It was a bright afternoon in the winter of 1920, and the remote little town of Feegan's Flat wore its usual aspect of quiet content. Down the main street and toward the local inn, old man Doubledrift drove his old spring-dray containing one large empty demijohn. Mr Maurice Haberfeldt, proprietor of the local emporium, was hanging in the doorway of his shop a stout pair of blue denim pants marked down from 15/- to 12/11; and the butcher's brown dog was sleeping in the sun.

Away in the distance could be heard the lowing of Widow Dimknuckle's two spotted cows. Across the road from the inn, Mrs Pabjoy's seven fawn fowls sought sustenance in the gutter, and on the inn verandah (where a flag-pole, fashioned of a long peeled sapling, held the tattered remnant of a flag), the publican, Bunce, and Mounted Constable Flack held converse.

"What this town needs," the constable was saying, "is something to shake it up."

"Too right," agreed the publican. "But with hay the price it is, what could happen? Ah, well. What about one?"

They turned to enter the inn; and Mrs Pabjoy's fawn rooster crowed once, satirically.

It was a sunny afternoon in the winter of 1925, and the secluded little town of Feegan's Flat wore its customary air of tranquil peace. Up the main street and away from the local inn, old man Doubledrift drove his ancient spring-dray containing a large loaded demijohn. Mr Maurice Haberfeldt, of the local emporium, was hanging in his doorway a pair of stout blue denim pants, marked down from 12/11 to 10/11½; and the butcher's yellow dog was watching an ant.

Away in the distance might be heard the lowing of the Widow Dimknuckle's spotted cow. Across the road from the inn, Mrs Pabjoy's five fawn fowls foraged for food in the gutter, and on the inn verandah (where a peeled sapling, serving as a flag-pole, held the fluttering rags of what was once a flag), Bunce, the publican, and Mounted Constable Flack spoke together.

"What this town needs," the constable was saying, "is a bit more go."

"Too true," agreed the publican. "But with sheep the price they are, what could happen? Ah, well. Could you stop one?"

They turned to enter the inn, and Mrs Pabjoy's fawn roster crowed twice, sardonically.

It was a shining afternoon in the winter of 1934, and the sheltered little town of Feegan's Flat wore its accustomed guise of placid calm. Down the main street and toward the local inn, old Mr Doubledrift, J.P., drove his elderly spring-dray, containing two large empty demijohns. Mr Maurice Haberfeldt, the universal provider, was hanging in his doorway a pair of stout blue denim pants marked down from 16/11 to 15/-; and the butcher's black dog was scratching his left ear.

Away in the distance might be heard the gentle lowing of the Widow Dimknuckle's brindle heifer. Over the road from the inn, Mrs Pabjoy's three fawn fowls pried for provender in the gutter, and on the inn verandah (which supported a bare sapling, serving as a flag-pole) the publican, Bunce, and ex-Constable Flack were yarning.

"What tis town needs," the ex-constable was saying, "is something to jazz it up for the Centenary."

"You've said it," agreed the publican. "But with wheat the price it is -– Look here! I know what I'll do. I'll get that there flag-pole painted."

The ex-constable waited.

But the publican walked out into the roadway and inspected the bare peeled pole.

"That's what I'll do," he announced, finally. "I'll have her painted -– pink."

The ex-constable still waited.

"Yes, pink," said the publican, "for the Centenary."

The ex-constable coughed.

Across the road Mrs Pabjoy's fawn rooster crowed three times.

"Den"
Herald, 24 July 1934, p6