THE Random Chat Thread - AKA "The RCT" - No shirt or shoes required - Open 24 / 7
- Thread starter ARC
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Nailed this BFR last year, along with a few of it's relatives...and it's about time
to start setting traps again. I NEVER use poison, it may be effective, but it's
evil, and kills every other critter in the food chain.
to start setting traps again. I NEVER use poison, it may be effective, but it's
evil, and kills every other critter in the food chain.
Last edited:
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Great POINT D D
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I haven't heard of that recipe before with the baking soda and no I didn't know they cant fart. I'll add that to my "amazing facts with chilli" website. I'll credit you of course with being the source of that amazing fact. 👍
I saw this amazing fly trap the other day and its pretty novel.
The bucket flip over top rat traps are cool too.
Hey, like anyone else, I only parrot stuff Iv read or heard from others. Iv never been a fan of fiction but have always loved facts. I think out of the dozens of books in our house only 1 is fiction based upon a guys experiences in the goldfields here, A Tail of Gold, great old book. I reckon I have only read maybe 12 fiction books in my entire life. 11 of those when under 15 yrs old.
A Tail of Gold. This one I have I found in an old book shop. Was a gift from a mother to her son in 1918. Anyone who likes gold prospecting would love it. Its regarded as a classic here. I love that it was once a gift way back then.
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The final chapter.
A Tail Of Gold.
THE bracing mountain air of Seldom Seen, which it was a pure delight to breathe, was fragrant with flowering wattle.
After a long hard winter the breath of Spring had brought the perfection of climate to the highlands of the Southern State. For miles around wattle blossom crowned the ridges of the lower hills with gold, and filled ravines and valleys with beauty and fragrance. The eucalyptus and wild clematis were also coming into flower.
It was the return of that season which is everywhere identified with Hope: the only heritage of so many people in this mundane life.
Joe Chandler had dropped into his old life again at Seldom Seen, and was just as poor as he had been before he first met Boswell Smart. He was now located upon a residential area of one acre only, which, by virtue of Miner's Right, he held from the Government at the cost of half a crown a year. He was living a few miles further up the stream, however, to get away from the stir and traffic of the 'Good Fortune Gold Mine,' which he had discovered in former days, and which Mrs. Maguire had taken from him.
On the whole, however, he was little changed. He would sometimes say to the Wooler: 'In such a climate as this, a man might live to be a hundred.' But he felt the pinch of winter, and many a time thought of the comfort some of the money he once had would have given him now. But, if only a poor lone-hand miner, he was a philosopher, and the Wooler was his friend.
This friendship had been brought about through Becky Blunt, although not exactly of design or with her knowledge. The Wooler's improved circumstances had helped to smooth over his disagreement with the Blunts, where he was now a welcome visitor, and he thought little of a cross-country ride of nearly thirty miles, to have a yarn with Becky. He had to pass Joe's shanty on the way, and always called in to see the lonely and eccentric man. It was said that notwithstanding the disparity between their ages the Wooler was going to marry Becky, and Joe Chandler told him, 'She'll suit you to a T.'
Joe had inhaled deep first-draughts of the sun-chequered morning air; for, long before the monarch of day himself appeared, his banners waved to herald his approach above the distant skyline. Joe had porridge to make, potatoes to peel, and a dozen household duties to perform before he had his breakfast; and down by the creek that morning there awaited him a small heap of very promising wash dirt, which had cost him several rough, tiresome journeys to get down. It was late when he had carried the last load to the creek, and this morning he was going to cradle it; but he would wash some first in the prospecting dish, to see how it was likely to pan out.
He had not spoken to any one, save his dogs, for a couple of days, and like most folks who live much alone, talked occasionally to himself. He was in a philosophic mood this morning, and having eaten his breakfast, went down to the creek to start work. He had carried down his tools and now took off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his soft blue cotton shirt.
He looked long at the small heap which had cost him so much labour, for he had removed several feet of over-burden to get at it, and taking it out and humping it in a sack down to the water had cost him considerable sweat and toil.
'People are dirt,' he soliloquized, 'just dirt with a bit of gold in it. God Almighty made us out of dust, and that's what we all have to go back to in the end. There's that heap of dirt; I've had to dolly hard lumps of it to liberate the gold; it was rough work to break 'em up. And now I'll have to wash, and wash, and wash it in the waters of affliction, that's what the old Book calls it; and then often there's little more than a glitter of gold to be found in it. They tell us there's gold so fine that we can't see it. Gold in sea-water. Gold in the dust that floats in the upper strata of the air. Gold that doesn't show itself everywhere. And so every one's dirt, with a bit of gold in 'em. But there's precious little in some people. There's that devil of a Major, and that snapping she-wolf, Madge Maguire!'
Just then, who should come riding along by the creek but the Wooler, cheery as ever.
He felt sorry for the lonely old man, without kith or kin but so inured to his solitary life that nothing else suited him. Always searching for gold, always suspicious of others; like a ship, whose cargo had shifted in the midst of stormy seas, he faced the wintry storms of life, that come upon men in old age, overbalanced in his mind, and prejudiced against his fellows. Yet the man was possessed of the activities which have more to do with the happiness of life than its possessions. He read books, was a lover of nature, a believer in God, and in his own way a student of those differences which are the beginnings of philosophy.
But his faith in his fellows had been shaken, and his life soured. He was one of the derelicts which so many successful men of the world leave water-logged behind them, damaged by collision with their superior bulk. Joe's occupation as a miner caused him, perhaps, to think of it, but it was a frequent remark of his: 'People are dirt, just selfish barren dirt, with streaks of gold.'
'I've a letter for you, Joe, old man,' was the Wooler's greeting. 'It's been lying in the post office for several days; so, as I was riding this way, I've brought it out. I shall have to push on, but I'll call and drink a cup of tea with you coming back.'
He handed Joe a letter; it was from Will Monckton. It told of the death of Major Smart, and that by the Major's will, recently made, he had been left £1,000; and also that out of the earnings of the 'Good Fortune Gold Mine,' Mrs. Madge Maguire had paid for him to Lieutenant Monckton another £1,000. Will congratulated him on his good fortune, and told him that the money had already been paid to his credit in the Reefton Bank.
Joe slipped the letter into the breast pocket of his coat, which he had hung near by upon a bush, without a word; then slowly filled his prospecting dish with wash dirt, and stooping down to the water, filled it, stirred it with his hand, and gathered out the larger stones. Then with both hands he shook it roughly, so that any heavy particles might settle to the bottom of the dish, then allowed sand and gravel to flow with the water over the lip of the dish into the stream.
Tears were in the man's eyes, for he had been deeply moved by his unexpected good fortune; it would make his lonely old age more comfortable. Again he lifted the dish and shook it roughly, puddled in it with his fingers to break up a lump of clay, and again vanned the dirt and sand into the stream.
He was more careful now, for the residue was getting smaller, and smaller, and smaller, as the water with the gentlest motion of the man's experienced hand washed sand and dirt away.
At last he stood erect and held the steel dish sideways to the sun, in the light of which there glittered, on its side, a tiny nugget of the precious metal, with, as though streaming from it, a thin tail of golden dust left upon the side of the dish by the action of the water.
The man's eye brightened as he looked at it, but his thoughts were otherwhere. 'Dirt, dirt!' he mused, 'mostly dirt; but God Almighty has panned them out, for no one else could have done it, and bad as I thought them, He must have found in the prospecting dish a tail of gold.'
A Tail Of Gold.
THE bracing mountain air of Seldom Seen, which it was a pure delight to breathe, was fragrant with flowering wattle.
After a long hard winter the breath of Spring had brought the perfection of climate to the highlands of the Southern State. For miles around wattle blossom crowned the ridges of the lower hills with gold, and filled ravines and valleys with beauty and fragrance. The eucalyptus and wild clematis were also coming into flower.
It was the return of that season which is everywhere identified with Hope: the only heritage of so many people in this mundane life.
Joe Chandler had dropped into his old life again at Seldom Seen, and was just as poor as he had been before he first met Boswell Smart. He was now located upon a residential area of one acre only, which, by virtue of Miner's Right, he held from the Government at the cost of half a crown a year. He was living a few miles further up the stream, however, to get away from the stir and traffic of the 'Good Fortune Gold Mine,' which he had discovered in former days, and which Mrs. Maguire had taken from him.
On the whole, however, he was little changed. He would sometimes say to the Wooler: 'In such a climate as this, a man might live to be a hundred.' But he felt the pinch of winter, and many a time thought of the comfort some of the money he once had would have given him now. But, if only a poor lone-hand miner, he was a philosopher, and the Wooler was his friend.
This friendship had been brought about through Becky Blunt, although not exactly of design or with her knowledge. The Wooler's improved circumstances had helped to smooth over his disagreement with the Blunts, where he was now a welcome visitor, and he thought little of a cross-country ride of nearly thirty miles, to have a yarn with Becky. He had to pass Joe's shanty on the way, and always called in to see the lonely and eccentric man. It was said that notwithstanding the disparity between their ages the Wooler was going to marry Becky, and Joe Chandler told him, 'She'll suit you to a T.'
Joe had inhaled deep first-draughts of the sun-chequered morning air; for, long before the monarch of day himself appeared, his banners waved to herald his approach above the distant skyline. Joe had porridge to make, potatoes to peel, and a dozen household duties to perform before he had his breakfast; and down by the creek that morning there awaited him a small heap of very promising wash dirt, which had cost him several rough, tiresome journeys to get down. It was late when he had carried the last load to the creek, and this morning he was going to cradle it; but he would wash some first in the prospecting dish, to see how it was likely to pan out.
He had not spoken to any one, save his dogs, for a couple of days, and like most folks who live much alone, talked occasionally to himself. He was in a philosophic mood this morning, and having eaten his breakfast, went down to the creek to start work. He had carried down his tools and now took off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his soft blue cotton shirt.
He looked long at the small heap which had cost him so much labour, for he had removed several feet of over-burden to get at it, and taking it out and humping it in a sack down to the water had cost him considerable sweat and toil.
'People are dirt,' he soliloquized, 'just dirt with a bit of gold in it. God Almighty made us out of dust, and that's what we all have to go back to in the end. There's that heap of dirt; I've had to dolly hard lumps of it to liberate the gold; it was rough work to break 'em up. And now I'll have to wash, and wash, and wash it in the waters of affliction, that's what the old Book calls it; and then often there's little more than a glitter of gold to be found in it. They tell us there's gold so fine that we can't see it. Gold in sea-water. Gold in the dust that floats in the upper strata of the air. Gold that doesn't show itself everywhere. And so every one's dirt, with a bit of gold in 'em. But there's precious little in some people. There's that devil of a Major, and that snapping she-wolf, Madge Maguire!'
Just then, who should come riding along by the creek but the Wooler, cheery as ever.
He felt sorry for the lonely old man, without kith or kin but so inured to his solitary life that nothing else suited him. Always searching for gold, always suspicious of others; like a ship, whose cargo had shifted in the midst of stormy seas, he faced the wintry storms of life, that come upon men in old age, overbalanced in his mind, and prejudiced against his fellows. Yet the man was possessed of the activities which have more to do with the happiness of life than its possessions. He read books, was a lover of nature, a believer in God, and in his own way a student of those differences which are the beginnings of philosophy.
But his faith in his fellows had been shaken, and his life soured. He was one of the derelicts which so many successful men of the world leave water-logged behind them, damaged by collision with their superior bulk. Joe's occupation as a miner caused him, perhaps, to think of it, but it was a frequent remark of his: 'People are dirt, just selfish barren dirt, with streaks of gold.'
'I've a letter for you, Joe, old man,' was the Wooler's greeting. 'It's been lying in the post office for several days; so, as I was riding this way, I've brought it out. I shall have to push on, but I'll call and drink a cup of tea with you coming back.'
He handed Joe a letter; it was from Will Monckton. It told of the death of Major Smart, and that by the Major's will, recently made, he had been left £1,000; and also that out of the earnings of the 'Good Fortune Gold Mine,' Mrs. Madge Maguire had paid for him to Lieutenant Monckton another £1,000. Will congratulated him on his good fortune, and told him that the money had already been paid to his credit in the Reefton Bank.
Joe slipped the letter into the breast pocket of his coat, which he had hung near by upon a bush, without a word; then slowly filled his prospecting dish with wash dirt, and stooping down to the water, filled it, stirred it with his hand, and gathered out the larger stones. Then with both hands he shook it roughly, so that any heavy particles might settle to the bottom of the dish, then allowed sand and gravel to flow with the water over the lip of the dish into the stream.
Tears were in the man's eyes, for he had been deeply moved by his unexpected good fortune; it would make his lonely old age more comfortable. Again he lifted the dish and shook it roughly, puddled in it with his fingers to break up a lump of clay, and again vanned the dirt and sand into the stream.
He was more careful now, for the residue was getting smaller, and smaller, and smaller, as the water with the gentlest motion of the man's experienced hand washed sand and dirt away.
At last he stood erect and held the steel dish sideways to the sun, in the light of which there glittered, on its side, a tiny nugget of the precious metal, with, as though streaming from it, a thin tail of golden dust left upon the side of the dish by the action of the water.
The man's eye brightened as he looked at it, but his thoughts were otherwhere. 'Dirt, dirt!' he mused, 'mostly dirt; but God Almighty has panned them out, for no one else could have done it, and bad as I thought them, He must have found in the prospecting dish a tail of gold.'
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It does. But when they're in the thousands plague proportions its your car and all your belongings or them. Scumolly is known as the Home of Gold & Grain. It has the biggest inland grain silo storage and distribution in the state. Trains and truckloads come and go daily full of grain. Yearly who knows how many tons end up spilt along the tracks and roads. You often driving on the roads sound your horn to scare the cockatoos and galahs off of the road so you don't hit them. They're feeding on the grain dropped from the transport. The silos and station were just a few hundred meters away from where we lived across two paddocks which were full, alive with rats and mice. If it was small scale and we were nowhere near the place id have used other methods but the sheer numbers dictated kill them in the fastest most effective way you can. We never used poison in the last town we lived in nor here, just traps. You had to have lived there to believe what it was truly like. They just kept coming 24/7 12 months of the year without letup. They suited the town though really and why I call it Scumolly. I hated the place so much, I mentioned somewhere here previously, that to this day I avoid driving through it.
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Chilli...never dealt with rodents in biblical sized proportions before...sounds
like something out of a 1950's B grade sci-fi movie. Also heard that at one time
there was a huge feral cat problem in Australia...too bad you couldn't get the
two of them together.
I don't like poison due to how it kills, and how it can affect so many critters
heading up the food chain. In your case, some creativity from the land owners
might have helped, as there are ways to build "mass destruction" traps that
kill humanely and can hold a a couple hundred mice, or more.
like something out of a 1950's B grade sci-fi movie. Also heard that at one time
there was a huge feral cat problem in Australia...too bad you couldn't get the
two of them together.
I don't like poison due to how it kills, and how it can affect so many critters
heading up the food chain. In your case, some creativity from the land owners
might have helped, as there are ways to build "mass destruction" traps that
kill humanely and can hold a a couple hundred mice, or more.
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- Primary Interest:
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It smells like snow outside.....it's not snowing, but smells like it's gonna.
Am I an
, or does anyone else recognize that smell before it snows?
(I got $5 that says someone's gonna say..."You're an idiot"...)
Am I an
(I got $5 that says someone's gonna say..."You're an idiot"...)
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Good morning!☕️
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Morning everyone 
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I don't know about snow, but you can often smell rain coming.Am I an, or does anyone else recognize that smell before it snows?
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Good morning all.
I'm always amazed by the photos that others post, particularly birds in flight. Apparently I lack the coordination and camera skills to get shots like that. I took several shots of one of the hawks flying over, most of which were just empty sky, or the edge of a wing, or the top of the tail. This one isn't very good, but it's the best of the bunch. Too far away, so focus is poor and grainy (looks decent on a small screen, but on a big monitor it looks like crap), and yet I still didn't get the whole bird in the frame. Hopefully I'll get the opportunity for more practice.
I'm always amazed by the photos that others post, particularly birds in flight. Apparently I lack the coordination and camera skills to get shots like that. I took several shots of one of the hawks flying over, most of which were just empty sky, or the edge of a wing, or the top of the tail. This one isn't very good, but it's the best of the bunch. Too far away, so focus is poor and grainy (looks decent on a small screen, but on a big monitor it looks like crap), and yet I still didn't get the whole bird in the frame. Hopefully I'll get the opportunity for more practice.
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Robert, are you using a camera, or the camera on your phone?
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Good morning everyone. I finished painting the shed yesterday, temps in the 80's. Now it's supposed to cool down again. It's been a very cold winter for Florida. All the plants took a hard hit and everything looks dead. It will come back but it will be several months. I heard the farmers a nearly 3 billion in crop damage. Here's a few blooms that showed up yesterday.
Mornin all.
Last evenings freezing mist is a snow today.
Last evenings freezing mist is a snow today.
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Let me tell you a little secret.
I also suck trying to photograph a flying bird.
Even on my bird setting 7 fps (full format)
Then the camera pauses to format to the memory card 5-9 seconds.
Though in a lower setting of continuous H 60 fps but the resolution is set at 1920 x 1080.
Now this all fine grant you if I was photographing Canadian Geese on an migration.
I'd be looking for this setting in the spring and capturing a photo in the fall.
Good camera-need more time on the camera.
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I do love the smells of the first rain after a drought.
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Good morning everyone. GO USA Hockey TEAM We are ahead after period 1 1 to zero
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Depends on where I am at the time. That one was camera on the phone. So I know the zoom sucks once it is into digital zoom rather than optical. But I have the same problem with the regular camera — can’t ever seem to track the bird in the frame.
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