that of the Sydney Cricket Ground. His opportunity came in a match

against the Indian Eleven. Keith Miller was partnering him in the innings, and did all he could to help ensure that Don should succeed in his desire. The tension of the occasion made Bradman over-anxious and careful, not at all like his usual style of play, so that the score mounted slowly, especially after he had reached ninety. At ninety-nine a new bowler was put on against him, and Bradman took every precaution until he felt safe to hit the ball to mid-on for a single. The cheers of the spectators were tumultuous, and members of the Australian Eleven, led by Miller, rushed to shake hands with the great batsman. After the century had been reached, he threw away discretion, and batting with enthusiasm, knocked up another seventy-one in forty-five minutes.

On the eve of the Fifth Test against India, Bradman informed the Press that he would be available for selection for the Australian Eleven to tour England, but that after that he would retire from cricket.
Bradman's farewell tour of England in 1948 was for him a happy one; everywhere the English crowds, but especially at Leeds, and in the final Test, gave him a terrific ovation. In the latter the opposing fieldsmen gathered round him when he came out to bat, gave him three cheers, and wished him future luck, while the crowd rose as one man to greet him, and groaned with dismay when he was dismissed for a duck.
On his fortieth birthday Bradman passed his 2000 runs for the tour in a match against the Gentlemen of England, which made him the only Australian to have scored 2000 runs in each of four tours of England. At the end of the game the public massed in front of the pavilion singing "Happy Birthday" and "Auld Lang Syne." On the tour the Australian Eleven, under Bradman's captaincy, had not lost a single match, although eight had been drawn.

Bradman was to play again in first-class cricket in Australia, but only at testimonial matches of farewell. On the 1st January, 1949, this magnificent sportsman was created a knight in the New Year's Honors List. Time will continue to move on, other great cricketers will arise, but it will be many decades, if ever, before Sir Donald Bradman ceases to be the hero of every cricketer, young or old, in Australia or oversea.

Banjo Paterson

There is something about the Australian bush which holds its sons and daughters relentlessly throughout all the days of their lives.
It may be that those born under the shelter of the gums, whose lullaby is the laugh of the kookaburra, go away in their riper years to live in the crowd and bustle of the cities.
Yet, even should they not return, the bush still keeps her children.
THROUGHOUT their lives they remember nostalgically the wide, brown stretches of the outback; the dust and the flies; the coolness of the creek banks; the good-fellowship of the lonely people.

Andrew Barton Paterson ("Banjo") was born in the bush, on February 17th, 1864, at Narrambla, near Molong, in New South Wales. His father, after whom he was named, was a grazier. While the child was still in his infancy, the family removed to Buckenbah, near Obley, where his father and uncle had leased an unfenced block of land from the Crown. It was dingo-infested country, and among the earliest sounds of which young Andrew became aware was the howl of the wild dogs.
In these untamed surroundings the boy learnt to ride almost before he could walk, he learnt the meaning of the noises of the bush, he learnt to love the glory and beauty of her every mood. He knew real freedom in a world where there was much to be done, but hustle and bustle were unknown; where one had time to be quiet and enjoy the magnificence of a beautiful sunrise, where one rose early enough to realise such magnificence existed.

When he was six the family moved again, this time to Illalong, which was a day's ride from the famous Lambing Flat gold-diggings, where Young now stands. Here, as he developed, he learnt to take an understanding interest in the little things which went on around him; he began to watch his fellows, the men who worked about the place, the neighboring farmers, and he stored up in his mind memories of their peculiarities, their likes and dislikes, their desires and hopes. their ways of doing things.

Among animals, Andrew loved best of all the horse. He saw so much of his world from a horse's back. The horse provided the means of carrying him from one place to another, to glimpse some new beauty, or to take his share in the work of the farm, which is required of all children of the bush.

When he was old enough the boy was sent to Sydney Grammar School, where he soon revealed brilliance at scholarship. Early in the years he spent there he divided the junior Knox Prize with another student. Then, when the holidays came, it was back to the bush for him, back to his well loved horses. As a young man he entered the Sydney University. He had hoped to gain a bursary, which would have covered the cost of his studies, but, unfortunately, just missed obtaining one. He took a law course and, on graduation, became a solicitor in Sydney in partnership with William Street, whose brother was to become Chief Justice of New South Wales.

In these days Banjo Paterson was a happy, genial young man, with a keen sense of humor. He was tolerant of the weaknesses of others, clear-sighted and full of energy. It was only to be expected, therefore, that he found life in the office rather hampering, waiting, as he said, for clients to come in. The business was young and these clients not numerous, so Banjo Paterson had time to turn his attention to the fulfilment of an urge he had long felt—the urge to write. His first effort was rather terrible. It took the form of a pamphlet, entitled "Australia for the Australians," and appeared under his own name.

He was not particularly proud of this work, and decided to have a try at verse. He wrote a flamboyant poem about the expedition against the Mandi, and sent it off to the Bulletin, which was then the cradle for all young ambitious writers. Fearing his name would associate him with his earlier prose effort, he signed the work 'The Banjo."
There followed then a period of waiting, in which he daily expected the return of his manuscript. But it did not come back to him with the usual polite note informing him the editor regretted he would not be able to use it. Instead he received a letter of acceptance and a request to call at the Bulletin office. This was the beginning of a long association with Australia's famous weekly. Regularly every issue for years "The Banjo" twanged in its pages. Banjo Paterson came to know in those years other writers of the day. It was the period of the ballad in Australia's literary history, and the balladists formed a Bohemian group of their own, noted for its good-fellowship.

In 1895 a collection of Banjo Paterson's verse was published in book form under the title of 'The Man From Snowy River and Other Verses." It was an immediate success. The first edition was sold out within a fortnight, and a year later it was in its 10th edition. This collection has never lost its popularity.

Banjo Paterson revealed in his first volume the knowledge and love he had for the outback. Mostly written in the ballad form, the verses possess a humanity and realisation of the little things which make up the character of man. His insight was typical of the writers of his time. The difference between his work and that of Lawson, who wrote about the same subject, was that Banjo Paterson saw the bush from the back of a horse, his heroes were almost invariably mounted, while the other poet saw the great open spaces from on foot.

On occasions Banjo Paterson was capable of great beauty of expression, occasions when he rose above the genial good-humor of the contemporary versifier. Lines from "Clancy of the Overflow," a poem included in this collection, are a good example:
"And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars."

By 1900 the urge to continue with writing, and writing alone, became too strong for Banjo Paterson, and he gave up his profession of a solicitor. Shortly afterwards he was sent to South Africa as an official correspondent for the Sydney Morning Herald, to cover the Boer War. He set off on this new adventure surrounded by prejudices towards the civilisation of the enemy that were current during this time. "By all accounts," he wrote, after he had talked with many on the ship which took them to South Africa, "these Boers are only part human."

Soon after arrival in the country, he added, "Met my first Boer prisoner. He is a doctor, holding an English degree, and can make a fifty break at billiards. Apparently there are Boers at any rate partly civilised." His job as a correspondent gave him opportunities not afforded to the ordinary soldier of meeting interesting people in command. Among these was Sir Alfred Milner, who one day asked the young Australian if he would take two English ladies to a jackal hunt with a pack of English hounds. Banjo Paterson protested that he had no horse, as his three mounts had been sent up the line, otherwise there was nothing he would like better than to go. "Oh, an Australian can always get a horse," said Milner.

The Banjo felt his race was being challenged, and, in the face of what appeared insurmountable odds, set out to prove that an Australian could work a miracle. But in Capetown every horse had either been commandeered or else so broken down that it could scarcely carry a saddle, let alone a rider. In the bay there were ships loaded with horses, but the "bullheaded old English Admiral" gave a definite "no" to Banjo Paterson's request to be allowed to land one of them.
Hating to be beaten, he tried every likely and unlikely place. Not a horse was to be had. Finally he clutched at a straw and walked into the depot for army horses, trying to appear as though he had a perfect right to be there. He was almost stupefied when approached by a groom, who, touching his hat politely, said, "Good day, Mr Banjo Paterson."
It was the merest stroke of luck, for it so happened that the groom, an Englishman, had been in Australia and had tended a racehorse which Banjo Paterson had ridden in a race.

"I brought these 'orses over from the Argentine," he said. "and there's some decent sorts in 'em. I'll sneak one out to you."

And so it was arranged. Next morning at dawn a horse and two pounds changed hands, and the Australian was able to take a mount to the train to be transported to the jackal hunt. One of the ladies he was called upon to attend was a duchess, with rather unorthodox ideas of Australians. He tried his best to live up to her picture of how he should behave. In all, a most delightful day was passed. In South Africa Banjo Paterson also met Winston Churchill, then correspondent for the London Morning Post. He admired greatly the Englishman's personality and "push." Typical of the Banjo's daring was the fact that he rode into Bloemfontein in advance of the besieging army, regardless of the danger, so that he could come out in company with the leading citizens when they left the city to surrender to Lord Roberts.
After the Boer War, Banjo Paterson went to London where, with Australian cartoonist Phil May, as guide, he moved in the capital's Bohemian circle.

While in England he stayed with Rudyard Kipling, whom he liked immensely for his unassuming manner and simplicity of life. With him he went for a trial run in the new Lanchester car, which was a great novelty at that time.
From England he went on to China, after the Boxer Rebellion, in his capacity of a correspondent, and then to the Philip. pines. His second volume of verse appeared in 1902. This was "Rio Grande's Last Ride and Other Verses." Again success awaited him, and the next months saw frequent reprints of the book. In town and country his work was read. From the platforms of little bush schoolrooms and from the stages of city halls, his verses were recited, until it was not long before he earned the title of "the most recited rhymster in Australia."

In the year following "Rio Grande," Banjo Paterson married Alice Walker, and in 1904 he became editor of the Sydney Evening News. In 1905 he published a collection of Australian bush songs. In doing so he made a very valuable contribution to his country's literature, for he preserved for posterity old verses and songs which might otherwise have been lost. They form the nearest approach that there is in Australia to the folk songs of the older lands. For the most part their authors are unknown. Until Banjo Paterson collected them they had lived by being sung or recited round the camp fires at night where boundary riders and swagmen swopped yarns. They appeared with the title of "The Old Bush Songs—Composed and Sung in the Bush-ranging, Digging and Overlanding Days."

About this time he was asked by The Times, London, to contribute articles to its pages on Australia.
In 1906 there appeared Banjo Paterson's first attempt as a novelist, "An Outback Marriage." Although it was well received, and, indeed, was reprinted in its fourth edition as late as 1924, prose was not Banjo Paterson's best medium of expression; it is in verse that he excelled. Editorship of the Town and Country Journal, a Sydney publication, followed. Banjo Paterson took this position in 1907 and retained it for two years, until he felt the call of the bush so strong in him that he decided to buy a property in the country and retire altogether from the city. He and his family settled at Coodia, a pastoral property in the Wee Jasper district near Yass.

An unusual experience of Banjo Paterson's life, about this time, was when he received a summons to wait on Lady Dudley, the wife of the Governor-General of the Commonwealth. He knew she had recently started a campaign to organise a group of bush nurses for the outback areas, an undertaking in which she had met strong opposition. He thought, perhaps, she was going to ask him to write her a publicity poem or article in favor of the scheme.She received him graciously in a private parlor, and he was struck by her delicate beauty and determination. She had planned, she informed him, to conduct a tour of the bush and speak on the cause of bush nursing. Visions rose before him of this gentle little lady standing on the crude platforms of outback schools and halls, of the lack of amenities, and the kerosene lamps. Then she explained his part in the plan: she wanted him to organise the tour for her and help with the publicity.
He felt at the time lie would have done anything for so courageous a woman, but other commitments forced him to decline. Actually, the tour never took place, as the Dudleys returned to England shortly afterwards. As fate would have it, though, Banjo Paterson was later to become attached to another of Lady Dudley's good works.

But for the outbreak of the first World War, Banjo Paterson might have spent the rest of his life on his property at Coodia. The end of 1914, however, found him once more a correspondent for the Sydney Morning Herald. He travelled to the other side of the world in a ship carrying two battalions. Many of the men were English-born, migrants from the old country, and had already seen service. The Commanding Office, Brigadier-General McLaurin, had never himself been in battle, a rather topsy-turvy state of affairs.

Arrived in London in December 1914, Banjo Paterson was eager to get to the front, but so were thousands of others. Correspondents were just kicking their heels in the capital and becoming more and more annoyed. Visits to the War Office effected nothing; they were just told there was nothing doing. But Banjo Paterson, it must be remembered, was not easily beaten, so he called on T. A. Coghland, the Agent-General for New South Wales, who said he might be able to get him there. The one condition, however, was that he was not to mention he was a correspondent. or that he had ever been inside a newspaper office, and most decidedly not to attempt to write any copy.

It was arranged that Banjo Paterson was to go to France as an ambulance driver at probably one of the most extraordinary hospitals which ever existed. It had been taken to France in spite of the War Office, financed by a group of wealthy women at the head of whom was none other than Lady Dudley. It was still the centre of much argument, but this remarkable woman persisted relentlessly in the face of all officialdom. Banjo Paterson did not remain an ambulance driver long, as he realised how hopeless his chances were of ever doing correspondent's work. He, therefore, returned to Australia where he received a commission in the Remount Service. He was stationed in Egypt, and rose to the rank of major before the end of the war.

While he was still overseas, two books of his appeared, both in 1917. These were "Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses" and a collection of short stories, "Three Elephant Power and Other Stories." He returned to Australia at the end of hostilities, but did not go back to the land; instead he remained in journalism for the rest of his days. He was too tightly bound to his profession now to be able to break loose from it again. A collection of Banjo Paterson's verse was published in 1921, which included poems from all his previous books.

It was now many years since Banjo Paterson had written anything new in verse. He seemed to have lost his old humor, his ability to write of the little men outback, of the small and big things which made up their lives. Perhaps it was that he had left them behind with his youth. He had also lost touch with most of his fellow-writers, and the once happy, uninhibited, horse-back poet was becoming morose and introspective.

About 1930 George Robertson, the grand old man of the publishing firm of Angus and Robertson, sent for him. It was just after the time that C. J. Dennis had made himself famous with his story poem, "The Sentimental Bloke." "You know, Banjo Paterson," Robertson is said to have remarked, "Dennis made a huge success with his 'Sentimental Bloke.' want you to do something the same for the Bush. Create a 'Sentimental Bloke' of sorts, set him in the wool sheds and the cattle camps and other places, and let us see what results. Here's a hundred pounds for you to go on with."

The Banjo went off with the cheque, his eyes were bright, his heart was singing, some of the fire of the old days was warming the blood in his veins. He was no longer a "has-been" He would show the world what he could still do. But in spite of his enthusiasm, the task was beyond him. The old spirit could not be brought back to life, it belonged to the years which were gone.

Within a week Banjo Paterson had returned to Robertson with the cheque. "Sorry, G.R.," he said, "I've gone flat. 1 haven't an idea in the old head. And 1 wanted that £100 pretty badly." Not that Banjo Paterson's literary work ended here; he was to the last a prolific writer. In 1933 a book of verse for children appeared, under the title of "The Animals Noah Forgot." And the following year saw the publication of "Happy Dispatches," in which he described his meetings with various well-known people. Two years later "The Shearer's Colt," a work of fiction, was published.

But Banjo Paterson was still living in the past, in those days when he had been a newspaper editor and the most popular writer of verse in Australia. He became gradually more difficult of approach; even autograph hunters could do nothing with him. His yearning for the days which were gone is, perhaps. best expressed in lines from his own verse "Black Swans":

1 would fain go back to the old grey river,
To the old bush days when our hearts were light; But alas! those days they have fled forever
They are like the swans that have fled from sight. And I know full well that the strangers' faces
Would meet us now in our dearest places;
For our day is dead and has left no traces
But the thoughts that live in my mind tonight."

In the Honors List of 1939 Banjo Paterson was awarded the C.B.E. He still continued with his journalistic work, living more and more to himself. Towards the end of January in 1941 he became ill. He was now in his seventy-seventh year. After a fortnight's sickness he died, on February 5th, in a private hospital. His remains were cremated. His wife and a son and a daughter survived him.

And so the voice of The Banjo was silenced, but his works live on. Still from the circled campfires his verses are recited, at bush socials those lines, which preached no morality but spoke with good-will and open-heartedness of the citizens of the outback, still have their place. And the song "Waltzing Matilda," which appeared in "Saltbush Bill," has found even a wider audience; has, indeed, re-echoed round the world.

The name we give to the sending of messages over a distance is telecommunication. The messages are sent from something called the transmitter, and at the other end are picked up by the receiver. So that a message may be sent from transmitter to receiver. it first has to be changed into electrical signals. In the telegraph this was done by the Morse tapping key. In the telephone and radio it is done by a microphone: and in television by a TV camera. Once the message has been turned into an electrical signal. it is then added to a high frequency radio wave. This can transmit it most easily. The radio wave is called a carrier wave because it carries the electrical signals (our message) from the transmitter to the receiver. In radio or television. the carrier wave is usually sent through the air. The process of adding electrical signals on to a carrier wave is called modulation. It is possible to send many different frequencies of carrier wave along cables or through the air at the same time. This is called multiplexing. Multiplexing, which is very important. makes possible the sending of several thousand two-way telephone calls along one cable at the same time.
At the receiving end of any telecommunication system. special electronic circuits sort out the electrical signals, which are our message. from the carrier wave. These signals are then amplified and sent to the receiver. This might be your 800 series PMG/Telecom phone handset, a transistor radio or a plasma television screen.

The handset of an old 802 PMG telephone has both a transmitter in the mouthpiece. and a receiver in the earpiece. The mouthpiece used to contain a carbon microphone in old retro phones, especially the Bakelite GPO phones. This was a thin sheet or diaphragm at the front which is in contact with a number of lightly packed carbon grains. As you speak into the microphone. your voice vibrates the diaphragm. This packs the carbon grains more tightly. or less tightly together. When the grains are closer together. an electrical current passes through them more easily. When the grains are more loosely packed. the current does not pass through so easily. As you speak, the diaphragm moves. This in turn causes the grains to move and thus produces a varying electrical current related to the voice signals. These electrical signals may then be added to a carrier wave and sent along a cable.

At the receiving end of the telecom telephone line. the electrical signals are sorted out from the carrier wave. and enter the earpiece of the 800 series telephone and person you are calling. Here the electrical signals are turned into sound waves again. These sound waves are heard by your ear. They are an exact copy of the sounds spoken into the mouthpiece at the other end of the line.

To contact another telephone number, you first pick up the 802 ACF handset from its cradle. As the 802 PMG/Telecom handset cradle rises. a switch closes and makes an electrical connection between your telephone and the telephone exchange, at least thats how it used to happen in crossbar AXE exchanges. The Crossbar or step by step Phone exchange is a building full of electronic circuits, to which all the telephone lines in your area arc connected. It is the job of the exchange to connect telephones to one another. But how does the exchange know who you want to call? First you must rotary dial the number.

When you dial a number with a vintage rotary dial telephone the circular dial plate rotates a set of cogs inside the telephone. These open and close a pair of electrical contacts. As you dial each number. the contacts open and close and produce a number of electrical pulses. In the more modern push-button phone. an electronic circuit remembers the sequence of pulses produced and then sends them. one after the other to the exchange. When the electronic circuits in the exchange receive the pulses. they operate a series of switches which link your telephone with that of the person you are calling. Sometimes this may mean that the line is connected through several different exchanges. Modern telephone exchanges use integrated circuits to switch the telephone lines. This means that they make faster. more silent and more reliable connections. Electronic telephone exchanges can handle many thousands of calls at the same time. Most exchanges are completely automatic. even for international calls from one country to another.

Most telephone cables are put under the ground. Many have been laid beneath the oceans of the world to connect continents. The cables are usually made of copper or aluminum. These metals are becoming more difficult to obtain. and more expensive. However cables are being replaced by bundles of fibre optics.

A fibre optic is a very thin tube of silica glass. Its diameter is between thirty and one hundred millionths of a meter. This is similar to the thickness of a human hair. With a cable made of fibre optics. telephone messages would no longer be changed into varying electrical signals. Instead. they would use a light source of changing brightness. This varying beam of light would pass along the fibre optic at loomoo km per second. Not only is this extremely fast. but the light beam is not affected by the electrical noise which may spoil the normal telephone conversation. Fibre optics will greatly reduce the number of cables needed for very complicated telecommunication systems. Satellites orbiting above the Earth are being used more and more for long distance telephone communications.