Joe Wilson and his mates

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THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

J

1

J

JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES

foe Wilson and His Males"1 is

•-.'.• with Messrs. Wm.
■ '.:' S '■ . Edinburgh and London,
•i Australia and New Zealand only.

JOE WILSON

AND HIS MATES

BY
HENRY LAWSON

AUTHOR OF

WHILE THE BILLY BOILS ;" "ON THE TRACK AND OVEB TIIK BLIPRAILS ;

"WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE, AND OTHER VERSES;"

AND "VERSES, POPULAR AND HUMOROUS."

SYDNEY AND MELBOURNE
ANGUS AND ROBERTSON

1902

I : B. T. i.ki'.ii and Co., Printers.

PR

THE AUTHOR'S FAREWELL TO
THE BUSHMEN.

Some carry their swags in the Great Nortn- West,

Where the bravest battle and die,
And a few have gone to their last long rest,

A nd a few have said " Good-bye ! "
The coast grows dim, and it may be long

Ere the Gums again I see ;
So I put my soul in a farewell song

To the chaps who barracked for me.

Their days are hard at the best of times,

And their dreams are dreams of care —
God bless them all for their big soft hearts,

And the brave, brave grins they wear !
God keep me straight as a man can go,

And true as a man may be !
For the sake of the hearts that were alzcays so,

Of the men who had faith in me !

542801

UB SETS DW«TFfAui*3

\ i FAR] w l l i in i m BUSHMEN.

/ chaps

;n !

- perhaps —

a >>!(!)! (,!/,' Will .'

/t/'s applause —
-.' i tliey b

i limn in;
Of t believed in inc.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

PREFATORY VERSES — THE AUTHOR'S FAREWELL TO THE

BUSHMEN .... .V

PART I.

JOE WILSON'S COURTSHIP J

BRIGHTEN'S SISTER-IN-LAW . . . ■ A7
'WATER THEM GERANIUMS' —

I. A LONELY TRACK ..... 79

II. ' PAST CARIN' ' . . . . -93
A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY'S CREEK —

I. SPUDS, AND A WOMAN'S OBSTINACY . . 121

II. JOE WILSON'S LUCK . . . 1 3 1

III. THE GHOST OF MARY'S SACRIFICE . 1 38

IV. THE BUGGY COMES HOME . . 1 44

PART II.

Till-: GOLDEN GRAVEYARD . . . . .157

the chinaman's ghost ..... 177

. i \ rs.

. : i i i

•■III! R l>K(>\ I RS
.
K WILD IRISHMAN

ii .

[MSHAW'S WOOING

■
•KI.K

a HI :.s .

Till: LITTLE WOR1 i' LEFT BEHIND

r83

I9S

20 1

205

-'5
229

259

265
271
279

2S5
307

' VERSES— 'THE NEVER-NEVER COUNTRY '

PART I.

JOE WILSON'S COURTSHIP.

'"PHERE are many times in this world when a
healthy boy is happy. When he is put into
knickerbockers, for instance, and ' comes a man to-
day,' as my little Jim used to say. When they're
cooking something at home that he likes. When
the 'sandy-blight' or measles breaks out amongst
the children, or the teacher or his wife falls danger-
ously ill — or dies, it doesn't matter which — 'and
there ain't no school.' When a boy is naked and in
his natural state for a warm climate like Australia,
with three or four of his schoolmates, under the
shade of the creek-oaks in the bend where there's
a good clear pool with a sandy bottom. When his
father buys him a gun, and he starts out after
kangaroos or 'possums. When he gets a horse,
saddle, and bridle, of his own. When he has his
arm in splints or a stitch in his head — he's proud
then, the proudest boy in the district.

I wasn't a healthy-minded, average boy : I reckon
I was born for a poet by mistake, and grew up to
be a Bushman, and didn't know what was the

JOE WI1 ■' < ' ik l SHIP.

...ith me- the world — but that's got

do with it.

l when a man is happy. When he

tint the girl loves him. When he's just

.!. When he's a lawful father for the first

time, and every thii ingonall right: some men

: themselves then — I know I did. I'm

happy to-night because I'm out of debt and can see

mi because I haven't been easy for a

But I think that the happiest time in a man's life
is when he's courting a girl and finds out for sure
that she loves him and hasn't a thought for any
one else. Make the most of your courting days, you

; chaps, and keep them clean, for they're about
the only days when there's a chance of poetry and

. coming into this life. Make the best of them
and you'll never regret it the longest day you live.

re the days that the wife will look back to, any-
way, in the brightest of times as well as in the
blackest, and there shouldn't be anything in those
days that might hurt her when she looks back.
the most of your courting days, you young
chaps, for they will never come again.

A married man knows all about it — after a while:
he sees the woman world through the eyes of his
wife ; he knows what an extra moment's pressure of
hind means, and, if he has had a hard life, and
is inclined to be cynical, the knowledge does him no
good. It leads him into awful messes sometimes,
for a married man, if he's inclined that way, has
three times the chance with a woman that a single
man has — because the married man knows. He is

joe wilson's courtship. 5

privileged ; he can guess pretty closely what a
woman means when she says something else; he
knows just how far he can go ; he can go farther in
five minutes towards coming to the point with a
woman than an innocent young man dares go in
three weeks. Above all, the married man is more
decided with women ; he takes them and things for
granted. In short he is — well, he is a married man.
And, when he knows all this, how much better or
happier is he for it ? Mark Twain says that he lost
all the beauty of the river when he saw it with a
pilot's eye, — and there you have it.

But it's all new to a young chap, provided he
hasn't been a young blackguard. It's all wonderful,
new, and strange to him. He's a different man.
He finds that he never knew anything about women.
He sees none of woman's little ways and tricks in
his girl. He is in heaven one day and down near
the other place the next ; and that's the sort of thing
that makes life interesting. He takes his new
world for granted. And, when she says she'll be his
wife !

Make the most of your courting days, you young
chaps, for they've got a lot of influence on your
married life afterwards — a lot more than you'd
think. Make the best of them, for they'll never
come any more, unless we do our courting over
again in another world. If we do, I'll make the most
of mine.

But, looking back, I didn't do so badly after
all. I never told you about the days I courted
Mary. The more I look back the more I come
to think that I made the most of them, and if I

w ii SON S COURTSHIP.

t in married life than I have
in my courting days, I wouldn't walk to and fro
in (l. . or up and down the yard in the

dark sometimes, or lie awake some nights think-

. . . Ah well !

n twenty-one and thirty then: birth-
hid never been any use to me, and I'd left
tinting them. You don't take much stock in
birthdays in the Bush. I'd knocked about the-
irs, shearing and fencing and
: little, and wasting my life without get-
inything for it. I drank now and then, and
I of myself. I was reckoned 'wild';
but I only drank because I felt less sensitive, and
>rld seemed a lot saner and better and kinder
when I had a few drinks : I loved my fellow-man
then and felt nearer to him. It's better to be
'at ' wild ' than to be considered eccentric or
ratty. Now, my old mate, Jack Barnes, drank —
as far as I could see — first because he'd inherited
the gambling habit from his father along with his
father's luck : he'd the habit of being cheated and
losing very bad, and when he lost he drank. Till
drink got a hold on him. Jack was sentimental too,
but in a different way. I was sentimental about
other people — more fool I ! — whereas Jack was sen-
timental about himself. Before he was married,
and when he was recovering from a spree, he'd
write rhymes about ' Only a boy, drunk by the
side,' and that sort of thing; and he'd call
'em poetry, and talk about signing them and send-
ing them to the 'Town and Country Journal.' But
nerally tore them up when he got better. The

JOE WILSON S COURTSHIP. 7

Bush is breeding a race of poets, and I don't know
what the country will come to in the end.

Well. It was after Jack and I had been out
shearing at Beenaway shed in the Big Scrubs. Jack
was living in the little farming town of Solong,
and I was hanging round. Black, the squatter,
wanted some fencing done and a new stable built,
or buggy and harness-house, at his place at Havi-
land, a few miles out of Solong. Jack and I were
good Bush carpenters, so we took the job to keep us
going till something else turned up. ' Better than
doing nothing,' said Jack.

' There's a nice little girl in service at Black's,' he
said. ' She's more like an adopted daughter, in
fact, than a servant. She's a real good little girl,
and good-looking into the bargain. I hear that
young Black is sweet on her, but they say she won't
have anything to do with him. I know a lot of
chaps that have tried for her, but they've never had
any luck. She's a regular little dumpling, and I like
dumplings. They call her 'Possum. You ought to
try a bear up in that direction, Joe.'

I was always shy with women — except perhaps
some that I should have fought shy of; but Jack
wasn't — he was afraid of no woman, good, bad, or
indifferent. I haven't time to explain why, but
somehow, whenever a girl took any notice of me I
took it for granted that she was only playing with
me, and felt nasty about it. I made one or two
mistakes, but — ah well !

' My wife knows little 'Possum,' said Jack. ' I'll
get her to ask her out to our place and let you
know.

ji>i w !! son's cour rsmp.

thai he wouldn't get me there then,
I on the watch for tricks. I

had .1 hopeless little low-story behind me, of course.
irrii 1 men can look back to their
. m nay the first flame. Many a mar-
back and thinks it was damned lucky
he didn't get the girl he couldn't have. Jack
inv successful rival, only he didn't know
i( 1 don't think his wife knew it either. I used to
think her the prettiest and sweetest little girl in the
dist:

Jack was mighty keen on fixing me up with
the little girl at Haviland. He seemed to take it for
granted that I was going to fall in love with her at
first sight. He took too many things for granted as
far as I was concerned, and got me into awful tangles
times.
' Y n let me alone, and I'll fix you up, Joe,' he
;s we rode up to the station. ' I'll make it all
right with the girl. You're rather a gooddooking
chap. You've got the sort of eyes that take with
twirls, only you don't know it ; you haven't got the
go. If I had your eyes along with my other attrac-
tions, I'd be in trouble on account of a woman
about once a-week.'

' For God's sake shut up, Jack,' I said.

Do you remember the first glimpse you got of

wife ? Perhaps not in England, where so

many couples grow up together from childhood ;

but it's different in Australia, where you may hail

from two thousand miles away from where your

wile was born, and yet she may be a country-

n of yours, and a countrywoman in ideas

JOE WILSON'S COURTSHIP. 9

and politics too. I remember the first glimpse I
got of Mary.

It was a two-storey brick house with wide bal-
conies and verandahs all round, and a double row of
pines down to the front gate. Parallel at the back
was an old slab - and - shingle place, one room deep
and about eight rooms long, with a row of skillions
at the back : the place was used for kitchen, laundry,
servants' rooms, &c. This was the old homestead
before the new house was built. There was a wide,
old-fashioned, brick-floored verandah in front, with
an open end ; there was ivy climbing up the veran-
dah post on one side and a baby-rose on the other,
and a grape-vine near the chimney. We rode up to
the end of the verandah, and Jack called to see if
there was any one at home, and Mary came trotting
out ; so it was in the frame of vines that I first saw
her.

More than once since then I've had a fancy to
wonder whether the rose-bush killed the grape-vine
or the ivy smothered 'em both in the end. I used
to have a vague idea of riding that way some day to
see. You do get strange fancies at odd times.

Jack asked her if the boss was in. He did all the
talking. I saw a little girl, rather plump, with a
complexion like a New England or Blue Mountain
girl, or a girl from Tasmania or from Gippsland in
Victoria. Red and white girls were very scarce in
the Solong district. She had the biggest and
brightest eyes I'd seen round there, dark hazel eyes,
as I found out afterwards, and bright as a 'possum's.
No wonder they called her "Possum'. I forgot at
once that Mrs Jack Barnes was the prettiest girl in

\'s COUB rsinp.

the district. 1 felt a sort of comfortable satisfaction
in the fact that I was on horseback: most Bushmen
look better on I ■• It was a black filly, a

i young thing, and she seemed as shy of girls as
I was myself. 1 noticed Mary glanced in my direc-

it she knew me ; but, when

Iced, the filly took all my attention. Mary

!i t.> tell old Black he was wanted, ami afti r

i n him, and arranged to start work next

. we started hack to Solong.

1 fack to ask me what I thought of

Mary — but he didn't. He squinted at me sideways

once or twice and didn't say anything for a long

time, and then he started talking of other things. I

1 wild at him. He seemed so damnably

1 with the way things were going. He

seemed to reckon that I was a gone case now; but,

as he didn't say so, I had no way of getting at him.

I felt sure he'd go home and tell his wife that Joe

Wilson was properly gone on little 'Possum at

Haviland. That was all Jack's way.

; morning we started to work. We were to
build the buggy-house at the back near the end
of the old house, but first we had to take down a
rotten old place that might have been the original
hut in the Bush before the old house was built.
There was a window in it, opposite the laundry
window in the old place, and the first thing I did
to take out the sash. I'd noticed Jack yarn-
ing with 'Possum before he started work. While
I was at work at the window hi called me round
to the other end of the hut to help him lift a
grindstone out of the way; and when we'd done

JOE WILSON S COURTSHIP. II

it, he took the tips of my ear between his fingers
and thumb and stretched it and whispered into
it—

' Don't hurry with that window, Joe ; the strips
are hardwood and hard to get off — you'll have to
take the sash out very carefully so as not to break
the glass.' Then he stretched my ear a little more
and put his mouth closer —

' Make a looking-glass of that window, Joe,' he
said.

I was used to Jack, and when I went back to the
window I started to puzzle out what he meant, and
presently I saw it by chance.

That window reflected the laundry window : the
room was dark inside and there was a good clear
reflection ; and presently I saw Mary come to the
laundry window and stand with her hands behind
her back, thoughtfully watching me. The laundry
window had an old-fashioned hinged sash, and I
like that sort of window — there's more romance
about it, I think. There was thick dark-green ivy
all round the window, and Mary looked prettier
than a picture. I squared up my shoulders and
put my heels together and put as much style as
I could into the work. I couldn't have turned
round to save my life.

Presently Jack came round, and Mary disappeared.

' Well ? ' he whispered.

' You're a fool, Jack,' I said. ' She's only in-
terested in the old house being pulled down.'

' That's all right,' he said. ' I've been keeping an
eye on the business round the corner, and she ain't
interested when I'm round this end.'

t | MS CI lUR I'siiip.

• y i seem mighty interested in the business,'
1 said.

•\ lid fack. 'This sort of thing just suits a

man of my rank in times ol p

• \\ hat made you think <>f the window ? ' I asked.
'Oh, that's as simple as striking matches. I'm

all those dodges. Why, where there wasn't
a win', v.. I've fixed up a piece of looking-glass to
a girl was taking any notice of me when she
lit I wasn't looking.'
II. went away, and presently Mary was at the
window again, and this time she had a tray with
and a plate of cake and bread-and-
butter. I was prizing off the strips that held the
very carefully, and my heart suddenly com-
ment; dlop, without any reference to me.
I'd never fit like that before, except once or
twice. It was just as if I'd swallowed some
clockwork arrangement, unconsciously, and it had
. without warning. I reckon it was
all on account of that blarsted Jack working me
up. He had a quiet way of working you up to
a thin;:, that made you want to hit him sometimes
— after you'd made an ass of yourself.

I didn't hear Mary at first. I hoped Jack
1 come round and help me out of the fix,
but he didn't.

'Mr— Ml Wilson!' said Mary. She had a sweet
voice.

I turned round.

' I thought you and Mr Barnes might like a cup
of t' .'

'Oh. thank you!' I said, and I made a dive for

JOE WILSON'S COURTSHIP. 13

the window, as if hurry would help it. I trod on
an old cask-hoop ; it sprang up and dinted my
shin and I stumbled — and that didn't help matters
much.

' Oh ! did you hurt yourself, Mr Wilson ? ' cried
Mary.

'Hurt myself! Oh no, not at all, thank you,' I
blurted out. ' It takes more than that to hurt
me.'

I was about the reddest shy lanky fool of a
Bushman that was ever taken at a disadvantage
on foot, and when I took the tray my hands
shook so that a lot of the tea was spilt into the
saucers. I embarrassed her too, like the damned
fool I was, till she must have been as red as I
was, and it's a wonder we didn't spill the whole
lot between us. I got away from the window in
as much of a hurry as if Jack had cut his leg
with a chisel and fainted, and I was running with
whisky for him. I blundered round to where he
was, feeling like a man feels when he's just made
an ass of himself in public. The memory of that
sort of thing hurts you worse and makes yoa jerk
your head more impatiently than the thought of
a past crime would, I think.

I pulled myself together when I got to where
Jack was.

' Here, Jack ! ' I said. ' I've struck something all
right; here's some tea and brownie — we'll hang
out here all right.'

Jack took a cup of tea and a piece of cake and
sat down to enjoy it, just as if he'd paid for it and
ordered it to be sent out about that time.

14 JOB w il SON S COUB isllIP.

II ;il nt for .1 while, with the sort of silence

made me wild at him. Presently he
said, as if he'd just thought of it —

'That's a ' tty little girl, 'Possum, isn't

she. J - Do you notice how she dresses? —
always fresh and turn. But she's got on her best
bib- and -tucker to-day, and a pinafore with frills to
it. And it's ironing-day, too. It can't be on your
account. If it \\;is Saturday or Sunday afternoon,
or sonic holiday, I could understand it. But per-
haps one of her admirers is going to take her to
the church bazaar in Solong to-night. That's
what it is.'

He gave me time to think over that.

' But yet she seems interested in you, Joe,' he
said. ' Why didn't you offer to take her to the
bazaar instead of letting another chap get in ahead
of you ? You miss all your chances, Joe.'

Then a thought struck me. I ought to have
known Jack well enough to have thought of it
before.

'Look here, Jack,' I said. 'What have you been
saying to that girl about me ? '

'Oh, not much,' said Jack. 'There isn't much
to say about you.'

'What did you tell her? '

'Oh, nothing in particular. She'd heard all
about you before.'

hadn't heard much good, I suppose,' I said.

' Well, that's true, as far as I could make out.
But you've only got yourself to blame. I didn't
have the breeding and rearing of you. I smoothed
over matters with her as much as I could.'

JOE WILSON S COURTSHIP. 15

' What did you tell her ? ' I said. ' That's what
I want to know.'

' Well, to tell the truth, I didn't tell her anything
much. I only answered questions.'

' And what questions did she ask ?

' Well, in the first place, she asked if your name
wasn't Joe Wilson ; and I said it was, as far as I
knew. Then she said she heard that you wrote
poetry, and I had to admit that that was true.'

' Look here, Jack,' I said, ' I've two minds to
punch your head.'

' And she asked me if it was true that you were
wild,' said Jack, ' and I said you was, a bit. She
said it seemed a pity. She asked me if it was true
that you drank, and I drew a long face and said that
I was sorry to say it was true. She asked me if you
had any friends, and I said none that I knew of,
except me. I said that you'd lost all your friends ;
they stuck to you as long as they could, but they
had to give you best, one after the other.'

' What next ? '

' She asked me if you were delicate, and I said no,
you were as tough as fencing-wire. She said you
looked rather pale and thin, and asked me if you'd
had an illness lately. And I said no — it was all on
account of the wild, dissipated life you'd led. She
said it was a pity you hadn't a mother or a sister
to look after you — it was a pity that something
couldn't be done for you, and I said it was, but
I was afraid that nothing could be done. I told
her that I was doing all I could to keep you
straight.'

I knew enough of Tack to know that most of this

[6 JOE wii.son's couri SHIP.

And so ;he only pitied me after all. I
if IM been courting her for six months and
she'd thrown me over — but I didn't know anything
about women yet.

• Did you tell her I was in jail?' I prowled.

' No, 1>\' Gum I I forgot that. But never mind.
I'll fix that up all right. I'll tell her that you pot
hard for horse-stealing. That ought to
make her interested in you, if she isn't already.'

We smoked a while.

' And was that all she said ? ' I asked.

'Who? — Oh! 'Possum,' said Jack rousing him-
self. 'Well — no; let me think We got chatting

of other things — you know a married man's privi-
leged, and can say a lot more to a girl than a single
man can. I got talking nonsense about sweethearts,
and one thing led to another till at last she said,
" I suppose Mr Wilson's got a sweetheart, Mr
Barnes ? " '

1 And what did you say ? ' I growled.

'Oh, I told her that you were a holy terror
amongst the girls,' said Jack. ' You'd better take
back that tray, Joe, and let us get to work.'

I wouldn't take back the tray — but that didn't
mend matters, for Jack took it back himself.

I didn't see Mary's reflection in the window again,
so I took the window out. I reckoned that she was
just a big-hearted, impulsive little thing, as many
Australian girls arc, and I reckoned that I was a fool
for thinking for a moment that she might give me a
second thought, except by way of kindness. Why!
young Black and half a dozen better men than me
were sweet on her, and young Black was to get

JOE WILSON'S COURTSHIP. 1J

his father's station and the money — or rather his
mother's money, for she held the stuff (she kept it
close too, by all accounts). Young Black was away
at the time, and his mother was dead against him
about Mary, but that didn't make any difference, as
far as I could see. I reckoned that it was only just
going to be a hopeless, heart-breaking, stand-far-off-
and-worship affair, as far as I was concerned — like
my first love affair, that I haven't told you about
yet. I was tired of being pitied by good girls. You
see, I didn't know women then. If I had known, I
think I might have made more than one mess of
my life.

Jack rode home to Solong every night. I was
staying at a pub some distance out of town, between
Solong and Haviland. There were three or four wet
days, and we didn't get on with the work. I fought
shy of Mary till one day she was hanging out clothes
and the line broke. It was the old-style sixpenny
clothes-line. The clothes were all down, but it
was clean grass, so it didn't matter much I
looked at Jack.

' Go and help her, you capital Idiot ! ' he said, and
I made the plunge.

' Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson ! ' said Mary, when I
came to help. She had the broken end of the line
and was trying to hold some of the clothes off the
ground, as if she could pull it an inch with the heavy
wet sheets and table-cloths and things on it, or as if
it would do any good if she did. But that's the way
with women — especially little women — some of 'em
would try to pull a store bullock if they got the end
of the rope on the right side of the fence. I took

B

iS J01 w ll son's courtship.

the line from Mary, and accidentally touched her
soft, plump little hand as I did so: n sent a thrill

: . me. She se< mi d a lot cooler than I

was.

s like this, especially il you lose your
u get hold of the loose end of the rope
that's hanging from the post with one hand, and the
end of the line with the clothes on with the other,
and try to pull 'em far enough together to make a
knot. And that's about all you do for the present,
I l>ok like a fool. Then I took off the post
end, spliced the line, took it over the fork, and
pulled, while Mary helped me with the prop. I
thought Jack might have come and taken the prop
from her, but he didn't; he just went on with his
work as if nothing was happening inside the horizon.

She'd got the line about two-thirds full of clothes,
it was a bit short now, so she had to jump and catch
it with one hand and hold it down while she pegged
a sheet she'd thrown over. I'd made the plunge
now, so I volunteered to help her. I held down the
line while she threw the things over and pegged out.
As we got near the post and higher I straightened
out some ends and pegged myself. Bushmen are
handy at most things. We laughed, and now and
again Mary would say, ' No, that's not the way, Mr
Wilson ; that's not right ; the sheet isn't far enough
over; wait till I fix it,' &c. I'd a reckless idea once
of holding her up while she pegged, and I was glad
afterwards that I hadn't made such a fool of myself.

' There's only a few more things in the basket,
Miss Brand,' I said. 'You can't reach — I'll fix
'cm up.'

JOE WILSON S COURTSHIP. ig

She seemed to give a little gasp.

' Oh, those things are not ready yet,' she said,
' they're not rinsed,' and she grabbed the basket and
held it away from me. The things looked the same
to me as the rest on the line ; they looked rinsed
enough and blued too. I reckoned that she didn't
want me to take the trouble, or thought that I
mightn't like to be seen hanging out clothes, and
was only doing it out of kindness.

' Oh, it's no trouble,' I said, 'let me hang 'em out.
I like it. I've hung out clothes at home on a windy
day,' and I made a reach into the basket. But she
flushed red, with temper I thought, and snatched the
basket away.

' Excuse me, Mr Wilson,' she said, ' but those
things are not ready yet ! ' and she marched into the
wash-house.

1 Ah well ! you've got a little temper of your own,'
I thought to myself.

When I told Jack, he said that I'd made another
fool of myself. He said I'd both disappointed and
offended her. He said that my line was to stand off
a bit and be serious and melancholy in the back-
ground.

That evening when we'd started home, we stopped
some time yarning with a chap we met at the gate ;
and I happened to look back, and saw Mary hanging
out the rest of the things — she thought that we were
out of sight. Then I understood why those things
weren't ready while we were round.

For the next day or two Mary didn't take the
slightest notice of me, and I kept out of her way.
Jack said I'd disillusioned her — and hurt her

10 JOB WILSON S COURTSHIP.

dignity — which was B thousand times worse. He

said I\l spoilt the thing altogether. He said that
an idea that 1 was shy and poetic, and I'd
Only shown myself the usual sort of Hush-whacker.

I noticed her talking im(\ chatting with other

fellows once or twice, and it made me miserable.

drunk two evenings running, and then, as it

appeared afterwards, Mary consulted Jack, and at

la>t she said to him, when we were together —

'Do you play draughts, Mr Barnes? '

' N \' said Jack.

' Do you, Mr Wilson ? ' she asked, suddenly turn-
ing her big, bright eyes on me, and speaking to me
for the first time since last washing-day.

' Yes,' I said, ' I do a little.' Then there was a
silence, and I had to say something else.

1 Do you play draughts, Miss Brand ? ' I asked.

1 Yes,' she said, ' but I can't get any one to play
with me here of an evening, the men are generally
playing cards or reading.' Then she said, ' It's
very dull these long winter evenings when you've
got nothing to do. Young Mr Black used to play
draughts, but he's away.'

I saw Jack winking at me urgently.

' I'll play a game with you, if you like,' I said,
'but I ain't much of a player.'

' Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson ! When shall you
have an evening to spare ? '

We fixed it for that same evening. We got
chummy over the draughts. I had a suspicion even
then that it was a put-up job to keep me away from
the pub.

Perhaps she found a way of giving a hint to old

JOE WILSON S COURTSHIP. 21

Black without committing herself. Women have
ways — or perhaps Jack did it. Anyway, next day
the Boss came round and said to me —

' Look here, Joe, you've got no occasion to stay
at the pub. Bring along your blankets and camp
in one of the spare rooms of the old house. You
can have your tucker here.'

He was a good sort, was Black the squatter : a
squatter of the old school, who'd shared the early
hardships with his men, and couldn't see why he
should not shake hands and have a smoke and a
yarn over old times with any of his old station
hands that happened to come along. But he'd
married an Englishwoman after the hardships
were over, and she'd never got any Australian
notions.

Next day I found one of the skillion rooms
scrubbed out and a bed fixed up for me. I'm not
sure to this day who did it, but I supposed that
good-natured old Black had given one of the women
a hint. After tea I had a yarn with Mary, sitting on
a log of the wood-heap. I don't remember exactly
how we both came to be there, or who sat down
first. There was about two feet between us. We
got very chummy and confidential. She told me
about her childhood and her father.

He'd been an old mate of Black's, a younger
son of a well-to-do English family (with blue blood
in it, I believe), and sent out to Australia with a
thousand pounds to make his way, as many younger
sons are, with more or less. They think they're
hard done by ; they blue their thousand pounds in
Melbourne or Sydney, and they don't make any

fOE WILSONS I HIP.

more nowadays, for the Roarin' Days have been
dead these thirty years. I wish I'd had a thousand
pounds t< ■ start on '

Mary's mother was the daughter of a German im-
migrant, who sel< cted up there in the old days. She
had a will of her own as far I could understand, and
ed the home till the day of her death. Mary's
father made money, and lost it, and drank — and
died. Mary remembered him sitting on the ver-
andah one evening with his hand on her head, and
singing a German song (the ' Lorelei,' I think it
was) softly, as if to himself. Next day he stayed
in bed, and the children were kept out of the
room ; and, when he died, the children were
adopted round (there was a little money coming
from England).

Mary told me all about her girlhood. She went
first to live with a sort of cousin in town, in a house
where they took in cards on a tray, and then she
came to live with Mrs Black, who took a fancy to
her at first. I'd had no boyhood to speak of, so I
gave her some of my ideas of what the world ought
to be, and she seemed interested.

Next day there were sheets on my bed, and I felt
pretty cocky until I remembered that I'd told her I
had no one to care for me; then I suspected pity
again.

But next evening we remembered that both our
fathers and mothers were dead, and discovered that
we had no friends except Jack and old Black,
and things went on very satisfactorily.

And next day there was a little table in my room
with a crocheted cover and a looking-glass.

JOE WILSON S COURTSHIP. 23

I noticed the other girls began to act mysterious
and giggle when I was round, but Mary didn't seem
aware of it.

We got very chummy. Mary wasn't comfortable
at Haviland. Old Black was very fond of her and
always took her part, but she wanted to be inde-
pendent. She had a great idea of going to Sydney
and getting into the hospital as a nurse. She had
friends in Sydney, but she had no money. There
was a little money coming to her when she was
twenty-one — a few pounds — and she was going to
try and get it before that time.

' Look here, Miss Brand,' I said, after we'd
watched the moon rise. ' I'll lend you the money.
I've got plenty — more than I know what to do
with.'

But I saw I'd hurt her. She sat up very straight
for a while, looking before her ; then she said it was
time to go in, and said ' Good-night, Mr Wilson.'

I reckoned I'd done it that time; but Mary
told me afterwards that she was only hurt because
it struck her that what she said about money
might have been taken for a hint. She didn't
understand me yet, and I didn't know human
nature. I didn't say anything to Jack — in fact
about this time I left off telling him about things.
He didn't seem hurt ; he worked hard and seemed
happy.

I really meant what I said to Mary about the
money. It was pure good nature. I'd be a
happier man now, I think, and richer man perhaps,
if I'd never grown any more selfish than I was that
night on the wood-heap with Mary. I felt a great

2.\ JOE WILSJ »N'S COURTSHIP.

sympathy for her— but I got to love her. I went
through all the ups and downs of it. One day I
was having tea in the kitchen, and Mary and

another girl, named Sarah, reached me a clean
plate at the same time: I took Sarah's plate be-
cause she was first, and Mary seemed very nasty
about it, and that gave me great hopes. But all
next evening she played draughts with a drover
thai she'd chummed up with. I pretended to be
interested in Sarah's talk, but it didn't seem to
work.

A few days later a Sydney Jackaroo visited the
station. He had a good pea- rifle, and one after-
noon he started to teach Mary to shoot at a target.
They seemed to get very chummy. I had a nice
time for three or four days, I can tell you. I was
worse than a wall-eyed bullock with the pleuro.
The other chaps had a shot out of the rifle. Mary
called 'Mr Wilson' to have a shot, and I made a
worse fool of myself by sulking. If it hadn't been
a blooming Jackaroo I wouldn't have minded so
much.

Next evening the Jackaroo and one or two other
chaps and the girls went out 'possum -shooting.
Mary went. I could have gone, but I didn't. I
mooched round all the evening like an orphan
bandicoot on a burnt ridge, and then I went up
to the pub and filled myself with beer, and damned
the world, and came home and went to bed. I
think that evening was the only time I ever wrote
poetry down on a piece of paper. I got so miser-
able that I enjoyed it.

I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was

joe wilson's courtship. 25

cured. I ran against Mary accidentally and had
to say something.

' How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening,
Miss Brand ? ' I asked.

' Oh, very well, thank you, Mr Wilson,' she said.
Then she asked, ' How did you enjoy yourself,
Mr Wilson ? '

I puzzled over that afterwards, but couldn't make
anything out of it. Perhaps she only said it for the
sake of saying something. But about this time my
handkerchiefs and collars disappeared from the room
and turned up washed and ironed and laid tidily on
my table. I used to keep an eye out, but could never
catch anybody near my room. I straightened up,
and kept my room a bit tidy, and when my hand-
kerchief got too dirty, and I was ashamed of letting
it go to the wash, I'd slip down to the river after
dark and wash it out, and dry it next day, and rub
it up to look as if it hadn't been washed, and leave
it on my table. I felt so full of hope and joy that I
worked twice as hard as Jack, till one morning he
remarked casually —

' I see you've made a new mash, Joe. I saw the
half-caste cook tidying up your room this morning
and taking your collars and things to the wash-
house.'

I felt very much off colour all the rest of the day,
and I had such a bad night of it that I made up my
mind next morning to look the hopelessness square
in the face and live the thing down.

It was the evening before Anniversary Day. Jack
and I had put in a good day's work to get the job

26 JOB Wl! S( >n's courtship.

finished, and Jack was having a smoke and a yarn
with the chaps before he started home. We sat
on an old log along by the fence at the back of
the house. There was Jimmy Nowlett the bullock-
driver, and long Dave Regan the drover, and big
Jim Bullock the fencer, and one or two others.
Mary and the station girls and one or two visitors
were sitting under the old verandah. The Jackaroo
there too, so I felt happy. It was the girls who
used to bring the chaps hanging round. They were
g< tting up a dance party for Anniversary night.
Along in the evening another chap came riding up
to the station : he was a big shearer, a dark, hand-
some fellow, who looked like a gipsy : it was
reckoned that there was foreign blood in him. He
went by the name of Romany. He was supposed
to be shook after Mary too. He had the nastiest
temper and the best violin in the district, and the
chaps put up with him a lot because they wanted
him to play at Bush dances. The moon had risen
over Pine Ridge, but it was dusky where we were.
We saw Romany loom up, riding in from the gate ;
he rode round the end of the coach-house and across
towards where we were — I suppose he was going to
tie up his horse at the fence ; but about half-way
across the grass he disappeared. It struck me that
there was something peculiar about the way he got
down, and I heard a sound like a horse stumbling.

'What the hell's Romany trying to do?' said
Jimmy Nowlett. ' He couldn't have fell off his
horse — or else he's drunk.'

A couple of chaps got up and went to see.
Then there was that waiting, mysterious silence

joe Wilson's courtship. 27

that comes when something happens in the dark
and nobody knows what it is. I went over, and
the thing dawned on me. I'd stretched a wire
clothes-line across there during the day, and had
forgotten all about it for the moment. Romany
had no idea of the line, and, as he rode up, it
caught him on a level with his elbows and scraped
him off his horse. He was sitting on the grass,
swearing in a surprised voice, and the horse looked
surprised too. Romany wasn't hurt, but the sudden
shock had spoilt his temper. He wanted to know
who'd put up that bloody line. He came over and
sat on the log. The chaps smoked a while.

' What did you git down so sudden for, Romany ? '
asked Jim Bullock presently. ' Did you hurt yer-
self on the pommel ? '

' Why didn't you ask the horse to go round ? '
asked Dave Regan.

' I'd only like to know who put up that bleeding
wire ! ' growled Romany.

'Well,' said Jimmy Nowlett, 'if we'd put up a
sign to beware of the line you couldn't have seen it
in the dark.'

' Unless it was a transparency with a candle
behind it,' said Dave Regan. ' But why didn't you
get down on one end, Romany, instead of all along ?
It wouldn't have jolted yer so much.'

All this with the Bush drawl, and between the
puffs of their pipes. But I didn't take any interest
in it. I was brooding over Mary and the Jackaroo.

' I've heard of men getting down over their
horse's head,' said Dave presently, in a reflective
sort of way — ' in fact I've done it myself — but I

JOE w 11 SON'S COUR I SHIP.

never saw a man get off backwards over his horse's

rump.'

But they saw that Romany was getting nasty,
and they wanted him to play the riddle next night,
so they dropped it.

M ry was singing an old song. I always thought
she had a sweet voice, and I'd have enjoyed it if
that damned Jackaroo hadn't been listening too.
We Listened in silence until she'd finished.

' That gal's got a nice voice,' said Jimmy
Nowlett.

* Nice voice!' snarled Romany, who'd been wait-
ing for a chance to be nasty. ' Why, I've heard a
tom-cat sing better.'

I moved, and Jack, he was sitting next me,
nudged me to keep quiet. The chaps didn't like
Romany's talk about 'Possum at all. They were
all fond of her : she wasn't a pet or a tomboy, for
she wasn't built that way, but they were fond of
her in such a way that they didn't like to hear any-
thing said about her. They said nothing for a
while, but it meant a lot. Perhaps the single men
didn't care to speak for fear that it would be said
that they were gone on Mary. But presently
Jimmy Nowlett gave a big puff at his pipe and
spoke —

' I suppose you got bit too in that quarter,
Romany ? '

' Oh, she tried it on, but it didn't go,' said
Romany. ' I've met her sort before. She's set-
ting her cap at that Jackaroo now. Some girls
will run after anything with trousers on,' and he
stood up.

JOE WILSON S COURTSHIP. 20,

Jack Barnes must have felt what was coming,
for he grabbed my arm, and whispered, ' Sit still,
Joe, damn you ! He's too good for you ! ' but I
was on my feet and facing Romany as if a giant
hand had reached down and wrenched me off the
log and set me there.

' You're a damned crawler, Romany ! ' I said.

Little Jimmy Nowlett was between us and the
other fellows round us before a blow got home.
' Hold on, you damned fools ! ' they said. ' Keep
quiet till we get away from the house ! ' There was
a little clear fiat down by the river and plenty of
light there, so we decided to go down there and
have it out.

Now I never was a fighting man ; I'd never learnt
to use my hands. I scarcely knew how to put them
up. Jack often wanted to teach me, but I wouldn't
bother about it. He'd say, ' You'll get into a fight
some day, Joe, or out of one, and shame me ; ' but
I hadn't the patience to learn. He'd wanted me to
take lessons at the station after work, but he used
to get excited, and I didn't want Mary to see him
knocking me about. Before he was married Jack
was always getting into fights — he generally tackled
a better man and got a hiding ; but he didn't seem
to care so long as he made a good show — though
he used to explain the thing away from a scientific
point of view for weeks after. To tell the truth,
I had a horror of fighting ; I had a horror of being
marked about the face; I think I'd sooner stand
off and fight a man with revolvers than fight him
with fists ; and then I think I would say, last
thing, ' Don't shoot me in the face ! ' Then

30 JOE WILSON S C01 R l SHIP.

again 1 hated the idea <>f hitting a man. It seemed
brutal to me. [was too sensitive and sentimental,
ind that was wlut the matter was. Jack seemed
very serious on it as we walked down to the river,
and he couldn't help hanging out blue lights.

'Why didn't you let me teach you to use your
hands?' he said. 'The only chance now is that
Romany can't fight after all. If you'd waited a min-
ute I'd have been at him.' We were a bit behind
the rest, and Jack started giving me points about
lefts and rights, and ' half-arms,' and that sort of
thing. ' He's left-handed, and that's the worst of
it," said Jack. 'You must only make as good a
show as you can, and one of us will take' him on
afterwards.'

But I just heard him and that was all. It was to
be my first fight since I was a boy, but, somehow, I
felt cool about it — sort of dulled. If the chaps had
known all they would have set me down as a cur.
I thought of that, but it didn't make any difference
with me then ; I knew it was a thing they couldn't
understand. I knew I was reckoned pretty soft.
But I knew one thing that they didn't know. I
knew that it was going to be a fight to a finish, one
way or the other. I had more brains and imagination
than the rest put together, and I suppose that that
was the real cause of most of my trouble. I kept
saying to myself, ' You'll have to go through with it
now, Joe, old man ! It's the turning-point of your
life.' If I won the fight, I'd set to work and win
Mary ; if I lost, I'd leave the district for ever. A
man thinks a lot in a flash sometimes ; I used to get
excited over little things, because of the very paltri-

JOE WILSON'S COURTSHIP. 31

ness of them, but I was mostly cool in a crisis — Jack
was the reverse. I looked ahead : I wouldn't be
able to marry a girl who could look back and re-
member when her husband was beaten by another
man — no matter what sort of brute the other man
was.

I never in my life felt so cool about a thing.
Jack kept whispering instructions, and showing
with his hands, up to the last moment, but it was
all lost on me.

Looking back, I think there was a bit of
romance about it : Mary singing under the vines
to amuse a Jackaroo dude, and a coward going
down to the river in the moonlight to fight for
her.

It was very quiet in the little moonlit flat by
the river. We took off our coats and were ready.
There was no swearing or barracking. It seemed
an understood thing with the men that if I went out
first round Jack would fight Romany ; and if Jack
knocked him out somebody else would fight Jack to
square matters. Jim Bullock wouldn't mind oblig-
ing for one ; he was a mate of Jack's, but he didn't
mind who he fought so long as it was for the sake
of fair play — or 'peace and quietness,' as he said.
Jim was very good-natured. He backed Romany,
and of course Jack backed me.

As far as I could see, all Romany knew about
fighting was to jerk one arm up in front of his face
and duck his head by way of a feint, and then rush
and lunge out. But he had the weight and strength
and length of reach, and my first lesson was a very
short one. I went down early in the round. But

32 J01. WILSONS COURTSHir.

it did me good ; the blow and the look I'd seen in
Romany's eyes knocked all the sentiment out of
me. Jack said nothing, — he seemed to regard it
as a hopeless job from the first. Next round I
tried to remember some things Jack had told me,
and made a better show, but I went down in the
end.

I felt Jack breathing quick and trembling as he
lifted me up.

' How are you, Joe?' he whispered.

' I'm all right,' I said.

' It's all right,' whispered Jack in a voice as if I
was going to be hanged, but it would soon be all
over. * He can't use his hands much more than you
can — take your time, Joe — try to remember some-
thing I told you, for God's sake ! '

When two men Tight who don't know how to use
their hands, they stand a show of knocking each
other about a lot. I got some awful thumps, but
mostly on the body. Jimmy Nowlett began to get
excited and jump round — he was an excitable little
fellow.

' Fight ! you ! ' he yelled. ' Why don't you

fight? That ain't fightin'. Fight, and don't try to
murder each other. Use your crimson hands or,
by God, I'll chip you ! Fight, or I'll blanky well
bullock-whip the pair of you ; ' then his language
got awful. They said we went like windmills,
and that nearly every one of the blows we
made was enough to kill a bullock if it had
got home. Jimmy stopped us once, but they
held him back.

Presently I went down pretty flat, but the blow

JOE WILSON'S COURTSHIP. 33

was well up on the head and didn't matter much —
I had a good thick skull. And I had one good eye
yet.

' For God's sake, hit him ! ' whispered Jack — he
was trembling like a leaf. ' Don't mind what I told
you. I wish I was righting him myself ! Get a blow
home, for God's sake ! Make a good show this round
and I'll stop the fight.'

That showed how little even Jack, my old mate,
understood me.

I had the Bushman up in me now, and wasn't
going to be beaten while I could think. I was
wonderfully cool, and learning to fight. There's
nothing like a fight to teach a man. I was think-
ing fast, and learning more in three seconds than
Jack's sparring could have taught me in three
weeks. People think that blows hurt in a fight,
but they don't — not till afterwards. I fancy that a
fighting man, if he isn't altogether an animal, suffers
more mentally than he does physically.

While I was getting my wind I could hear through
the moonlight and still air the sound of Mary's voice
singing up at the house. I thought hard into the
future, even as I fought. The fight only seemed
something that was passing.

I was on my feet again and at it, and presently I
lunged out and felt such a jar in my arm that I
thought it was telescoped. I thought I'd put out
my wrist and elbow. And Romany was lying on the
broad of his back.

I heard Jack draw three breaths of relief in one.
He said nothing as he straightened me up, but I
could feel his heart beating. He said afterwards

c

3 } JOE WILSON S COUR I SHIP.

that he didn't speak because he thought a word
might spoil it.

I went down again, but Jack told me afterwards
that he /eft I was all right when he lifted me.

Then Romany went down, then we fell together,
and the chaps separated us. I got another knock-
down blow in, and was beginning to enjoy the
novelty of it, when Romany staggered and limped.

' I*ve done,' he said. ' I've twisted my ankle'
He'd caught his heel against a tuft of grass.

' Shake hands,' yelled Jimmy Nowlett.

I stepped forward, but Romany took his coat and
limped to his horse.

1 If yer don't shake hands with Wilson, I'll lamb
yer ! ' howled Jimmy; but Jack told him to let the
man alone, and Romany got on his horse somehow
and rode off.

I saw Jim Bullock stoop and pick up something
from the grass, and heard him swear in surprise.
There was some whispering, and presently Jim
said —

' If I thought that, I'd kill him.'

' What is it ? ' asked Jack.

Jim held up a butcher's knife. It was common
for a man to carry a butcher's knife in a sheath
fastened to his belt.

' Why did you let your man fight with a butcher's
knife in his belt ? ' asked Jimmy Nowlett.

But the knife could easily have fallen out when
Romany fell, and we decided it that way.

'Any way,' said Jimmy Nowlett, 'if he'd stuck
}oc in hot blood before us all it wouldn't be so bad
as ii he sneaked up and stuck him in the back in the

JOE WILSON S COURTSHIP. 35

dark. But you'd best keep an eye over yer shoulder
for a year or two, Joe. That chap's got Eye-talian
blood in him somewhere. And now the best thing
you chaps can do is to keep your mouth shut and
keep all this dark from the gals.'

Jack hurried me on ahead. He seemed to act
queer, and when I glanced at him I could have
sworn that there was water in his eyes. I said that
Jack had no sentiment except for himself, but I
forgot, and I'm sorry I said it.

' What's up, Jack ? ' I asked.

' Nothing,' said Jack.

* What's up, you old fool ? ' I said.

•' Nothing,' said Jack, ' except that I'm damned
proud of you, Joe, you old ass ! ' and he put his arm
round my shoulders and gave me a shake. ' I didn't
know it was in you, Joe — I wouldn't have said it
before, or listened to any other man say it, but I
didn't think you had the pluck — God's truth, I
didn't. Come along and get your face fixed up.'

We got into my room quietly, and Jack got a dish
of water, and told one of the chaps to sneak a piece
of fresh beef from somewhere.

Jack was as proud as a dog with a tin tail as he
fussed round me. He fixed up my face in the best
style he knew, and he knew a good many — he'd been
mended himself so often.

While he was at work we heard a sudden hush
and a scraping of feet amongst the chaps that Jack
had kicked out of the room, and a girl's voice whis-
pered, ' Is he hurt ? Tell me. I want to know, —
I might be able to help.'

It made my heart jump, I can tell you. Jack went

36 joe Wilson's courtship.

OUt at once, and there was some whispering. When

he came back he seemed wild.

' What is it. Jack?' I asked.

'Oli, nothing,1 he said, 'only that damned slut of
a half-caste cook overhead some of those blanky
fools arguing as to how Romany's knife got out of
the sheath, and she's put a nice yarn round amongst
the girls. There's a regular bobbery, but it's all
right now. Jimmy Nowlett's telling 'em lies at a
great rate.'

Presently there was another hush outside, and a
saucer with vinegar and brown paper was handed in.

One of the chaps brought some beer and whisky
from the pub, and we had a quiet little time in my
room. Jack wanted to stay all night, but I re-
minded him that his little wife was waiting for him
in Solong, so he said he'd be round early in the
morning, and went home.

I felt the reactio.i pretty bad. I didn't feel proud
of the affair at all. I thought it was a low, brutal
business all round. Romany was a quiet chap after
all, and the chaps had no right to chyack him.
Perhaps he'd had a hard life, and carried a big swag
of trouble that we didn't know anything about. He
seemed a lonely man. I'd gone through enough
myself to teach me not to judge men. I made up
my mind to tell him how I felt about the matter
next time we met. Perhaps I made my usual
mistake of bothering about ' feelings ' in another
party that hadn't any feelings at all — perhaps I
didn't ; but it's generally best to chance it on the
kind side in a case like this. Altogether I felt as if
I'd made another fool of myself and been a weak

JOE WILSON S COURTSHIP. 37

coward. I drank the rest of the beer and went
to sleep.

About daylight I woke and heard Jack's horse on
the gravel. He came round the back of the buggy-
shed and up to my door, and then, suddenly, a girl
screamed out. I pulled on my trousers and 'lastic-
side boots and hurried out. It was Mary herself,
dressed, and sitting on an old stone step at the back
of the kitchen with her face in her hands, and Jack
was off his horse and stooping by her side with his
hand on her shouldor. She kept saying, ' I thought

you were ! I thought you were ! ' I didn't

catch the name. An old single-barrel, muzzle-loader
shot-gun was lying in the grass at her feet. It was
the gun they used to keep loaded and hanging in
straps in a room of the kitchen ready for a shot
at a cunning old hawk that they called ' 'Tarnal
Death,' and that used to be always after the
chickens.

When Mary lifted her face it was as white as note-
paper, and her eyes seemed to grow wilder when she
caught sight of me.

' Oh, you did frighten me, Mr Barnes,' she gasped.
Then she gave a little ghost of a laugh and stood up,
and some colour came back.

'Oh, I'm a little fool!' she said quickly. 'I
thought I heard old 'Tarnal Death at the chickens,
and I thought it would be a great thing if I got
the gun and brought him down ; so I got up and
dressed quietly so as not to wake Sarah. And
then you came round the corner and frightened
me. I don't know what you must think of me,
Mr Barnes.'

38 JOE WILSON'S COURTSHIP.

'Never mind,1 said Jack. 'You go and have a
sleep, or you won't be able to dance to-night. Never
mind the gun— I'll put that away.' And he steered
her round to the door of her room off the brick
indah where she slept with one of the other
girls.

' Well, that's a rum start ! ' I said.

'Yes, it is,' said Jack; 'it's very funny. Well,
how's your face this morning, Joe ? '

He seemed a lot more serious than usual.

We were hard at work all the morning cleaning
out the big wool-shed and getting it ready for the
dance, hanging hoops for the candles, making seats,
&c. I kept out of sight of the girls as much as I
could. One side of my face was a sight and the
other wasn't too classical. I felt as if I had been
stung by a swarm of bees.

' You're a fresh, sweet-scented beauty now, and no
mistake, Joe,' said Jimmy Xowlett — he was going
to play the accordion that night. ' You ought to
fetch the girls now, Joe. But never mind, your
face'll go down in about three weeks. My lower
jaw is crooked yet; but that fight straightened my
nose, that had been knocked crooked when I was a
boy — so I didn't lose much beauty by it.'

When we'd done in the shed, Jack took me aside
and said —

' Look here, Joe ! if you won't come to the dance
to-night — and I can't say you'd ornament it — I tell
you what you'll do. You get little Mary away on
the quiet and take her out for a stroll — and act like
a man. The job's finished now, and you won't get
another chance like this.'

JOE WILSON'S COURTSHIP. 39

' But how am I to get her out ? ' I said.

' Never you mind. You be mooching round down
by the big peppermint-tree near the river-gate, say
about half-past ten.'

' What good'll that do ? '

' Never you mind. You just do as you're told,
that's all you've got to do,' said Jack, and he went
home to get dressed and bring his wife.

After the dancing started that night I had a peep
in once or twice. The first time I saw Mary danc-
ing with Jack, and looking serious ; and the second
time she was dancing with the blarsted Jackaroo
dude, and looking excited and happy. I noticed
that some of the girls, that I could see sitting on a
stool along the opposite wall, whispered, and gave
Mary black looks as the Jackaroo swung her past.
It struck me pretty forcibly that I should have taken
fighting lessons from him instead of from poor
Romany. I went away and walked about four miles
down the river road, getting out of the way into the
Bush whenever I saw any chap riding along. I
thought of poor Romany and wondered where he
was, and thought that there wasn't much to choose
between us as far as happiness was concerned.
Perhaps he was walking by himself in the Bush, and
feeling like I did. I wished I could shake hands
with him.

But somehow, about half-past ten, I drifted back
to the river slip-rails and leant over them, in the
shadow of the peppermint-tree, looking at the rows
of river-willows in the moonlight. I didn't expect
anything, in spite of what Jack said.

I didn't like the idea of hanging myself: I'd been

.jo JOE WILSONS COURTSHIP.

with a party who found a man hanging in the Bush,

ami it was ii" place for a woman round where he
was. Ami I'd helped drag two bodies out of the
Cudgeegong river in a ilood, and they win n't sleep-
in- beauties. I thought it was a pity that a chap
couldn't lie down on a grassy bank in a graceful
position m the moonlight and die just by thinking of
it — and die with his eyes and mouth shut. But then
I remembered that I wouldn't make a beautiful
corpse, anyway it went, with the face I had on me.

I was just getting comfortably miserable when I
heard a step behind me, and my heart gave a jump.
And I gave a start too.

' Oh, is that you, Mr Wilson ? ' said a timid little
voice.

' Yes,' I said. ' Is that you, Mary ? '

And she said yes. It was the first time I called
her Mary, but she did not seem to notice it.

' Did I frighten you ? ' I asked.

' No — yes — just a little,' she said. ' I didn't know
there was any one ' then she stopped.

' Why aren't you dancing ? ' I asked her.

' Oh, I'm tired,' she said. ' It was too hot in the
wool-shed. I thought I'd like to come out and get
my head cool and be quiet a little while.'

' Yes,' I said, ' it must be hot in the wool-shed.'

She stood looking out over the willows. Presently
she said, ' It must be very dull for you, Mr Wilson —

you must feel lonely. Mr Barnes said ' Then

she gave a little gasp and stopped — as if she was just
going to put her foot in it.

' How beautiful the moonlight looks on the wil-
lows ! ' she said.

JOE WILSON S COURTSHIP. 41

'Yes,' I said, 'doesn't it? Supposing we have a
stroll by the river.'

' Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson. I'd like it very
much.'

I didn't notice it then, but, now I come to think
of it, it was a beautiful scene : there was a horse-
shoe of high blue hills round behind the house, with
the river running round under the slopes, and in
front was a rounded hill covered with pines, and
pine ridges, and a soft blue peak away over the
ridges ever so far in the distance.

I had a handkerchief over the worst of my face,
and kept the best side turned to her. We walked
down by the river, and didn't say anything for a
good while. I was thinking hard. We came to a
white smooth log in a quiet place out of sight of the
house.

' Suppose we sit down for a while, Mary,' I said.

' If you like, Mr Wilson,' she said.

There was about a foot of log between us.

' What a beautiful night ! ' she said.

'Yes,' I said, 'isn't it?'

Presently she said, ' I suppose you know I'm going
away next month, Mr Wilson ? '

I felt suddenly empty. ' No,' I said, ' I didn't
know that.'

'Yes,' she said, 'I thought you knew. I'm going
to try and get into the hospital to be trained for a
nurse, and if that doesn't come off I'll get a place as
assistant public-school teacher.'

We didn't say anything for a good while.

' I suppose you won't be sorry to go, Miss Brand ? '
I said.

.\2 JOE w ii son's CO! R i snip.

'I — I don'1 know,' sin- s;iid. 'Everybody's been
so kind to me here.'

Shr sat looking straight before her, and I fancied
her eyes glistened. I put my arm round her shoulders,
but she didn't seem to notice it. In fact, I scarcely
noticed it myself at the time.

' So you think you'll be sorry to go away ? ' I said.

'Yes, Mr Wilson. I suppose I'll fret for a while.
It's been my home, you know."

I pressed my hand on her shoulder, just a little, so
as she couldn't pretend not to know it was there.
But she didn't seem to notice.

'Ah, well,' I said, 'I suppose I'll be on the wal-
laby again next week.'

'Will you, Mr Wilson?' she said. Her voice
seemed very soft.

I slipped my arm round her waist, under her arm.
My heart was going like clockwork now.

Presently she said —

' Don't you think it's time to go back now, Mr
Wilson ? '

' Oh, there's plenty of time ! ' I said. I shifted up,
and put my arm farther round, and held her closer.
She sat straight up, looking right in front of her,
but she began to breathe hard.

' Mary,' I said.

' Yes,' she said.

' Call me Joe,' I said.

' I — I don't like to,' she said. ' I don't think it
would be right.'

So I just turned her face round and kissed her.
She clung to me and cried.

' What is it, Mary ? ' I asked.

JOE WILSON'S COURTSHIP. 43

She only held me tighter and cried.

' What is it, Mary ? ' I said. ' Ain't you well ?
Ain't you happy ? '

' Yes, Joe,' she said, ' I'm very happy.' Then she
said, ' Oh, your poor face ! Can't I do anything
for it?'

' No,' I said. ' That's all right. My face doesn't
hurt me a bit now.'

But she didn't seem right.

'What is it, Mary?' I said. 'Are you tired?

You didn't sleep last night ' Then I got an

inspiration.

' Mary,' I said, ' what were you doing out with
the gun this morning ? '

And after some coaxing it all came out, a bit
hysterical.

' I couldn't sleep — I was frightened. Oh ! I had
such a terrible dream about you, Joe ! I thought
Romany came back and got into your room and
stabbed you with his knife. I got up and dressed,
and about daybreak I heard a horse at the gate ;
then I got the gun down from the wall — and — and
Mr Barnes came round the corner and frightened
me. He's something like Romany, you know.'

Then I got as much of her as I could into my
arms.

And, oh, but wasn't I happy walking home with
Mary that night ! She was too little for me to put
my arm round her waist, so I put it round her
shoulder, and that felt just as good. I remember I
asked her who'd cleaned up my room and washed
my things, but she wouldn't tell.

She wouldn't go back to the dance yet ; she said

J( m w ii • iN S C01 R i SHIP,

she'd go into her room and rest a while. There was
do one near the old verandah; and when she stood
on the end of the floor she was just on a level with
my shoulder.

'Mary,1 I whispered, 'put your anus round my
neck and kiss me.'

She put her arms round my neck, but she didn't

kiss me : she only hid her face.

' Kiss me, Mary ! ' I said.

' I- I don't like to,' she whispei d.

• Why not, Mary?'

Then I felt her crying or laughing, or half crying
and half laughing. I'm not sure to this day which
it was.

'Why won't you kiss me, Mary? Don't you love
me "t '

' Because,' she said, ' because — because I — I don't
— I don't think it's right for — for a girl to — to kiss
a man unless she's going to be his wife.'

Then it dawned on me! I'd forgot all about
proposing.

'Mary,' I said, 'would you marry a chap like

me :- •

Ail hat was all right.

Next morning Mary cleared out my room and
sorted out my things, and didn't take the slightest
notice of the other girls' astonishment.

But she made me promise to speak to old Black,
and I did the same evening. 1 found him sitting on
the l-'e, by the fence, having a yarn on the quiet
with an old Bushman ; and when the old Bushman
got up and went away, I sat down.

JOE WILSON'S COURTSHIP. 45

' Well, Joe,' said Black, ' I see somebody's been
spoiling your face for the dance.' And after a bit
he said, 'Well, Joe, what is it? Do you want
another job ? If you do, you'll have to ask Mrs
Black, or Bob ' (Bob was his eldest son); 'they're
managing the station for me now, you know.' He
could be bitter sometimes in his quiet way.

' No,' I said ; ' it's not that, Boss.'

' Well, what is it, Joe ? '

' I — well the fact is, I want little Mary.'

He puffed at his pipe for a long time, then I
thought he spoke.

' What did you say, Boss ? ' I said.

'Nothing, Joe,' he said. 'I was going to say a
lot, but it wouldn't be any use. My father used to
say a lot to me before I was married.'

I waited a good while for him to speak.

' Well, Boss,' I said, ' what about Mary ? '

'Oh ! I suppose that's all right, Joe,' he said. ' I
— I beg your pardon. I got thinking of the days
when I was courting Mrs Black.'

BRIGHTEN'S SISTER-IN-LAW.

JIM was born on Gulgong, New South Wales.
We used to say ' on ' Gulgong — and old diggers
still talked of being 'on th' Gulgong' — though the
goldfield there had been worked out for years, and
the place was only a dusty little pastoral town in
the scrubs. Gulgong was about the last of the
great alluvial ' rushes ' of the ' roaring days ' — and
dreary and dismal enough it looked when I was
there. The expression ' on ' came from being on
the 'diggings' or goldfield — the workings or the
goldfield was all underneath, of course, so we lived
(or starved) on them — not in nor at 'em.

Mary and I had been married about two years

when Jim came His name wasn't 'Jim,' by

the way, it was 'John Henry,' after an uncle god-
father; but we called him Jim from the first — (and
before it) — because Jim was a popular Bush name,
and most of my old mates were Jims. The Bush
is full of good-hearted scamps called fim.

We lived in an old weather-board shanty that
had been a sly-grog-shop, and the Lord knows what

[B BRIGHTEN'S SISTER-IN-] AW.

else I in the palmy days of Gulgong; and I did a
bit of digging ('fossicking,' rather), a bit of shear-
ing, a bit of fencing, a bit of Bush-carpentering,
tank-sinking, — anything, just to keep the billy
boiling.

We had a lot of trouble with Jim with his teeth.
He was bad with every one of them, and we had
most of them lanced — couldn't pull him through
without. I remember we got one lanced and the
gum healed over before the tooth came through,
and we had to get it cut again. He was a plucky
little chap, and after the first time he never whim-
pered when the doctor was lancing his gum : he
used to say ' tar ' afterwards, and want to bring
the lance home with him.

The first turn we got with Jim was the worst.
I had had the wife and Jim out camping with me
in a tent at a dam I was making at Cattle Creek;
I had two men working for me, and a boy to drive
one of the tip-drays, and I took Mary out to cook
for us. And it was lucky for us that the contract
was finished and we got back to Gulgong, and
within reach of a doctor, the day we did. We
were just camping in the house, with our goods
and chattels anyhow, for the night ; and we were
hardly back home an hour when Jim took convul-
sions for the first time.

Did you ever see a child in convulsions ? You
wouldn't want to see it again : it plays the devil
with a man's nerves. I'd got the beds fixed up on
the floor, and the billies on the fire — I was going
to make some tea, and put a piece of corned
beef on to boil over night — when Jim (he'd been

BRIGHTEN'S SISTER-IN-LAW. 49

queer all day, and his mother was trying to hush
him to sleep) — Jim, he screamed out twice. He'd
been crying a good deal, and I was dog-tired and
worried (over some money a man owed me) or I'd
have noticed at once that there was something un-
usual in the way the child cried out : as it was I
didn't turn round till Mary screamed ' Joe ! Joe ! '
You know how a woman cries out when her child
is in danger or dying — short, and sharp, and terri-
ble. 'Joe! Look! look! Oh, my God ! our child!
Get the bath, quick ! quick ! it's convulsions ! '

Jim was bent back like a bow, stiff as a bullock-
yoke, in his mother's arms, and his eyeballs were
turned up and fixed — a thing I saw twice afterwards,
and don't want ever to see again.

I was falling over things getting the tub and the
hot water, when the woman who lived next door
rushed in. She called to her husband to run for
the doctor, and before the doctor came she and
Mary had got Jim into a hot bath and pulled him
through.

The neighbour woman made me up a shake-down
in another room, and stayed with Mary that night ;
but it was a long while before I got Jim and Mary's
screams out of my head and fell asleep.

You may depend I kept the fire in, and a bucket
of water hot over it, for a good many nights after
that ; but (it always happens like this) there came a
night, when the fright had worn off, when I was too
tired to bother about the fire, and that night Jim
took us by surprise. Our wood - heap was done,
and I broke up a new chair to get a fire, and
had to run a quarter of a mile for water; but

D

50 BRIGHTENS SISTER-IN-1 \W.

this turn wasn't so bad as the first, and we
pulled him through.

You never saw a child in convulsions? Well,
you don't want to. It must be only a matter of
inds, but it seems long minutes; and half an
hour afterwards the child might be laughing and
playing with you, or stretched out dead. It shook
me up a lot. I was always pretty high-strung and
sensitive. After Jim took the first fit, every time he
cried, or turned over, or stretched out in the flight,
I'd jump: I was always feeling his forehead in the
dark to see if he was feverish, or feeling his limbs to
see if he was ' limp ' yet. Mary and I often laughed
about it — afterwards. I tried sleeping in another
room, but for nights after Jim's first attack I'd be
just dozing off into a sound sleep, when I'd hear him
scream, as plain as could be, and I'd hear Mary cry,
'Joe! — Joe!' — short, sharp, and terrible — and I'd
be up and into their room like a shot, only to find
them sleeping peacefully. Then I'd feel Jim's head
and his breathing for signs of convulsions, see to the
fire and water, and go back to bed and try to sleep.
For the first few nights I was like that all night, and
I'd feel relieved when daylight came. I'd be in first
thing to see if they were all right ; then I'd sleep till
dinner-time if it was Sunday or I had no work.
But then I was run down about that time : I was
worried about some money for a wool-shed I put up
and never got paid for ; and, besides, I'd been pretty
wild before I met Mary.

I was fighting hard then — struggling for something
better. Both Mary and I were born to better things,
and that's what made the life so hard for us.

brighten's sister-in-law. 51

Jim got on all right for a while : we used to
watch him well, and have his teeth lanced in
time.

It used to hurt and worry me to see how — just as
he was getting fat and rosy and like a natural happy
child, and I'd feel proud to take him out — a tooth
would come along, and he'd get thin and white and
pale and bigger-eyed and old-fashioned. We'd say,
' He'll be safe when he gets his eye-teeth ' : but he
didn't get them till he was two ; then, ' He'll be safe
when he gets his two-year-old teeth ' : they didn't
come till he was going on for three.

He was a wonderful little chap — Yes, I know all
about parents thinking that their child is the best in
the world. If your boy is small for his age, friends
will say that small children make big men ; that he's
a very bright, intelligent child, and that it's better
to have a bright, intelligent child than a big, sleepy
lump of fat. And if your boy is dull and sleepy, they
say that the dullest boys make the cleverest men —
and all the rest of it. I never took any notice of
that sort of clatter — took it for what it was worth ;
but, all the same, I don't think I ever saw such a
child as Jim was when he turned two. He was
everybody's favourite. They spoilt him rather. I
had my own ideas about bringing up a child. I
reckoned Mary was too soft with Jim. She'd say,
'Put that' (whatever it was) 'out of Jim's reach,
will you, Joe ? ' and I'd say, ' No ! leave it there, and
make him understand he's not to have it. Make him
have his meals without any nonsense, and go to bed
at a regular hour,' I'd say. Mary and I had many a
breeze over Jim. She'd say that I forgot he was

52 brighten's sister-in-law.

only a baby: but I held thai a baby could be
trained from the first week; and I believe I was
right.

But, after all, what are you to do? You'll see
a boy that was brought up strict turn out a scamp;
and another that was draped up anyhow (by the
hair of the head, as the saying is) turn out well.
Then, again, when a child is delicate — and you
might lose him any day — you don't like to spank
him, though he might be turning out a little fiend,
as delicate children often do. Suppose you gave
a child a hammering, and the same night he took
convulsions, or something, and died — how'd you
feel about it ? You never know what a child is
going to take, any more than you can tell what
some women are going to say or do.

I was very fond of Jim, and we were great chums.
Sometimes I'd sit and wonder what the deuce he
was thinking about, and often, the way he talked,
he'd make me uneasy. When he was two he wanted
a pipe above all things, and I'd get him a clean new
clay and he'd sit by my side, on the edge of the
verandah, or on a log of the wood-heap, in the cool
of the evening, and suck away at his pipe, and try
to spit when he saw me do it. He seemed to under-
stand that a cold empty pipe wasn't quite the thing,
yet to have the sense to know that he couldn't
smoke tobacco yet : he made the best he could of
things. And if he broke a clay pipe he wouldn't
have a new one, and there'd be a row ; the old one
had to be mended up, somehow, with string or wire.
If I got my hair cut, he'd want his cut too ; and it
always troubled him to see me shave — as if he

BRIGHTEN S SISTER-IN-LAW. 53

thought there must be something wrong some-
where, else he ought to have to be shaved too. I
lathered him one day, and pretended to shave him :
he sat through it as solemn as an owl, but didn't
seem to appreciate it — perhaps he had sense enough
to know that it couldn't possibly be the real thing.
He felt his face, looked very hard at the lather I
scraped off, and whimpered, ' No blood, daddy ! '

I used to cut myself a good deal : I was always
impatient over shaving.

Then he went in to interview his mother about
it. She understood his lingo better than I did.

But I wasn't always at ease with him. Some-
times he'd sit looking into the fire, with his head
on one side, and I'd watch him and wonder what
he was thinking about (I might as well have
wondered what a Chinaman was thinking about)
till he seemed at least twenty years older than
me : sometimes, when I moved or spoke, he'd
glance round just as if to see what that old fool
of a dadda of his was doing now.

I used to have a fancy that there was something
Eastern, or Asiatic — something older than our
civilisation or religion — about old-fashioned children.
Once I started to explain my idea to a woman I
thought would understand — and as it happened she
had an old-fashioned child, with very slant eyes —
a little tartar he was too. I suppose it was the
sight of him that unconsciously reminded me of
my infernal theory, and set me off on it, without
warning me. Anyhow, it got me mixed up in an
awful row with the woman and her husband — and
all their tribe. It wasn't an easy thing to explain

54 BRIGHTEN S SISTER-IN-] AW.

myself out o( it, and the row hasn't been fixed up
yet. ["here were some Chinamen in the district.

I took a good-size fencing contract, the frontage
of a ten-mile paddock, near Gulgong, and did well
out of it. The railway had got as far as the Cudgee-
gong riwr— some twenty miles from Gulgong and
two hundred from the coast — and ' carrying ' was
good then. I had a couple of draught-horses, that
I worked in the tip-drays when I was tank-sinking,
and one or two others running in the Bush. I
bought a broken-down waggon cheap, tinkered it
up myself — christened it ' The Same Old Thing ' —
and started carrying from the railway terminus
through Gulgong and along the bush roads and tracks
that branch out fanlike through the scrubs to the
one-pub towns and sheep and cattle stations out
there in the howling wilderness. It wasn't much
of a team. There were the two heavy horses for
'shatters'; a stunted colt, that I'd bought out of
the pound for thirty shillings ; a light, spring-cart
horse ; an old grey mare, with points like a big
red- and -white Australian store bullock, and with
the grit of an old washerwoman to work ; and a
horse that had spanked along in Cob & Co.'s mail-
coach in his time. I had a couple there that didn't
belong to me : I worked them for the feeding of
them in the dry weather. And I had all sorts of
harness, that I mended and fixed up myself. It
was a mixed team, but I took light stuff, got through
pretty quick, and freight rates were high. So I got
along.

Before this, whenever I made a few pounds I'd
sink a shaft somewhere, prospecting for gold ; but

brighten's sister-in-law. 55

Mary never let me rest till she talked me out of
that.

I made up my mind to take on a small selection
farm — that an old mate of mine had fenced in and
cleared, and afterwards chucked up — about thirty
miles out west of Gulgong, at a place called Lahey's
Creek. (The places were all called Lahey's Creek,
or Spicer's Flat, or Murphy's Flat, or Ryan's Cross-
ing, or some such name — round there.) I reckoned
I'd have a run for the horses and be able to grow a
bit of feed. I always had a dread of taking Mary
and the children too far away from a doctor — or a
good woman neighbour ; but there were some people
came to live on Lahey's Creek, and besides, there
was a young brother of Mary's — a young scamp (his
name was Jim, too, and we called him ' Jimmy '
at first to make room for our Jim — he hated the
name 'Jimmy' or James). He came to live with us
— without asking — and I thought he'd find enough
work at Lahey's Creek to keep him out of mischief.
He wasn't to be depended on much — he thought noth-
ing of riding off, five hundred miles or so, ' to have a
look at the country ' — but he was fond of Mary, and
he'd stay by her till I got some one else to keep her
company while I was on the road. He would be a
protection against ' sundowners ' or any shearers who
happened to wander that way in the ' D.T.'s ' after a
spree. Mary had a married sister come to live at
Gulgong just before we left, and nothing would suit
her and her husband but we must leave little Jim
with them for a month or so — till we got settled
down at Lahey's Creek. They were newly married.

Mary was to have driven into Gulgong, in the

56 brighten's sister-in-law.

ng-cart, at the end of the month, and taken Jim
home; but when the time rami- she wasn't too well
— and, besides, the tyros of the cart were loose, and
1 hadn't time to get them cnt, so we let Jim's time
run on a week or so longer, till I happened to come
out through Gulgong from the river with a small load
of Hour for Lahey's Creek way. The roads were
good, the weather grand — no chance of it raining,
and I had a spare tarpaulin if it did — I would only
camp out one night ; so I decided to take Jim home
with me.

Jim was turning three then, and he was a cure.
He was so old-fashioned that he used to frighten me
sometimes — I'd almost think that there was some-
thing supernatural about him ; though, of course, I
never took any notice of that rot about some chil-
dren being too old-fashioned to live. There's always
the ghoulish old hag (and some not so old nor hag-
gish either) who'll come round and shake up young
parents with such croaks as, ' You'll never rear that
child — he's too bright for his age.' To the devil with
them ! I say.

But I really thought that Jim was too intelligent
for his age, and I often told Mary that he ought to
be kept back, and not let talk too much to old
diggers and long lanky jokers of Bushmen who rode
in and hung their horses outside my place on Sun-
day afternoons.

I don't believe in parents talking about their own
children everlastingly — you get sick of hearing them ;
and their kids are generally little devils, and turn out
larrikins as likely as not.

But, for all that, I really think that Jim, when he

brighten's sister-in-law. 57

was three years old, was the most wonderful little
chap, in every way, that I ever saw.

For the first hour or so, along the road, he was
telling me all about his adventures at his auntie's.

' But they spoilt me too much, dad,' he said, as
solemn as a native bear. ' An' besides, a boy ought
to stick to his parrans ! '

I was taking out a cattle-pup for a drover I knew,
and the pup took up a good deal of Jim's time.

Sometimes he'd jolt me, the way he talked ; and
other times I'd have to turn away my head and
cough, or shout at the horses, to keep from laughing
outright. And once, when I was taken that way, he
said —

' What are you jerking your shoulders and cough-
ing, and grunting, and going on that way for, dad ?
Why don't you tell me something ? '

' Tell you what, Jim ? '

' Tell me some talk.'

So I told him all the talk I could think of. And
I had to brighten up, I can tell you, and not draw
too much on my imagination — for Jim was a terror
at cross-examination when the fit took him ; and he
didn't think twice about telling you when he thought
you were talking nonsense. Once he said—

' I'm glad you took me home with you, dad.
You'll get to know Jim.'

* What ! ' I said.

"You'll get to know Jim.'

' But don't I know you already ? '

' No, you don't. You never has time to know
Jim at home.'

And, looking back, I saw that it was cruel true.

50 BRIGHTEN S SISTER-IN-LAW.

I had known in my heart all along that this was
the truth ; but it came to me like a blow from Jim.
You see, it had been a hard struggle for the last
\ ear or so ; and when I was home for a day or two
I was generally too busy, or too tired and worried,
or full of schemes for the future, to take much notice
of Jim. Mary used to speak to me about it some-
times. ' You never take notice of the child,' she'd
say. ' You could surely find a few minutes of an
evening. What's the use of always worrying and
brooding ? Your brain will go with a snap some
day, and, if you get over it, it will teach you a
lesson. You'll be an old man, and Jim a young
one, before you realise that you had a child once.
Then it will be too late.'

This sort of talk from Mary always bored me and
made me impatient with her, because I knew it all
too well. I never worried for myself — only for
Mary and the children. And often, as the days
went by, I said to myself, ' I'll take more notice of
Jim and give Mary more of my time, just as soon as
I can see things clear ahead a bit.' And the hard
days went on, and the weeks, and the months, and
the years Ah, well !

Mary used to say, when things would get worse,
' Why don't you talk to me, Joe ? Why don't you
tell me your thoughts, instead of shutting yourself
up in yourself and brooding — eating your heart out ?
It's hard for me : I get to think you're tired of me,
and selfish. I might be cross and speak sharp to
you when you are in trouble. How am I to know,
if you don't tell me ? '

But I didn't think she'd understand.

brighten's sister-in-law. 5g

And so, getting acquainted, and chumming and
dozing, with the gums closing over our heads here
and there, and the ragged patches of sunlight and
shade passing up, over the horses, over us, on the
front of the load, over the load, and down on to
the white, dusty road again — Jim and I got along
the lonely Bush road and over the ridges, some
fifteen miles before sunset, and camped at Ryan's
Crossing on Sandy Creek for the night. I got
the horses out and took the harness off. Jim
wanted badly to help me, but I made him stay
on the load ; for one of the horses — a vicious, red-
eyed chestnut — was a kicker : he'd broken a man's
leg. I got the feed-bags stretched across the shafts,
and the chaff-and-corn into them ; and there stood
the horses all round with their rumps north, south,
and west, and their heads between the shafts,
munching and switching their tails. We use double
shafts, you know, for horse-teams — two pairs side
by side, — and prop them up, and stretch bags be-
tween them, letting the bags sag to serve as feed-
boxes. I threw the spare tarpaulin over the wheels
on one side, letting about half of it lie on the ground
in case of damp, and so making a floor and a break-
wind. I threw down bags and the blankets and
'possum rug against the wheel to make a camp for
Jim and the cattle-pup, and got a gin-case we used
for a tucker-box, the frying-pan and billy down,
and made a good fire at a log close handy, and soon
everything was comfortable. Ryan's Crossing was
a grand camp. I stood with my pipe in my mouth,
my hands behind my back, and my back to the fire,
and took the country in.

60 brighten's sister-in-law.

Reedy Creek came down along a western spur
of the range: the hanks here were deep and green,
and the water ran clear over the granite bars,
boulders, and gravel. Behind us was a dreary flat
covered with those gnarled, grey-harked, dry-rotted
1 native apple-trees ' (about as much like apple-trees
as the native bear is like any other), and a nasty bit
of sand-dusty road that I was always glad to get
over in wet weather. To the left on our side of the
creek .were reedy marshes, with frogs croaking, and
across the creek the dark box-scrub-covered ridges
ended in steep ' sidings ' coming down to the creek-
bank, and to the main road that skirted them,
running on west up over a 'saddle' in the ridges
and on towards Dubbo. The road by Lahey's
Creek to a place called Cobborah branched off,
though dreary apple-tree and stringy bark flats,
to the left, just beyond the crossing: all these
fanlike branch tracks from the Cudgeegong were
inside a big horse-shoe in the Great Western Line,
and so they gave small carriers a chance, now that
Cob & Co.'s coaches and the big teams and vans
had shifted out of the main western terminus.
There were tall she-oaks all along the creek, and
a clump of big ones over a deep water-hole just
above the crossing. The creek oaks have rough
barked trunks, like English elms, but are much
taller, and higher to the branches — and the leaves
are reedy; Kendel, the Australian poet, calls them
the ' she-oak harps iEolian.' Those trees are al-
ways sigh-sigh-sighing — more of a sigh than a sough
or the ' whoosh ' of gum-trees in the wind. You
always hear them sighing, even when you can't

brighten's sister-in-law. 6i

feel any wind. It's the same with telegraph wires :
put your head against a telegraph-post on a dead,
still day, and you'll hear and feel the far-away
roar of the wires. But then the oaks are not con-
nected with the distance, where there might be
wind ; and they don't roar in a gale, only sigh
louder and softer according to the wind, and never
seem to go above or below a certain pitch, — like
a big harp with all the strings the same. I used
to have a theory that those creek oaks got the
wind's voice telephoned to them, so to speak,
through the ground.

I happened to look down, and there was Jim (I
thought he was on the tarpaulin, playing with the
pup) : he was standing close beside me with his legs
wide apart, his hands behind his back, and his back
to the fire.

He held his head a little on one side, and there
was such an old, old, wise expression in his big
brown eyes — just as if he'd been a child for a hun-
dred years or so, or as though he were listening to
those oaks and understanding them in a fatherly
sort of way.

'Dad!' he said presently — 'Dad! do you think
I'll ever grow up to be a man ? '

' Wh — why, Jim ? ' I gasped.

' Because I don't want to.'

I couldn't think of anything against this. It
made me uneasy. But I remembered / used to have
a childish dread of growing up to be a man.

'Jim,' I said, to break the silence, 'do you hear
what the she-oaks say ? '

' No, I don't. Is they talking ? '

bz brighten's sister-in-law.

' Yes,' I said, without thinking.

' What is they saj ing ? ' he asked.

I took the bucket and went down to the creek for
some water for tea I thought Jim would follow
with a little tin billy he had, but he didn't: when I
got back to the fire he was again on the 'possum
rug, comforting the pup. I fried some bacon and
eggs that I'd brought out with me. Jim sang out
from the waggon —

' Don't cook too much, dad — I mightn't be
hungry.'

I got the tin plates and pint-pots and things out
on a clean new flour-bag, in honour of Jim, and
dished up. He was leaning back on the rug look-
ing at the pup in a listless sort of way. I reckoned
he was tired out, and pulled the gin-case up close to
him for a table and put his plate on it. But he only
tried a mouthful or two, and then he said —

' I ain't hungry, dad! You'll have to eat it all.'

It made me uneasy — I never liked to see a child
of mine turn from his food. They had given him
some tinned salmon in Gulgong, and I was afraid
that that was upsetting him. I was always against
tinned muck.

' Sick, Jim ? ' I asked.

'No, dad, I ain't sick; I don't know what's the
matter with me.'

' Have some tea, sonny ? '

' Yes, dad.'

I gave him some tea, with some milk in it that I'd
brought in a bottle from his aunt's for him. He
took a sip or two and then put the pint-pot on the
gin-case.

brighten's sister-in-law. 63

'Jim's tired, dad,' he said.

I made him lie down while I fixed up a camp for
the night. It had turned a bit chilly, so I let the
big tarpaulin down all round — it was made to cover
a high load, the flour in the waggon didn't come
above the rail, so the tarpaulin came down well on
to the ground. I fixed Jim up a comfortable bed
under the tail-end of the waggon : when I went to
lift him in he was lying back, looking up at the stars
in a half-dreamy, half- fascinated way that I didn't
like. Whenever Jim was extra old-fashioned, or
affectionate, there was danger.

' How do you feel now, sonny ? '

It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned
from the stars.

'Jim's better, dad.' Then he said something like,
' The stars are looking at me.' I thought he was
half asleep. I took off his jacket and boots, and
carried him in under the waggon and made him
comfortable for the night.

' Kiss me 'night-night, daddy,' he said.

I'd rather he hadn't asked me — it was a bad sign.
As I was going to the fire he called me back.

' What is it, Jim ? '

' Get me my things and the cattle-pup, please,
daddy.'

I was scared now. His things were some toys and
rubbish he'd brought from Gulgong, and I remem-
bered, the last time he had convulsions, he took all
his toys and a kitten to bed with hirn. And ' 'night-
night ' and 'daddy' were two-year-old language to
Jim. I'd thought he'd forgotten those words — he
seemed to be going back.

64 brighten's sister-in-law.

' Are you quite warm enough, Jim ? '
' Yes, dad.1

irted to walk up and down — I always did this
when I was extra worried.

1 was frightened now about Jim, though I tried to
hide the fact from myself. Presently he called me
again.

'What is it, Jim?'

' Take the blankets off me, fahver — Jim's sick ! '
(They'd been teaching him to say father.)

I was scared now. I remembered a neighbour of
ours had a little girl die (she swallowed a pin), and
when she was going she said —

' Take the blankets off me, muvver — I'm dying.'

And I couldn't get that out of my head.

I threw back a fold of the 'possum rug, and felt
Jim's head — he seemed cool enough.

' Where do you feel bad, sonny ? '

No answer for a while ; then he said suddenly,
but in a voice as if he were talking in his sleep —

' Put my boots on, please, daddy. I want to go
home to muvver ! '

I held his hand, and comforted him for a
while ; then he slept — in a restless, feverish sort
of way.

I got the bucket I used for water for the horses
and stood it over the fire ; I ran to the creek with
the big kerosene-tin bucket and got it full of cold
water and stood it handy. I got the spade (we
always* carried one to dig wheels out of bogs in wet
weather) and turned a corner of the tarpaulin back,
dug a hole, and trod the tarpaulin down into the
hole, to serve for a bath, in case of the worst. I had

brighten's sister-in-law. 65

a tin of mustard, and meant to fight a good round
for Jim, if death came along.

I stooped in under the tail-board of the waggon
and felt Jim. His head was burning hot, and his
skin parched and dry as a bone.

Then I lost nerve and started blundering back-
ward and forward between the waggon and the fire,
and repeating what I'd heard Mary say the last time
we fought for Jim : ' God ! don't take my child !
God ! don't take my boy ! ' I'd never had much
faith in doctors, but, my God ! I wanted one then.
The nearest was fifteen miles away.

I threw back my head and stared up at the
branches, in desperation ; and — Well, I don't ask
you to take much stock in this, though most old
Bushmen will believe anything of the Bush by night ;
and — Now, it might have been that I was all unstrung,
or it might have been a patch of sky outlined in the
gently moving branches, or the blue smoke rising up.
But I saw the figure of a woman, all white, come
down, down, nearly to the limbs of the trees, point
on up the main road, and then float up and up and
vanish, still pointing. I thought Mary was dead !
Then it flashed on me

Four or five miles up the road, over the 'saddle,'
was an old shanty that had been a half-way inn
before the Great Western Line got round as far as
Dubbo and took the coach traffic off those old Bush
roads. A man named Brighten lived there. He was
a selector ; did a little farming, and as much sly-grog
selling as he could. He was married — but it wasn't
that: I'd thought 01 them, but she was a childish,
worn -cut, spiritless woman, and both were pretty

E

66 brighten's sister-in-law.

'ratty' from hardship and loneliness — they weren't
likely to be of any use to me. But it was this : I'd
: el talk, among some women in Gulgong, of a sister
of Brighten's wife who'd gone out to live with them
lately : she'd been a hospital matron in the city, they
said ; and there were yarns about her. Some said
she got the sack for exposing the doctors — or carry-
ing on with them — I didn't remember which. The
fact of a city woman going out to live in such a
place, with such people, was enough to make talk
among women in a town twenty miles away, but
then there must have been something extra about
her, else Bushmen wouldn't have talked and carried
her name so far ; and I wanted a woman out of the
ordinary now. I even reasoned this way, thinking
like lightning, as I knelt over Jim between the big
back wheels of the waggon.

I had an old racing mare that I used as a riding
hack, following the team. In a minute I had her
saddled and bridled ; I tied the end of a half-full
chaff-bag, shook the chaff into each end and dumped
it on to the pommel as a cushion or buffer for Jim ; I
wrapped him in a blanket, and scrambled into the
saddle with him.

The next minute we were stumbling down the
steep bank, clattering and splashing over the cross-
ing, and struggling up the opposite bank to the
level. The mare, as I told you, was an old racer,
but broken-winded— she must have run without wind
after the first half mile. She had the old racing
instinct in her strong, and whenever I rode in
company I'd have to pull her hard else she'd race
the other horse or burst. She ran low fore and aft,

brighten's sister-in-law. 67

and was the easiest horse I ever rode. She ran like
wheels on rails, with a bit of a tremble now and
then — like a railway carriage — when she settled
down to it.

The chaff-bag had slipped off, in the creek I sup-
pose, and I let the bridle-rein go and held Jim up to
me like a baby the whole way. Let the strongest
man, who isn't used to it, hold a baby in one posi-
tion for five minutes — and Jim was fairly heavy.
But I never felt the ache in my arms that night —
it must have gone before I was in a fit state of mind
to feel it. And at home I'd often growled about
being asked to hold the baby for a few minutes. I
could never brood comfortably and nurse a baby at
the same time. It was a ghostly moonlight night.
There's no timber in the world so ghostly as the
Australian Bush in moonlight — or just about day-
break. The all-shaped patches of moonlight falling
between ragged, twisted boughs ; the ghostly blue-
white bark of the ' white-box ' trees ; a dead naked
white ring-barked tree, or dead white stump starting
out here and there, and the ragged patches of shade
and light on the road that made anything, from the
shape of a spotted bullock to a naked corpse laid out
stark. Roads and tracks through the Bush made by
moonlight — every one seeming straighter and clearer
than the real one : you have to trust to your horse
then. Sometimes the naked white trunk of a red
stringy bark-tree, where a sheet of bark had been
taken off, would start out like a ghost from the dark
Bush. And dew or frost glistening on these things,
according to the season. Now and again a great
grey kangaroo, that had been feeding on a green

BRIGHT] N*s SISTER-IN-LAW.

patch down by the road, would start with ;i 'thump-
thump,' and away up the siding.

The Bush seemed full of ghosts that night — all
going my way — and being left behind by the mare.
Oner 1 stopped to look at Jim: I just sat back
and the mare 'propped' — she'd been a stock-horse,
and was used to 'cutting-out.' I felt Jim's hands
and forehead; he was in a burning fever. I bent
forward, and the old mare settled down to it again.
I kept saying out loud — and Mary and me often
laughed about it (afterwards) : ' He's limp yet ! —
Jim's limp yet ! ' (the words seemed jerked out of
me by sheer fright) — ' He's limp yet ! ' till the mare's
feet took it up. Then, just when I thought she
was doing her best and racing her hardest, she
suddenly started forward, like a cable tram gliding
along on its own and the grip put on suddenly.
It was just what she'd do when I'd be riding alone
and a strange horse drew up from behind — the old
racing instinct. I felt the thing too ! I felt as if
a strange horse was there ! And then — the words
just jerked out of me by sheer funk — I started
saying, ' Death is riding to-night ! . . . Death is
racing to-night ! . . . Death is riding to-night ! ' till
the hoofs took that up. And I believe the old
mare felt the black horse at her side and was going
to beat him or break her heart.

I was mad with anxiety and fright : I remember
I kept saying, 'I'll be kinder to Mary after this!
I'll take more notice of Jim ! ' and the rest of it.

I don't know how the old mare got up the last
'pinch.' She must have slackened pace, but I
never noticed it : I just held Jim up to me and

brighten's sister-in-law. 69

gripped the saddle with my knees — I remember the
saddle jerked from the desperate jumps of her till
I thought the girth would go. We topped the gap
and were going down into a gully they called Dead
Man's Hollow, and there, at the back of a ghostly
clearing that opened from the road where there
were some black -soil springs, was a long, low,
oblong weatherboard - and - shingle building, with
blind, broken windows in the gable - ends, and a
wide steep verandah roof slanting down almost to
the level of the window-sills — there was something
sinister about it, I thought — like the hat of a jail-
bird slouched over his eyes. The place looked both
deserted and haunted. I saw no light, but that
was because of the moonlight outside. The mare
turned in at the corner of the clearing to take a
short cut to the shanty, and, as she struggled
across some marshy ground, my heart kept jerking
out the words, ' It's deserted ! They've gone away !
It's deserted ! ' The mare went round to the back
and pulled up between the back door and a big
bark-and-slab kitchen. Some one shouted from
inside —

'Who's there?'

' It's me. Joe Wilson. I want your sister-in-law
— I've got the boy — he's sick and dying! '

Brighten came out, pulling up his moleskins.
' What boy ? ' he asked.

'Here, take him,' I shouted, 'and let me get
down.'

'What's the matter with him?' asked Brighten,
and he seemed to hang back. And just as I made to
get my leg over the saddle, Jim's head went back

BRIGH 1 I.N S SIS II R-IN-LAW.

r my arm, he stiffened, and I saw his eyeballs
turned up and glistening in the moonlight.

I felt cold all over then and sick in the stomach —
but clear-headed in a way: strange, wasn't it? I
don't know why I didn't get down and rush into the
kitchen to get a hath ready. I only felt as if the
worst had come, and I wished it were over and gone.
I even thought of Mary and the funeral.

Then a woman ran out of the house — a big, hard-
looking woman. She had on a wrapper of some
sort, and her feet were bare. She laid her hand on
Jim, looked at his face, and then snatched him from
me and ran into the kitchen — and me down and
after her. As great good luck would have it, they
had some dirty clothes on to boil in a kerosene tin —
dish-cloths or something.

Brighten's sister-in-law dragged a tub out from
under the table, wrenched the bucket off the hook,
and dumped in the water, dish - cloths and all,
snatched a can of cold water from a corner, dashed
that in, and felt the water with her hand — holding
Jim up to her hip all the time — and I won't say how
he looked. She stood him in the tub and started
dashing water over him, tearing off his clothes
between the splashes.

'Here, that tin of mustard— there on the shelf!'
she shouted to me.

She knocked the lid off the tin on the edge of the
tub, and went on splashing and spanking Jim.

It seemed an eternity. And I ? Why, I never
thought clearer in my life. I felt cold-blooded — I
felt as if I'd like an excuse to go outside till it was
all over. I thought of Mary and the funeral — and

brighten's sister-in-law. 71

wished that that was past. All this in a flash, as
it were. I felt that it would be a great relief, and
only wished the funeral was months past. I felt —
well, altogether selfish. I only thought for myself.

Brighten's sister-in-law splashed and spanked him
hard — hard enough to break his back I thought,
and — after about half an hour it seemed — the end
came : Jim's limbs relaxed, he slipped down into
the tub, and the pupils of his eyes came down.
They seemed dull and expressionless, like the eyes
of a new baby, but he was back for the world
again.

I dropped on the stool by the table.

' It's all right,' she said. ' It's all over now. I
wasn't going to let him die.' I was only thinking,
' Well it's over now, but it will come on again. I
wish it was over for good. I'm tired of it.'

She called to her sister, Mrs Brighten, a washed-
out, helpless little fool of a woman, who'd been
running in and out and whimpering all the time —

' Here, Jessie ! bring the new white blanket off
my bed. And you, Brighten, take some of that
wood off the fire, and stuff something in that hole
there to stop the draught.'

Brighten — he was a nuggety little hairy man
with no expression to be seen for whiskers — had
been running in with sticks and back logs from
the wood-heap. He took the wood out, stuffed up
the crack, and went inside and brought out a black
bottle — got a cup from the shelf, and put both
down near my elbow.

Mrs Brighten started to get some supper or break-
fast, or whatever it was, ready. She had a clean

J2 BRIGH I l \'s SIST] R-IN-1 \W.

th, and sel the table tidily. I noticed that all

the tins weir polished bright (old coffee- and
mustard-tins and the like, that they used instead
of sugar-basins and tea-caddies and salt-cellars),
and the kitchen was kept as clean as possible.
She was all right at little things. I knew a
haggard, worked-out Bushwoman who pnt her whole
soul — or all she'd got left — into polishing old tins
till they dazzled your eyes.

I didn't feel inclined for corned beef and damper,
and post-and-rail tea. So I sat and squinted, when
I thought she wasn't looking, at Brighten's sister-
in-law. She was a big woman, her hands and feet
were big, but well-shaped and all in proportion —
they fitted her. She was a handsome woman —
about forty I should think. She had a square
chin, and a straight thin -lipped mouth — straight
save for a hint of a turn down at the corners,
which I fancied (and I have strange fancies) had
been a sign of weakness in the days before she
grew hard. There was no sign of weakness now.
She had hard grey eyes and blue-black hair. She
hadn't spoken yet. She didn't ask me how the
boy took ill or I got there, or who or what I was
— at least not until the next evening at tea-time.

She sat upright with Jim wrapped in the blanket
and laid across her knees, with one hand under his
neck and the other laid lightly on him, and she just
rocked him gently.

She sat looking hard and straight before her, just
as I've seen a tired needlewoman sit with her work
in her lap, and look away back into the past. And
Jim might have been the work in her lap, for all she

BRIGHTEN'S SISTER-IN-LAW. J$

seemed to think of him. Now and then she knitted
her forehead and blinked.

Suddenly she glanced round and said — in a tone
as if I was her husband and she didn't think much
of me —

' Why don't you eat something ? '

' Beg pardon ? '

' Eat something ! '

I drank some tea, and sneaked another look at
her. I was beginning to feel more natural, and
wanted Jim again, now that the colour was com-
ing back into his face, and he didn't look like an
unnaturally stiff and staring corpse. I felt a lump
rising, and wanted to thank her. I sneaked another
look at her.

She was staring straight before her, — I never saw
a woman's face change so suddenly — I never saw a
woman's eyes so haggard and hopeless. Then her
great chest heaved twice, I heard her draw a long
shuddering breath, like a knocked-out horse, and
two great tears dropped from her wide open eyes
down her cheeks like rain - drops on a face of
stone. And in the firelight they seemed tinged
with blood.

I looked away quick, feeling full up myself.
And presently (I hadn't seen her look round) she
said —

* Go to bed.'

' Beg pardon ? ' (Her face was the same as before
the tears.)

' Go to bed. There's a bed made for you inside
on the sofa.'

' But — the team — I must

- I 1.K1 SISTER IN- 1 AW.

• Wli.it?'

'The team. I left it at the camp. I must Look

to it.'

'Oh ! Well, Brighten will ride down and bring it
up in the morning — or send the half-caste. Now
you 1, and get a good rest. The boy will be

all right. I'll see to that.'

I went out — it was a relief to get out — and looked
to the mare. Brighten had got her some corn ' and
chaff in a candle-box, but she couldn't eat yet. She
just stood or hung resting one hind-leg and then the
other, with her nose over the box — and she sobbed.
I put my arms round her neck and my face down on
her ragged mane, and cried for the second time since
I was a boy.

As I started to go in I heard Brighten's sister-in-
law say, suddenly and sharply —

' Take that away, Jessie.'

And presently I saw Mrs Brighten go into the
house with the black bottle.

The moon had gone behind the range. I stood for
a minute between the house and the kitchen and
peeped in through the kitchen window.

She had moved away from the fire and sat near
the table. She bent over Jim and held him up close
to her and rocked herself to and fro.

I went to bed and slept till the next afternoon. I
woke just in time to hear the tail-end of a conversa-
tion between Jim and Brighten's sister-in-law. He
was asking her out to our place and she promising
to come.

1 Maize or Indian corn — wheat is never called corn in Australia.

brighten's sister-in-law. 75

' And now,' says Jim, ' I want to go home to
"muffer" in "The Same 01' Fling.'"

' What ? '

Jim repeated.

' Oh ! " The Same Old Thing," — the waggon.'

The rest of the afternoon I poked round the gullies
with old Brighten, looking at some ' indications ' (of
the existence of gold) he had found. It was no use
trying to ' pump ' him concerning his sister-in-law ;
Brighten was an ' old hand,' and had learned in the
old Bush-ranging and cattle-stealing days to know
nothing about other people's business. And, by the
way, I noticed then that the more you talk and listen
to a bad character, the more you lose your dislike
for him.

I never saw such a change in a woman as in
Brighten's sister-in-law that evening. She was
bright and jolly, and seemed at least ten years
younger. She bustled round and helped her sister
to get tea ready. She rooted out some old china
that Mrs Brighten had stowed away somewhere,
and set the table as I seldom saw it set out there.
She propped Jim up with pillows, and laughed and
played with him like a great girl. She described
Sydney and Sydney life as I'd never heard it de-
scribed before ; and she knew as much about the
Bush and old diggings day as I did. She kept old
Brighten and me listening and laughing till nearly
midnight. And she seemed quick to understand
everything when I talked. If she wanted to ex-
plain anything that we hadn't seen, she wouldn't
say that it was ' like a — like a ' — and hesitate (you
know what I mean) ; she'd hit the right thing on

6 BRIGH 11- \'s SISTER-IN-1 \W.

tin1 head at once. A squatter with a very round,
flaming red face and a white cork hat had gone
by in the afternoon: she said it was 'like a mush-
room on tin- rising moon.' She gave me a lot of
good hints about children.

But she was quiet again next morning. I har-
nessed up, and she dressed Jim and gave him his
breakfast, and made a comfortable place for him
on the load with the 'possum rug and a spare
pillow. She got up on the wheel to do it herself.
Then was the awkward time. I'd half start to
speak to her, and then turn away and go fixing
up round the horses, and then make another false
start to say good-bye. At last she took Jim up in
her arms and kissed him, and lifted him on the
wheel ; but he put his arms tight round her neck,
and kissed her — a thing Jim seldom did with any-
body, except his mother, for he wasn't what you'd
call an affectionate child, — he'd never more than
offer his cheek to me, in his old-fashioned way.
I'd got up the other side of the load to take him
from her.

' Here, take him,' she said.

I saw his mouth twitching as I lifted him.
Jim seldom cried nowadays — no matter how much
he was hurt. I gained some time fixing Jim
comfortable.

' You'd better make a start,' she said. ' You want
to get home early with that boy.'

I got down and went round to where she stood.
I held out my hand and tried to speak, but my
voice went like an ungreased waggon wheel, and
I gave it up, and only squeezed her Itand.

BRIGHTEN S SISTER-IN-LAW. JJ

'That's all right,' she said; then tears came into
her eyes, and she suddenly put her hand on my
shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. ' You be off
— you're only a boy yourself. Take care of that
boy ; be kind to your wife, and take care of
yourself.'

' Will you come to see us ? '

' Some day,' she said.

I started the horses, and looked round once more.
She was looking up at Jim, who was waving his
hand to her from the top of the load. And I saw
that haggard, hungry, hopeless look come into her
eyes in spite of the tears.

I smoothed over that story and shortened it a lot,
when I told it to Mary — I didn't want to upset her.
But, some time after I brought Jim home from Gul-
gong, and while I was at home with the team for
a few days, nothing would suit Mary but she must
go over to Brighten's shanty and see Brighten's
sister-in-law. So James drove her over one morn-
ing in the spring-cart : it was a long way, and they
stayed at Brighten's overnight and didn't get back
till late the next afternoon. I'd got the place in
a pig-muck, as Mary said, ' doing for ' myself, and
I was having a snooze on the sofa when they
got back. The first thing I remember was some
one stroking my head and kissing me, and I
heard Mary saying, ' My poor boy ! My poor old
boy!'

I sat up with a jerk. I thought that Jim had
gone off again. But it seems that Mary was only
referring to me. Then she started to pull grey

78 brighten's sister-in-law.

hairs out of my head and pu1 'em in an empty
mat< h-box — to see how many she'd get. Sh ■ used
■ this when she felt a bit soft. I don't know
what she said to Brighten's sister-in-law or what
Brighten's sister-in-law said to her, but Mary was
a gentle for the next few days.

'WATER THEM GERANIUMS.'

I.

A LONELY TRACK.

'THE time Mary and I shifted out into the Bush
from Gulgong to ' settle on the land ' at
Lahey's Creek.

I'd sold the two tip-drays that I used for tank-
sinking and dam-making, and I took the traps out
in the waggon on top of a small load of rations and
horse-feed that I was taking to a sheep-station out
that way. Mary drove out in the spring-cart. You
remember we left little Jim with his aunt in Gulgong
till we got settled down. I'd sent James (Mary's
brother) out the day before, on horseback, with two
or three cows and some heifers and steers and
calves we had, and I'd told him to clean up a bit,
and make the hut as bright and cheerful as possible
before Mary came.

We hadn't much in the way of furniture. There
was the four-poster cedar bedstead that I bought

8o 'water them geraniums.'

iv we were married, and Mary was rather proud
of it: it had 'turned' posts and joints thai bolted
together. There was a plain hardwood tabic, that
M try called her ' ironing-table,' upside down on top
of the load, with the bedding and blankets betwei n
the legs ; there wire four of those common black
kitchen - chairs — with apples painted on the hard
board backs — that we used for the parlour; there
was a cheap batten sofa with arms at the ends and
turned rails between the uprights of the arms (we
were a little proud of the turned rails) ; and there
was the camp-oven, and the three-legged pot, and
pans and buckets, stuck about the load and hanging
under the tail-board of the waggon.

There was the little Wilcox & Gibb's sewing-
machine — my present to Mary when we were
married (and what a present, looking back to it !).
There was a cheap little rocking-chair, and a look-
ing-glass and some pictures that were presents from
Mary's friends and sister. She had her mantel-
shelf ornaments and crockery and nick-nacks packed
away, in the linen and old clothes, in a big tub made
of half a cask, and a box that had been Jim's cradle.
The live stock was a cat in one box, and in another
an old rooster, and three hens that formed cliques,
two against one, turn about, as three of the same
sex will do all over the world. I had my old
cattle-dog, and of course a pup on the load — I
always had a pup that I gave away, or sold and
didn't eet paid for, or had ' touched ' (stolen) as
soon as it was old enough. James had his three
spidery, sneaking, thieving, cold-blooded kangaroo-
dogs with him. I was taking out three months'

'water them geraniums.' 8i

provisions in the way of ration-sugar, tea, flour, and
potatoes, &c.

I started early, and Mary caught up to me at
Ryan's Crossing on Sand}' Creek, where we boiled
the billy and had some dinner.

Mary bustled about the camp and admired the
scenery and talked too much, for her, and was extra
cheerful, and kept her face turned from me as much
as possible. I soon saw what was the matter.
She'd been crying to herself coming along the road.
I thought it was all on account of leaving little Jim
behind for the first time. She told me that she
couldn't make up her mind till the last moment to
leave him, and that, a mile or two along the road,
she'd have turned back for him, only that she knew
her sister would laugh at her. She was always
terribly anxious about the children.

We cheered each other up, and Mary drove with
me the rest of the way to the creek, along the
lonely branch track, across native-apple-tree flats.
It was a dreary, hopeless track. There was no
horizon, nothing but the rough ashen trunks of the
gnarled and stunted trees in all directions, little or
no undergrowth, and the ground, save for the coarse,
brownish tufts of dead grass, as bare as the road, for
it was a dry season : there had been no rain for
months, and I wondered what I should do with the
cattle if there wasn't more grass on the creek.

In this sort of country a stranger might travel for
miles without seeming to have moved, for all the
difference there is in the scenery. The new tracks
were 'blazed' — that is, slices of bark cut off from
both sides of trees, within sight of each other, in a

F

' WAT! R I'll! M GERANIUMS.'

line, to mark the track until the horses and wheel-
marks made it plain. A smart Bushman, with a

-harp tomahawk, ran hla/c a track as he rides.
But a Bushman a little used to the country soon
picks out differences amongst the trees, half uncon-
sciously as it were, and so finds his way about.

Mary and I didn't talk much along this track — we
couldn't have heard each other very well, anyway,
for the ' clock-clock ' of the waggon and the rattle
of the cart over the hard lumpy ground. And I sup-
pose we both began to feel pretty dismal as the
shadows lengthened. I'd noticed lately that Mary
and I had got out of the habit of talking to each
other — noticed it in a vague sort of way that irritated
me (as vague things will irritate one) when I thought
of it. But then I thought, ' It won't last long — I'll
make life brighter for her by-and-by.'

As we went along — and the track seemed endless
— I got brooding, of course, back into the past. And
I feel now, when it's too late, that Mary must have
been thinking that way too. I thought of my early
boyhood, of the hard life of ' grubbin' ' and ' milkin' '
and ' fencin' ' and ' ploughin' ' and ' ring-barkin',
&c., and all for nothing. The few months at the
little bark-school, with a teacher who couldn't spell.
The cursed ambition or craving that tortured my
soul as a boy — ambition or craving for — I didn't
know what for ! For something better and brighter,
anyhow. And I made the life harder by reading at
night.

It all passed before me as I followed on in the
waggon, behind Mary in the spring-cart. I thought
of these old things more than I thought of her.

'WATER THEM GERANIUMS.' 83

She had tried to help me to better things. And I
tried too — I had the energy of half-a-dozen men when
I saw a road clear before me, but shied at the first
check. Then I brooded, or dreamed of making a
home — that one might call a home — for Mary — some
day. Ah, well !

And what was Mary thinking about, along the
lonely, changeless miles ? I never thought of that.
Of her kind, careless, gentleman father, perhaps.
Of her girlhood. Of her homes — not the huts and
camps she lived in with me. Of our future ? — she
used to plan a lot, and talk a good deal of our future
— but not lately. These things didn't strike me at
the time — I was so deep in my own brooding. Did
she think now — did she begin to feel now that she
had made a great mistake and thrown away her
life, but must make the best of it ? This might have
rouse'd me, had I thought of it. But whenever I
'thought Mary was getting indifferent towards me, I'd
think, ' I'll soon win her back. We'll be sweethearts
again — when things brighten up a bit.'

It's an awful thing to me, now I look back to it,
to think how far apart we had grown, what strangers
we were to each other. It seems, now, as though
we had been sweethearts long years before, and had
parted, and had never really met since.

The sun was going down when Mary called out —

' There's our place, Joe ! '

She hadn't seen it before, and somehow it came
new and with a shock to me, who had been out here
several times, Ahead, through the trees to the right,
was a dark green clump of the oaks standing out of
the creek, darker for the dead grey grassland blue-

■s I ' W A ri R III I'M GERANIUMS.1

grey bush on tin' barren ridge in the background.
Across ili<- creek (it was only a deep, narrow gutter
— a water-course with a chain of water-holes after

rain), across on tlu' other bank, stood the hut, on a
narrow flat between the spur and the creek, and a
little higher than this side. The land was much
better than on our old selection, and there was good
soil along the creek on both sides : I expected a
rush of selectors out here soon. A few acres round
the hut was cleared and fenced in by a light two-
rail fence of timber split from logs and saplings.
The man who took up this selection left it because
his wife died here.

It was a small oblong hut built of split slabs, and
he had roofed it with shingles which he split in
spare times. There was no verandah, but I built
one later on. At the end of the house was a big
slab-and-bark shed, bigger than the hut itself, with
a kitchen, a skiliion for tools, harness, and horse-
feed, and a spare bedroom partitioned off with sheets
of bark and old chaff-bags. The house itself was
floored roughly, with cracks between the boards ;
there were cracks between the slabs all round —
though he'd nailed strips of tin, from old kerosene-
tins, over some of them ; the partitioned-off bedroom
was lined with old chaff-bags with newspapers pasted
over them for wall-paper. There was no ceiling,
calico or otherwise, and we could see the round
pine rafters and battens, and the under ends of the
shingles. But ceilings make a hut hot and harbour
insects and reptiles — snakes sometimes. There was
one small glass window in the ' dining-room ' with
three panes and a sheet of greased paper, and the

'water them geraniums.' 85

rest were rough wooden shutters. There was a
pretty good cow-yard and calf-pen, and — that was
about all. There was no dam or tank (I made one
later on) ; there was a water-cask, with the hoops
falling off and the staves gaping, at the corner of the
house, and spouting, made of lengths of bent tin,
ran round under the eaves. Water from a new
shingle roof is wine-red for a year or two, and water
from a stringy bark roof is like tan-water for years.
In dry weather the selector had got his house water
from a cask sunk in the gravel at the bottom of the
deepest water-hole in the creek. And the longer the
drought lasted, the farther he had to go down the
creek for his water, with a cask on a cart, and take
his cows to drink, if he had any. Four, five, six, or
seven miles — even ten miles to water is nothing in
some places.

James hadn't found himself called upon to do more
than milk old ' Spot ' (the grandmother cqw of our
mob), pen the calf at night, make a fire in the
kitchen, and sweep out the house with a bough.
He helped me unharness and water and feed the
horses, and then started to get the furniture off the
waggon and into the house. James wasn't lazy — so
long as one thing didn't last too long; but he was
too uncomfortably practical and matter-of-fact for
me. Mary and I had some tea in the kitchen. The
kitchen was permanently furnished with a table of
split slabs, adzed smooth on top, and supported by
four stakes driven into the ground, a three-legged
stool and a block of wood, and two long stools made
of half-round slabs (sapling trunks split in halves)

86 ' w \ n R I ill M f.i RANIUMS.'

with auger-holes bored in the round side and sticks
stuck into them for legs. The floor was of cla) ;
the chimney of slabs and tin; the fireplace was
about eight feet wide, lined with clay, and with a
blackened pole across, with sooty chains and wire
hooks on it for the pots.

Mary didn't seem able to eat. She sat on the
three-legged stool near the fire, though it was warm
weather, and kept her face turned from me. Mary
was still pretty, but not the little dumpling she had
been : she was thinner now. She had big dark hazel
eyes that shone a little too much when she was
pleased or excited. I thought at times that there
was something very German about her expression ;
also something aristocratic about the turn of her
nose, which nipped in at the nostrils when she
spoke. There was nothing aristocratic about me.
Mary was German in figure and walk. I used some-
times to call her ' Little Duchy ' and ' Pigeon Toes '.
She had a will of her own, as shown sometimes
by the obstinate knit in her forehead between the
eyes.

Mary sat still by the fire, and presently I saw her
chin tremble.

' What is it, Mary ? '

She turned her face farther from me. felt

tired, disappointed, and irritated — suffering from a
reaction,

'Now, what is it, Mary?' I asked; 'I'm sick of
this sort of thing. Haven't you got everything you
wanted ? You've had your own way. What's the
matter with you now ? '

1 You know very well, Joe.'

'water them geraniums.' 87

' But I don't know,' I said. I knew too well.

She said nothing.

' Look here, Mary,' I said, putting my hand on
her shoulder, ' don't go on like that ; tell me what's
the matter ? '

' It's only this,' she said suddenly, ' I can't stand
this life here ; it will kill me ! '

I had a pannikin of tea in my hand, and I banged
it down on the table.

' This is more than a man can stand ! ' I shouted.
' You know very well that it was you that dragged
me out here. You run me on to this ! Why weren't
you content to stay in Gulgong ? '

' And what sort of a place was Gulgong, Joe ? '
asked Mary quietly.

(I thought even then in a flash what sort of a place
Gulgong was. A wretched remnant of a town on an
abandoned goldfield. One street, each side of the
dusty main road ; three or four one-storey square
brick cottages with hip roofs of galvanised iron that
glared in the heat — four rooms and a passage — the
police - station, bank - manager and schoolmaster's
cottages, &c. Half-a-dozen tumble-down weather-
board shanties — the three pubs., the two stores, and
the post-office. The town tailing off into weather-
board boxes with tin tops, and old bark huts —
relics of the digging days — propped up by many rot-
ting poles. The men, when at home, mostly asleep
or droning over their pipes or hanging about
the verandah posts of the pubs., saying, ' 'Ullo,
Bill ! ' or ' 'Ullo, Jim ! ' — or sometimes drunk. The
women, mostly hags, who blackened each other's
and girls' characters with their tongues, and criti-

B8 ' W \1 IK nil- M Gl R \NM MS.'

washing hung <»ut on the
line: 'And the colour of the clothes! Does that
ii her clothes at alii or only soak 'cm
and hang 'era out?' — that was Gulgong.)

'Well, why didn't you come to Sydney, as I
wanted you to?' I asked Mary.

' You know very well, Joe,' said Mary quietly.

(I knew very well, but the knowledge only mad-
dened me. I had had an idea of getting a billet in
one of the big wool-stores — I was a fair wool expert
— but Mary was afraid of the drink. I could keep
well away from rt so long as I worked hard in the
Bush. I had gone to Sydney twice since I met
Mary, once before we were married, and she forgave
me when I came back ; and once afterwards. I got
a billet there then, and was going to send for her in
a month. After eight weeks she raised the money
somehow and came to Sydney and brought me home.
I got pretty low down that time.)

' But, Mary,' I said, ' it would have been different
this time. You would have been with me. I can
take a glass now or leave it alone.'

' As long as you take a glass there is danger,' she
said.

' Well, what did you want to advise me to come
out here for, if you can't stand it ? Why didn't you
stay where you were ? ' I asked.

' Well,' she said, ' why weren't you more decided ? '

I'd sat down, but I jumped to my feet then.

' Good God ! ' I shouted, ' this is more than any
man can stand. I'll chuck it all up ! I'm damned
well sick and tired of the whole thing.'

' So am I, Joe,' said Mary wearily.

'water them geraniums' 89

We quarrelled badly then— that first hour in our
new home. I know now whose fault it was.

I got my hat and went out and started to walk
clown the creek. I didn't feel bitter against Mary —
I had spoken too cruelly to her to feel that way.
Looking back, I could see plainly that if I had taken
her advice all through, instead of now and again,
things would have been all right with me. I had
come away and left her crying in the hut, and James
telling her, in a brotherly way, that it was all her
fault. The trouble was that I never liked to
' give in ' or go half - way to make it up — not
half-way — it was all the way or nothing with our
natures.

' If I don't make a stand now,' I'd say, ' I'll
never be master. I gave up the reins when I got
married, and I'll have to get them back again.'

What women some men are ! But the time came,
and not many years after, when I stood by the bed
where Mary lay, white and still ; and, amongst other
things, I kept saying, ' I'll give in, Mary — I'll give
in,' and then I'd laugh. They thought that I was
raving mad, and took me from the room. But that
time was to come.

As I walked down the creek track in the moon-
light the question rang in my ears again, as it had
done when I first caught sight of the house that
evening —

' Why did I bring her here ? '

I was not fit to ' go on the land \ 'The place was
only fit for some stolid German, or Scotsman, or
even Englishman and his wife, who had no ambition
but to bullock and make a farm of the place. I had

90 ' \\ \ I I R rHEM t'.l R \\ir\is.'

only drifted here through carelessness, brooding, and
discontent.

1 walked on and on till I was more than half-way
to tlu- only neighbours— a wretched selector's fa mil)',
about four miles down the creek, — and I thought I'd
go on to the house and sec if they had any fresh
meat.

A mile or two farther I saw the loom of the bark
hut they lived in, on a patchy clearing in the scrub,
and heard the voice of the selector's wife — I had
seen her several times : she was a gaunt, haggard
Bushwoman, and, I supposed, the reason why she
hadn't gone mad through hardship and loneliness
was that she hadn't either the brains or the memory
to go farther than she could see through the trunks
of the ' apple-trees.'

' You, An-nay ! ' (Annie.)

' Ye-es ' (from somewhere in the gloom).

' Didn't I tell yer to water them geraniums ! '

' Well, didn't I ? '

' Don't tell lies or I'll break yer young back ! '

' I did, I tell yer — the water won't soak inter the
ashes.'

Geraniums were the only flowrers I saw grow in
the drought out there. I remembered this woman
had a few dirty grey-green leaves behind some sticks
against the bark wall near the door ; and in spite oi
the sticks the fowls used to get in and scratch beds
under the geraniums, and scratch dust over them,
and ashes were thrown there — with an idea of help-
ing the flower, I suppose ; and greasy dish-water,
when fresh water was scarce — till you might as well
try to water a dish of fat.

'water them geraniums.' 91

Then the woman's voice again —

' You, Tom-may ! ' (Tommy.)

Silence, save for an echo on the ridge.

' Y-o-u, T-o-m-may ! '

' Ye-e-s ! ' shrill shriek from across the creek.

' Didn't I tell you to ride up to them new people
and see if they want any meat or any think ? ' in one
long screech.

' Well— I karnt find the horse.'

' Well-find-it-first-think-in-the-morning and. And-
don't - forgit - to - tell - Mrs - Wi'son - that - mother'll - be-
up -as- soon -as -she -can.'

I didn't feel like going to the woman's house that
night. I felt — and the thought came like a whip-
stroke on my heart— that this was what Mary would
come to if I left her here.

I turned and started to walk home, fast. I'd made
up my mind. I'd take Mary straight back to Gul-
gong in the morning — I forgot about the load I had
to take to the sheep station. I'd say, ' Look here,
Girlie' (that's what I used to call her), 'we'll leave
this wretched life ; we'll leave the Bush for ever !
We'll go to Sydney, and I'll be a man ! and work my
way up.' And I'd sell waggon, horses, and all,
and go.

When I got to the hut it was lighted up. Mary
had the only kerosene lamp, a slush lamp, and two
tallow candles going. She had got both rooms
washed out — to James's disgust, for he had to move
the furniture and boxes about. She had a lot of
things unpacked on the table ; she had laid clean
newspapers on the mantel-shelf — a slab on two pegs

'WATER 1111 M GERANH MS.'

o\ r the fireplace and put the little wooden
in the centre and some ol the ornaments on each
and was tacking a strip of vandyked American
oil-cloth round the rough edge of the slab.

' How do s that look, Joe ? We'll soon get things
ship-sha]

I kissed her, but she had her mouth full of tacks.
I went out in the kitchen, drank a pint of cold tea,
and sat dow n.

In't feel satisfied with the way
- had gone.

II.

'PAST CARINV

Next morning things looked a lot brighter. Things
always look brighter in the morning — more so in the
Australian Bush, I should think, than in most other
places. It is when the sun goes down on the dark
bed of the lonely Bush, and the sunset flashes like
a sea of fire and then fades, and then glows out
again, like a bank of coals, and then burns away
to ashes — it is then that old things come home to
one. And strange, new-old things too, that haunt
and depress you terribly, and that you can't under-
stand. I often think how, at sunset, the past must
come home to new-chum blacksheep, sent out to
Australia and drifted into the Bush. I used to think
that they couldn't have much brains, or the loneli-
ness would drive them mad.

I'd decided to let James take the team for a trip
or two. He could drive alright ; he was a better
business man, and no doubt would manage better
than me — as long as the novelty lasted; and I'd
stay at home for a week or so, till Mary got used
to the place, or I could get a girl from somewhere
to come and stay with her. The first weeks or
few months of loneliness are the worst, as a rule,

94 ' W \ PI R I 1 1 1 •■ M GER WILMS.'

I 1'. lit ve, as they say the firsl weeks in jail arc —
I was never there. I know it's so with tramping
or hard graft1: the first day or two are twice as

hard as any of the rest. But, for my part, I could
never get used t<> loneliness and dulness; the last
days used to be the worst with me: then I'd have
to make a move, or drink. When you've been too
much and too long alone in a lonely place, you
in to do queer things and think queer thoughts
— provided you have any imagination at all. You'll
sometimes sit of an evening and watch the lonely
track,' by the hour, for a horseman or a cart or
some one that's never likely to come that way —
some one, or a stranger, that you can't and don't
really expect to see. I think that most men who
have been alone in the Bush for any length of
time — and married couples too — are more or less
mad. With married couples it is generally the
husband who is painfully shy and awkward when
strangers come. The woman seems to stand the
loneliness better, and can hold her own with
strangers, as a rule. It's only afterwards, and
looking back, that you see how queer you got.
Shepherds and boundary-riders, who are alone for
months, must have their periodical spree, at the
nearest shanty, else they'd go raving mad. Drink
is the only break in the awful monotony, and the
yearly or half-yearly spree is the only thing they've
got to look forward to : it keeps their minds fixed
on something definite ahead.

But Mary kept her head pretty well through the

1 'Graft,' work. The term is now applied, in Australia, to all sorts
of work, from bullock-driving to writing poetry.

*WATEP THEM GERANIUMS.' 95

first months of loneliness. Weeks, rather, I should
say, for it wasn't as bad as it might have been
farther up-country : there was generally some one
came of a Sunday afternoon — a spring-cart with a
couple of women, or maybe a family, — or a lanky
shy Bush native or two on lanky shy horses. On a
quiet Sunday, after I'd brought Jim home, Mary
would dress him and herself — just the same as if
we were in town — and make me get up on one end
and put on a collar and take her and Jim for a walk
along the creek. She said she wanted to keep me
civilised. She tried to make a gentleman of me for
years, but gave it up gradually.

Well. It was the first morning on the creek : I
was greasing the waggon -wheels, and James out
after the horse, and Mary hanging out clothes, in
an old print dress and a big ugly white hood, when
I heard her being hailed as ' Hi, missus ! ' from the
front slip-rails.

It was a boy on horseback. He was a light-
haired, very much freckled boy of fourteen or fifteen,
with a small head, but with limbs, especially his
bare sun - blotched shanks, that might have be-
longed to a grown man. He had a good face and
frank grey eyes. An old, nearly black cabbage-tree
hat rested on the butts of his ears, turning them
out at right angles from his head, and rather dirty
sprouts they were. He wore a dirty torn Crimean
shirt ; and a pair of man's moleskin trousers rolled
up above the knees, with the wide waistband gathered
under a greenhide belt. I noticed, later on, that,
even when he wore trousers short enough for him,
he always rolled 'em up above the knees when on

96 ' W \ II R III! V 1. 1- KANirMS.'

horseback, for some reason «'f his own: to suggest
leggings, p rhaps, foi he had them rolled up in all

tints, ami lu- wouldn't have bothered to save
them from the swt.it oi the horse, even if that horse
ever sweated.

lie was seated astride a three-bushel bag thrown
across the ridge-pole of a big grey horse, with a
coffin-shaped head, and built astern something after
the style of a roughly put up hip-roofed box-bark
humpy.1 His colour was like old box-bark, too, a
dirty bluish-grey ; and, one time, when I saw his
rump looming out of the scrub, I really thought it
was some old shepherd's hut that I hadn't noticed
there before. When he cantered it was like the
humpy starting off on its corner-posts.

1 Are you Mrs Wilson ? ' asked the boy.

' Yes,' said Mary.

' Well, mother told me to ride acrost and see if
you wanted anythink. WTe killed lars' night, and
I've fetched a piece er cow.'

' Piece of what ? ' asked Mary.

He grinned, and handed a sugar-bag across the
rail with something heavy in the bottom of it,
that nearly jerked Mary's arm out when she took
it. It was a piece of beef, that looked as if it had
been cut off with a wood-axe, but it was fresh and
clean.

'Oh, I'm so glad!' cried Mary. She was always
impulsive, save to me sometimes. ' I was just won-
dering where we were going to get any fresh meat.
How kind of your mother ! Tell her I'm very much
obliged to her indeed.' And she felt behind her for

1 'Humpy,' a rough hut.

•water them geraniums.' 97

a poor little purse she had. ' And now — how much
did your mother say it would be ? '

The boy blinked at her, and scratched his head.

' How much will it be,' he repeated, puzzled.
'Oh — how much does it weigh I - s'pose -yer-
mean. Well, it ain't been weighed at all — we ain't
got no scales. A butcher does all that sort of think.
We just kills it, and cooks it, and eats it — and goes
by guess. What won't keep we salts down in the
cask. I reckon it weighs about a ton by the weight
of it if yer wanter know. Mother thought that if
she sent any more it would go bad before you could
scoff it. I can't see '

'Yes, yes,' said Mary, getting confused. 'But
what I want to know is, how do you manage when
you sell it ? '

He glared at her, and scratched his head. ' Sell
it ? Why, we only goes halves in a steer with some
one, or sells steers to the butcher — or maybe some
meat to a party of fencers or surveyors, or tank-
sinkers, or them sorter people '

' Yes, yes ; but what I want to know is, how much
am I to send your mother for this ? '

' How much what ? '

' Money, of course, you stupid boy,' said Mary.
' You seem a very stupid boy.'

Then he saw what she was driving at. He began
to fling his heels convulsively against the sides of his
horse, jerking his body backward and forward at the
same time, as if to wind up and start some clockwork
machinery inside the horse, that made it go, and
seemed to need repairing or oiling.

1 We ain't that sorter people, missus,' he said.

G

gS ' WATER I ill M GERANIUMS.1

' We don't sell meat to new people thai come to
settle h : I lun, jerking his thumb contemptu-

wards the ridges, '(i<> over ter Wall's if yer
wanter buy meat ; they sell mint ter strangers.'
(Wall was the big squatter over the ridges.)

•I'h!' said Mary, 'I'm so sorry. Thank your
mother for me. She is kind.'

' Oh, that's nothink. She said to tell yer she'll be
up as soon as she can. She'd have come up yister-
day evening — she thought yer'd feel lonely comin'
new to a place like this — but she couldn't git up.'

The machinery inside the old horse showed signs
of starting. You almost heard the wooden joints
creak as he lurched forward, like an old propped-up
humpy when the rotting props give way ; but at
the sound of Mary's voice he settled back on his
foundations again. It must have been a very poor
selection that couldn't afford a better spare horse
than that.

' Reach me that lump er wood, will yer, missus ? '
said the boy, and he pointed to one of my ' spreads '
(for the team-chains) that lay inside the fence. ' I'll
fling it back agin over the fence when I git this ole
cow started.'

' But wait a minute — I've forgotten your mother's
name,' said Mary.

He grabbed at his thatch impatiently. ' Me mother
— oh ! — the old woman's name's Mrs Spicer. (Git
up, karnt yer !) ' He twisted himself round, and
brought the stretcher down on one of the horse's
' points ' (and he had many) with a crack that must
have jarred his wrist.

' Do you go to school ? ' asked Mary. There was

'water them geraniums.' gg

a three-days-a-week school over the ridges at Wall's
station.

' No ! ' he jerked out, keeping his legs going. ' Me
— why I'm going on fur fifteen. The last teacher at
Wall's finished me. I'm going to Queensland next
month drovin'.' (Queensland border was over three
hundred miles away.)

' Finished you ? How ? ' asked Mary.

' Me edgercation, of course ! How do yer expect
me to start this horse when yer keep talkin' ? '

He split the ' spread ' over the horse's point, threw
the pieces over the fence, and was off, his elbows and
legs flinging wildly, and the old saw-stool lumbering
along the road like an old working bullock trying a
canter. That horse wasn't a trotter.

And next month he did start for Queensland. He
was a younger son and a surplus boy on a wretched,
poverty-stricken selection; and as there was ' northin'
doin' ' in the district, his father (in a burst of fatherly
kindness, I suppose) made him a present of the old
horse and a new pair of Blucher boots, and I gave
him an old saddle and a coat, and he started for the
Never-Never Country.

And I'll bet he got there. But I'm doubtful if the
old horse did.

Mary gave the boy five shillings, and I don't think
he had anything more except a clean shirt and an
extra pair of white cotton socks.

' Spicer's farm ' was a big bark humpy on a patchy
clearing in the native apple-tree scrub. The clearing
was fenced in by a light ' dog-legged ' fence (a fence
of sapling poles resting on forks and X-shaped up-
rights), and the dusty ground round the house was

'water them geraniums.'

almost entirely covered with cattle-dung. There
was no attempl at cultivation when I came to
live on the creek; but there were old furrow-
marks amongst the stumps of another shapeless
patch in tin1 scrub near the hut. There was a
wretched sapling cow-yard and calf-pen, and a cow-
bad with ciic sheet of bark over it for shelter.
There was no dairy to be seen, and I suppose the
milk was set in one of the two skillion rooms, or
•to's behind the hut, — the other was 'the boys'
bedroom.' The Spicers kept a few cows and steers,
and had thirty or forty sheep. Mrs Spicer used to
drive down the creek once a-week, in her rickety
old spring-cart, to Cobborah, with butter and eggs.
The hut was nearly as bare inside as it was out —
just a frame of ' round - timber ' (sapling poles)
covered with bark. The furniture was permanent
(unless you rooted it up), like in our kitchen : a
rough slab table on stakes driven into the ground,
and seats made the same way. Mary told me after-
wards that the beds in the bag-and-bark partitioned-
off room (' mother's bedroom ') were simply poles
laid side by side on cross-pieces supported by stakes
driven into the ground, with straw mattresses and
some worn-out bed-clothes. Mrs Spicer had an old
patchwork quilt, in rags, and the remains of a white
one, and Mary said it was pitiful to see how these
things would be spread over the beds — to hide them
as much as possible — when she went down there. A
packing-case, with something like an old print skirt
draped round it, and a cracked looking-glass (with-
out a frame) on top, was the dressing-table. There
were a couple of gin -cases for a wardrobe. The

'water them geraniums.' 101

boys' beds were three-bushel bags stretched between
poles fastened to uprights. The floor was the
original surface, tramped hard, worn uneven with
much sweeping, and with puddles in rainy weather
where the roof leaked. Mrs Spicer used to stand
old tins, dishes, and buckets under as many of the
leaks as she could. The saucepans, kettles, and
boilers were old kerosene -tins and billies. They
used kerosene-tins, too, cut longways in halves, for
setting the milk in. The plates and cups were of
tin ; there were two or three cups without saucers,
and a crockery plate or two — also two mugs, cracked
and without handles, one with ' For a Good Boy '
and the other with ' For a Good Girl ' on it ; but all
these were kept on the mantel -shelf for ornament
and for company. They were the only ornaments in
the house, save a little wooden clock that hadn't
gone for years. Mrs Spicer had a superstition that
she had ' some things packed away from the
children.'

The pictures were cut from old copies of the ' Il-
lustrated Sydney News' and pasted on to the bark.
I remember this, because I remembered, long ago,
the Spencers, who were our neighbours when I was
a boy, had the walls of their bedroom covered with
illustrations of the American Civil War, cut from
illustrated London papers, and I used to 'sneak'
into ' mother's bedroom ' with Fred Spencer when-
ever we got the chance, and gloat over the prints.
I gave him a blade of a pocket-knife once, for taking
me in there.

I saw very little of Spicer. He was a big, dark,
daik-haircd and whiskered man. I had an idea that

toa 'water them geraniums.1

he wasn't a selector at all, only a 'dummy' for the

squatter of the Cobborah run. You see, selectors
were allowed to take up land on runs, or pastoral
leases. The squatters kept them off as much as
j »ible, by ill manner of dodges and paltry perse-
cution. The squatter would get as much freehold
as he could afford, 'select' as much land as the
law allowed one man to take up, and then employ
dummies (dummy selectors) to take up bits of land
that he fancied about his run, and hold them for
him.

Splcer seemed gloomy and unsociable. He was
seldom at home. He was generally supposed to be
away shearin', or fencin', or workin' on somebody's
station. It turned out that the last six months he
was away it was on the evidence of a cask of beef
and a hide with the brand cut out, found in his
camp on a fencing contract up-country, and which
he and his mates couldn't account for satisfactorily,
while the squatter could. Then the family lived
mostly on bread and honey, or bread and treacle, or
bread and dripping, and tea. Every ounce of butter
and every egg was needed for the market, to keep
them in flour, tea, and sugar. Mary found that out,
but couldn't help them much — except by 'stuffing'
the children with bread and meat or bread and jam
whenever they came up to our place — for Mrs Spicer
was proud with the pride that lies down in the end
and turns its face to the wall and dies.

Once, when Mary asked Annie, the eldest girl at
home, if she was hungry, she denied it — but she
looked it. A ragged mite she had with her ex-
plained things. The little fellow said —

'water them geraniums.' 103

'Mother told Annie not to say we was hungry if
yer asked ; but if yer give us anythink to eat, we was
to take it an' say thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.'

' I wouldn't 'a' told yer a lie ; but I thought Jimmy
would split on me, Mrs Wilson,' said Annie. ' Thenk
yer, Mrs Wilson.'

She was not a big woman. She was gaunt and
flat-chested, and her face was 'burnt to a brick,' as
they say out there. She had brown eyes, nearly red,
and a little wild-looking at times, and a sharp face —
ground sharp by hardship — the cheeks drawn in.
She had an expression like — well, like a woman who
had been very curious and suspicious at one time,
and wanted to know everybody's business and hear
everything, and had lost all her curiosity, without
losing the expression or the quick suspicious move-
ments of the head. I don't suppose you understand.
I can't explain it any other way. She was not more
than forty.

I remember the first morning I saw her. I was
going up the creek to look at the selection for the
first time, and called at the hut to see if she had a
bit of fresh mutton, as I had none and was sick of
'corned beef.'

' Yes — of— course,' she said, in a sharp nasty tone,
as if to say, ' Is there anything more you want while
the shop's open ? ' I'd met just the same sort of
woman years before while I was carrying swag be-
tween the shearing-sheds in the awful scrubs out
west of the Darling river, so I didn't turn on my
heels and walk away. I waited for her to speak
again.

' Come — inside,' she said, ' and sit down. I see

104 'WAl'KK THEM GERANIUMS.'

you've got tin- waggon outside. I s'pose your name's
Wilson, ain't it? You're thinkin' about takin' on
Harry Marshfield's selection up the creek, so I heard.
Wait till I fry you a chop and boil the billy.1

Her voice sounded, more than anything else, like
a voice coining out of a phonograph — I heard one in
Sydney the other day — and not like a voice coming
out of her. But sometimes when she got outside her
everyday life on this selection she spoke in a sort of
— in a sort of lost groping-in-the-dark kind of voice.

She didn't talk much this time — just spoke in a
mechanical way of the drought, and the hard times,
' an' butter 'n' eggs bein' down, an' her husban' an'
eldest son bein' away, an' that makin' it so hard
for her.'

I don't know how many children she had. I never
got a chance to count them, for they were nearly all
small, and shy as piccaninnies, and used to run and
hide when anybody came. They were mostly nearly
as black as piccaninnies too. She must have aver-
aged a baby a-year for years— and God only, knows
how she got over her confinements ! Once, they said,
she only had a black gin with her. She had an elder
boy and girl, but she seldom spoke of them. The
girl, ' Liza,' was ' in service in Sydney.' I'm afraid I
knew what that meant. The elder son was ' away.'
He had been a bit of a favourite round there, it
seemed.

Some one might ask her, ' How's your son Jack,
Mrs Spicer ? ' or, ' Heard of Jack lately ? and where
is he now ? '

' Oh, he's somewheres up country,' she'd say in
the ' groping ' voice, or ' He's drovin' in Queenslan','

'water them geraniums.' 105

or ' Shearin' on the Darlin' the last time I heerd
from him.' 'We ain't had a line from him since
— les' see — since Chris'mas 'fore last.'

And she'd turn her haggard eyes in a helpless,
hopeless sort of way towards the west — towards
'up-country' and 'Out-Back.'1

The eldest girl at home was nine or ten, with a
little old face and lines across her forehead : she
had an older expression than her mother. Tommy
went to Queensland, as I told you. The eldest son
at home, Bill (older than Tommy), was ' a bit wild.'

I've passed the place in smothering hot mornings
in December, when the droppings about the cow-
yard had crumpled to dust that rose in the warm,
sickly, sunrise wind, and seen that woman at work
in the cow-yard, ' bailing up ' and leg-roping cows,
milking, or hauling at a rope round the neck of a
half-grown calf that was too strong for her (and
she was tough as fencing-wire), or humping great
buckets of sour milk to the pigs or the 'poddies'
(hand-fed calves) in the pen. I'd get off the horse
and give her a hand sometimes with a young steer,
or a cranky old cow that wouldn't ' bail-up ' and
threatened her with her horns. She'd say —

' Thenk yer, Mr Wilson. Do yer think we're ever
goin' to have any rain ? '

I've ridden past the place on bitter black rainy
mornings in June or July, and seen her trudging
about the yard — that was ankle-deep in black
liquid filth — with an old pair of Blucher boots on,
and an old coat of her husband's, or maybe a

1 'Out-Back' is always west of the Bushman, no matter how far
out he be.

106 'WATER THEM GERANIUMS.1

three-bushel bag over her shoulders. I've seen her
climbing on the roof by means of the water-cask
at the corner, and trying to stop a leak by shoving
a piece of tin in under the bark. And when I'd
fixed the leak —

' Thenk yer, Mr Wilson. This drop of rain's a
blessin' ! Come in and have a dry at the fire and
111 make yer a cup of tea.' And, if I was in a
hurry, ' Come in, man alive ! Come in ! and dry
yerself a bit till the rain holds up. Yer can't go
home like this ! Yer'll git yer death o' cold.'

I've even seen her, in the terrible drought, climb-
ing she-oaks and apple-trees by a makeshift ladder,
and awkwardly lopping off boughs to feed the starv-
ing cattle.

' Jist tryin' ter keep the milkers alive till the rain
comes.'

They said that when the pleuro-pneumonia was
in the district and amongst her cattle she bled and
physicked them herself, and fed those that were
down with slices of half- ripe pumpkins (from a
crop that had failed).

1 An', one day,' she told Mary, ' there was a big
barren heifer (that we called Queen Elizabeth) that
was down with the ploorer. She'd been down for
four days and hadn't moved, when one mornin' I
dumped some wheaten chaff — we had a few bags
that Spicer brought home — I dumped it in front
of her nose, an' — would yer b'lieve me, Mrs Wil-
son ? — she stumbled onter her feet an' chased me
all the way to the house ! I had to pick up me
skirts an' run ! Wasn't it redie'lus ? '

They had a sense of the ridiculous, most of those

'WATER THEM GERANIUMS.' 107

poor sun-dried Bushwomen. I fancy that that helped
save them from madness.

' We lost nearly all our milkers,' she told Mary.
' I remember one day Tommy came running to the
house and screamed : ' Marther ! [mother] there's
another milker down with the ploorer ! ' Jist as
if it was great news. Well, Mrs Wilson, I was
dead-beat, an' I giv' in. I jist sat down to have
a good cry, and felt for my han'kerchief — it was a
rag of a han'kerchief, full of holes (all me others
was in the wash). Without seein' what I was
doin' I put me finger through one hole in the
han'kerchief an' me thumb through the other, and
poked me fingers into me eyes, instead of wipin'
them. Then I had to laugh.'

There's a story that once, when the Bush, or
rather grass, fires were out all along the creek on
Spicer's side, Wall's station hands were up above
our place, trying to keep the fire back from the
boundary, and towards evening one of the men
happened to think of the Spicers : they saw smoke
down that way. Spicer was away from home, and
they had a small crop of wheat, nearly ripe, on
the selection.

' My God ! that poor devil of a woman will be
burnt out, if she ain't already ! ' shouted young Billy
Wall. ' Come along, three or four of you chaps '
— (it was shearing-time, and there were plenty of
men on the station).

They raced down the creek to Spicer's, and were
just in time to save the wheat. She had her sleeves
tucked up, and was beating out the burning grass
with a bough. She'd been at it for an hour, and

to8 'WATER rili:M geraniums.1

was as Mark as a gin, they said. She only said

when they'd turned the lire: 'Thenk yer! Wait
an' I'll make sunn' tea.'

After tea the first Sunday she came to sec us,
Mary asked —

1 Don't you feci lonely, Mrs Spicer, when your
husband goes away ? '

' Well — no, Mrs Wilson,' she said in the groping
sort of voice. 'I uster, once. I remember, when
we lived on the Cudgeegong river — we lived in a
brick house then — the first time Spicer had to go
away from home I nearly fretted my eyes out.
And he was only goin' shearin' for a month. I
muster bin a fool; but then we were only jist
married a little while. He's been away drovin' in
Queenslan' as long as eighteen months at a time
since then. But' (her voice seemed to grope in the
dark more than ever) ' I don't mind, — I somehow
seem to have got past carin'. Besides — besides,
Spicer was a very different man then to what he is
now. He's got so moody and gloomy at home, he
hardly ever speaks.'

Mary sat silent for a minute thinking. Then Mrs
Spicer roused herself —

'Oh, I don't know what I'm talkin' about! You
mustn't take any notice of me, Mrs Wilson, — I don't
often go on like this. I do believe I'm gittin' a
bit ratty at times. It must be the heat and the
dulness.'

But once or twice afterwards she referred to a
time ' when Spicer was a different man to what he
was now.'

'water them geraniums.1 109

I walked home with her a piece along the creek.
She said nothing for a long time, and seemed to
be thinking in a puzzled way. Then she said
suddenly —

' What-did-you-bring-her-here-for ? She's only a
girl.'

' I beg pardon, Mrs Spicer.'

' Oh, I don't know what I'm talkin' about ! I
b'lieve I'm gittin' ratty. You mustn't take any
notice of me, Mr Wilson.'

She wasn't much company for Mary; and often,
when she had a child with her, she'd start taking
notice of the baby while Mary was talking, which
used to exasperate Mary. But poor Mrs Spicer
couldn't help it, and she seemed to hear all the
same.

Her great trouble was that she ' couldn't git no
reg'lar schoolin' for the children.'

' I learns 'em at home as much as I can. But I
don't git a minute to call me own ; an' I'm ginerally
that dead-beat at night that I'm fit for nothink.'

Mary had some of the children up now and then
later on, and taught them a little. When she first
offered to do so, Mrs Spicer laid hold of the handiest
youngster and said —

'There — do you hear that? Mrs Wilson is goin'
to teach yer, an' it's more than yer deserve ! ' (the
youngster had been ' cryin' ' over something).
' Now, go up an' say " Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson."
And if yer ain't good, and don't do as she tells yer,
I'll break every bone in yer young body ! '

The poor little devil stammered something, and
escaped.

no 'water them geraniums.'

The children were sent by turns over to Wall's to

Sunday-school. When Tommy was at home he had
a oew pair of elastic-side boots, and there was no
end of rows about them in the family — for the
mother made him lend them to his sister Annie, to
go to Sunday-school in, in her turn. There were
onlv about three pairs of anyway decent boots in
the family, and these were saved for great occasions.
The children were always as clean and tidy as
possible when they came to our place.

And I think the saddest and most pathetic sight
on the face of God's earth is the children of very
poor people made to appear well : the broken worn-
out boots polished or greased, the blackened (inked)
pieces of string for laces ; the clean patched pina-
fores over the wretched threadbare frocks. Behind
the little row of children hand-in-hand — and no
matter where they are — I always see the worn face
of the mother.

Towards the end of the first year on the selection
our little girl came. I'd sent Mary to Gulgong for
four months that time, and when she came back
with the baby Mrs Spicer used to come up pretty
often. She came up several times when Mary was
ill, to lend a hand. She wouldn't sit down and
condole with Mary, or waste her time asking ques-
tions, or talking about the time when she was ill
herself. She'd take off her hat — a shapeless little
lump of black straw she wore for visiting — give her
hair a quick brush back with the palms of her
hands, roll up her sleeves, and set to work to ' tidy
up.' She seemed to take most pleasure in sorting
out our children's clothes, and dressing them.

'WATER THEM GERANIUMS.' Ill

Perhaps she used to dress her own like that in the
days when Spicer was a different man from what he
was now. She seemed interested in the fashion-
plates of some women's journals we had, and used
to study them with an interest that puzzled me, for
she was not likely to go in for fashion. She never
talked of her early girlhood ; but Mary, from some
things she noticed, was inclined to think that Mrs
Spicer had been fairly well brought up. For
instance, Dr Balanfantie, from Cudgeegong, came
out to see Wall's wife, and drove up the creek to
our place on his way back to see how Mary and the
baby were getting on. Mary got out some crockery
and some table-napkins that she had packed away
for occasions like this ; and she said that the way
Mrs Spicer handled the things, and helped set the
table (though she did it in a mechanical sort of
way), convinced her that she had been used to table-
napkins at one time in her life.

Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversa-
tion, Mrs Spicer would say suddenly —

' Oh, I don't think I'll come up next week, Mrs
Wilson.'

' Why, Mrs Spicer ? '

' Because the visits doesn't do me any good. I
git the dismals afterwards.'

' Why, Mrs Spicer ? What on earth do you
mean ? '

' Oh,-I-don't-know-what-I'm-talkin'-about. You
mustn't take any notice of me.' And she'd put
on her hat, kiss the children — and Mary too,
sometimes, as if she mistook her for a child —
and go.

112 'WATER THEM GERANIUMS.

Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I
se< med to understand.

One.', when Mrs Spicer was sick, Mary went
down to her, and down again next day. As sin-
was coming away the second time, Mrs Spicer
said —

'I wish you wouldn't come down any more till
I'm on me feet, Mrs Wilson. The children can do
for me.'

4 Why, Mrs Spicer ? '

' Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts
me.'

We were the aristocrats of Lahey's Creek.
Whenever we drove down on Sunday afternoon
to see Mrs Spicer, and as soon as we got near
enough for them to hear the rattle of the cart, we'd
see the children running' to the house as fast as they
could split, and hear them screaming —

'Oh, marther ! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson
in their spring-cart.'

And we'd see her bustle round, and two or three
fowls fly out the front door, and she'd lay hold of a
broom (made of a bound bunch of 'broom-stuff —
coarse reedy grass or bush from the ridges — with a
stick stuck in it) and flick out the floor, with a flick
or two round in front of the door perhaps. The
floor nearly always needed at least one flick of the
broom on account of the fowls. Or she'd catch a
youngster and scrub his face with a wet end of a
cloudy towel, or twist the towel round her finger
and dig out his ears — as if she was anxious to have
him hear every word that was going to be said.

No matter what state the house would be in she'd

•water them geraniums.' 113

always say, ' I was jist expectin' yer, Mrs Wilson.'
And she was original in that, anyway.

She had an old patched and darned white table-
cloth that she used to spread on the table when we
were there, as a matter of course (' The others is in
the wash, so you must excuse this, Mrs Wilson '),
but I saw by the eyes of the children that the cloth
was rather a wonderful thing to them. ' I must
really git some more knives an' forks next time I'm
in Cobborah,' she'd say. ' The children break an'
lose 'em till I'm ashamed to ask Christians ter sit
down ter the table.'

She had many Bush yarns, some of them very
funny, some of them rather ghastly, but all interest-
ing, and with a grim sort of humour about them.
But the effect was often spoilt by her screaming at
the children to ' Drive out them fowls, karnt yer,'
or ' Take yer maulies [hands] outer the sugar,'
or ' Don't touch Mrs Wilson's baby with them
dirty maulies,' or ' Don't stand starin' at Mrs
Wilson with yer mouth an' ears in that vulgar
way.'

Poor woman ! she seemed everlastingly nagging
at the children. It was a habit, but they didn't
seem to mind. Most Bushwomen get the nagging
habit. I remember one, who had the prettiest,
dearest, sweetest, most willing, and affectionate
little girl I think I ever saw, and she nagged that
child from daylight till dark — and after it. Taking
it all round, I think that the nagging habit in a
mother is often worse on ordinary children, and
more deadly on sensitive youngsters, than the
drinking habit in a father.

II

U4 ' WATER THEM GERANIUMS.'

One of the yarns Mrs Spicer told us was about a
squatter she knew who used to go wrong in his head
every dow and again, and try to commit suicide.
Once, wlun the station-hand, who was watching
him, had his eye off him for a minute, he hanged
himself to a beam in the stable. The men ran in
and found him hanging and kicking. 'They let
him hang for a while,' said Mrs Spicer, 'till he went
black in the face and stopped kicking. Then they
cut him down and threw a bucket of water over
him.'

' Why ! what on earth did they let the man hang
for ? ' asked Mary.

' To give him a good bellyful of it : they thought
it would cure him of tryin' to hang himself again.'

1 Well, that's the coolest thing I ever heard of,'
said Mary.

' That's jist what the magistrate said, Mrs
Wilson,' said Mrs Spicer.

' One morning,' said Mrs Spicer, ' Spicer had
gone off on his horse somewhere, and I was alone
with the children, when a man came to the door
and said —

' " For God's sake, woman, give me a drink ! "

' Lord only knows where he came from ! He was
dressed like a new chum — his clothes was good,
but he looked as if he'd been sleepin' in them
in the Bush for a month. He was very shaky. I
had some coffee that mornin', so I gave him some
in a pint pot ; he drank it, and then he stood on his
head till he tumbled over, and then he stood up on
his feet and said, " Thenk yer, mum."

' I was so surprised that I didn't know what to

'water them geraniums.' 115

say, so I jist said, "Would you like some more
coffee ? "

' " Yes, thenk yer," he said — " about two quarts."

' I nearly filled the pint pot, and he drank it and
stood on his head as long as he could, and when he
got right end up he said, " Thenk yer, mum — it's a
fine day," and then he walked off. He had two
saddle-straps in his hands.'

' Why, what did he stand on his head for ? ' asked
Mary.

' To wash it up and down, I suppose, to get twice
as much taste of the coffee. He had no hat. I sent
Tommy across to Wall's to tell them that there was
a man wanderin' about the Bush in the horrors of
drink, and to get some one to ride for the police.
But they was too late, for he hanged himself that
night.'

' O Lord ! ' cried Mary.

' Yes, right close to here, jist down the creek where
the track to Wall's branches off. Tommy found him
while he was out after the cows. Hangin' to the
branch of a tree with the two saddle-straps.'

Mary stared at her, speechless.

' Tommy came home yellin' with fright. I sent
him over to Wall's at once. After breakfast, the
minute my eyes was off them, the children slipped
away and went down there. They came back
screamin' at the tops of their voices. I did give
it to them. I reckon they won't want ter see a
dead body again in a hurry. Every time I'd men-
tion it they'd huddle together, or ketch hold of me
skirts and howl.

' " Yer'll go agen when I tell yer not to," I'd say.

Il6 'WATER rill M geraniums.'

• " ( )h no, mother," they'd howl.

' '• Yer wanted ter see a man hangin'," I said.

• •• ( >h, don't, mother ! Don't talk about it."

• " Yer wouldn't be satisfied till yer sec it," I'd
say ; " yer had to see it or burst. Yer satisfied now,
ain't yer : "

' " ( )h. don't, mother ! "

' " Yer run all the way there, I s'pose ? "

' " Don't, mother ! "

1 " But yer run faster back, didn't yer ? "

' " Oh, don't, mother."

' But,' said Mrs Spicer, in conclusion, ' I'd been
down to see it myself before they was up.'

' And ain't you afraid to live alone here, after all
these horrible things ? ' asked Mary.

' Well, no ; I don't mind. I seem to have got
past carin' for anythink now. I felt it a little when
Tommy went away — the first time I felt anythink for
years. But I'm over that now.'

' Haven't you got any friends in the district, Mrs
Spicer ? '

' Oh yes. There's me married sister near Cob-
borah, and a married brother near Dubbo ; he's got
a station. They wanted to take me an' the children
between them, or take some of the younger children.
But I couldn't bring my mind to break up the
home. I want to keep the children together as
much as possible. There's enough of them gone,
God knows. But it's a comfort to know that
there's some one to see to them if anythink hap-
pens to me.'

One day — I was on my way home with the team

'WATER THEM GERANIUMS.' II7

that day — Annie Spicer came running up the creek
in terrible trouble.

' Oh, Mrs Wilson ! something terribl's happened
at home ! A trooper ' (mounted policeman — they
called them ' mounted troopers ' out there), ' a
trooper's come and took Billy ! ' Billy was the
eldest son at home.

' What ? '

' It's true, Mrs Wilson.

' What for ? What did the policeman say?'

'He — he — he said, "I — I'm very sorry, Mrs
Spicer; but — I — I want William."'

It turned out that William was wanted on account
of a horse missed from Wall's station and sold down-
country.

' An' mother took on awful,' sobbed Annie ; ' an'
now she'll only sit stock-still an' stare in front of
her, and won't take no notice of any of us. Oh !
it's awful, Mrs Wilson. The policeman said he'd
tell Aunt Emma' (Mrs Spicer's sister at Cobborah),
' and send her out. But I had to come to you, an'
I've run all the way.'

James put the horse to the cart and drove Mary
down.

Mary told me all about it when I came home.

' I found her just as Annie said; but she broke
down and cried in my arms. Oh, Joe ! it was awful !
She didn't cry like a woman. I heard a man at
Haviland cry at his brother's funeral, and it was just
like that. She came round a bit after a while. Her
sister's with her now. . . . Oh, Joe ! you must take
me away from the Bush.'

Later on Mary said —

* \\.\ l l R THE M GERANIUMS.'
■ How the oaks arc sighing to-night, Joe!'

Next morning I rode across to Wall's station and

Jed the old man ; but he was a hard man, and

wouldn't listen to me — in fact, he ordered me off the

station. I was a selector, and that was enough for

him. But young Billy Wall rode after me.

' Look here, Joe ! ' he said, ' it's a blanky shame.
All for the sake of a horse ! And as if that poor
devil of a woman hasn't got enough to put up with
already ! I wouldn't do it for twenty horses. Fll
tackle the boss, and if he won't listen to me, I'll
walk off the run for the last time, if I have to carry
my swag.'

Billy Wall managed it. The charge was with-
drawn, and we got young Billy Spicer off up-
country.

But poor Mrs Spicer was never the same after
that. She seldom came up to our place unless Mary
dragged her, so to speak ; and then she would talk
of nothing but her last trouble, till her visits w'ere
painful to look forward to.

' If it only could have been kep' quiet — for the
sake of the other children ; they are all I think of
now. I tried to bring 'em all up decent, but I s'pose
it was my fault, somehow. It's the disgrace that's
killin' me — I can't bear it.'

I was at home one Sunday with Mary and a jolly
Bush -girl named Maggie Charlsworth, who rode
over sometimes from Wall's station (I must tell you
about her some other time ; James was ' shook after
her '), and we got talkin' about Mrs Spicer. Maggie
was very warm about old Wall.

* WATER THEM GERANIUMS.' II9

' I expected Mrs Spicer up to-day,' said Mary.
' She seems better lately.'

' Why ! ' cried Maggie Charlsworth, ' if that ain't
Annie coming running up along the creek. Some-
thing's the matter ! '

We all jumped up and ran out.

' What is it, Annie ? ' cried Mary.

' Oh, Mrs Wilson ! Mother's asleep, and we can't
wake her ! '

' What ? '

' It's— it's the truth, Mrs Wilson.'

' How long has she been asleep ? '

' Since lars' night.'

' My God ! ' cried Mary, ' since last night ? '

' No, Mrs Wilson, not all the time ; she woke
wonst, about daylight this mornin'. She called me
and said she didn't feel well, and I'd have to manage
the milkin'.'

' Was that all she said ? '

' No. She said not to go for you ; and she said to
feed the pigs and calves ; and she said to be sure and
water them geraniums.'

Mary wanted to go, but I wouldn't let her. James
and I saddled our horses and rode down the creek.

Mrs Spicer looked very little different from what
she did when I last saw her alive. It was some time
before we could believe that she was dead. But she
was ' past carin' ' right enough.

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY'S
CREEK.

SPUDS, AND A WOMAN'S OBSTINACY.

TI7VER since we were married it had been Mary's
great ambition to have a buggy. * The house
or furniture didn't matter so much — out there in
the Bush where we were — but, where there were
no railways or coaches, and the roads were long,
and mostly hot and dusty, a buggy was the great
thing. I had a few pounds when we were married,
and was going to get one then ; but new buggies
went high, and another party got hold of a second-
hand one that I'd had my eye on, so Mary thought
it over and at last she said, ' Never mind the buggy,
Joe ; get a sewing-machine and I'll be satisfied. I'll
want the machine more than the buggy, for a while.
Wait till we're better off.'

After that, whenever I took a contract — to put up

I J J A DOUBLE BUGGY AT l\m\ S CREEK.

a ft nee or wool-shed, or sink a dam or something
— M.;i\ would say, 'You ought to knock a buggy
out (•>( this job, Joe ; ' but something always turned

up — bad weather or sickness. Once I cut my foot
with the adze and was laid up; and, another time,
a dam I was making was washed away by a flood
before I finished it. Then Mary would say, 'Ah,
well— never mind, Joe. Wait till we are better
off.' But she felt it hard the time I built a wool-
shed and didn't get paid for it, for we'd as good
as settled about another second-hand buggy then.

I always had a fancy for carpentering, and was
handy with tools. I made a spring-cart — body and
wheels — in spare time, out of colonial hardwood,
and got Little the blacksmith to do the ironwork;
I painted the cart myself. It wasn't much lighter
than one of the tip-drays I had, but it was a spring-
cart, and Mary pretended to be satisfied with it:
anyway, I didn't hear any more of the buggy for
a while.

I sold that cart, for fourteen pounds, to a Chinese
gardener who wanted a strong cart to carry his vege-
tables round through the Bush. It was just before
our first youngster came : I told Mary that I wanted
the money in case of extra expense — and she didn't
fret much at losing that cart. But the fact was,
that I was going to make another try for a buggy,
as a present for Mary when the child was born. I
thought of getting the turn-out while she was laid
up, keeping it dark from her till she was on her feet
again, and then showing her the buggy standing
in the shed. But she had a bad time, and I had
to have the doctor regularly, and get a proper nurse,

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY'S CREEK. 123

and a lot of things extra ; so the buggy idea was
knocked on the head. I was set on it, too : I'd
thought of how, when Mary was up and getting
strong, I'd say one morning, ' Go round and have
a look in the shed, Mary ; I've got a few fowls for
you,' or something like that — and follow her round
to watch her eyes when she saw the buggy. I never
told Mary about that — it wouldn't have done any
good.

Later on I got some good timber — mostly
scraps that were given to me — and made a light
body for a spring-cart. Galletly, the coach-builder
at Cudgeegong, had got a dozen pairs of American
hickory wheels up from Sydney, for light spring-
carts, and he let me have a pair for cost price and
carriage. I got him to iron the cart, and he put it
through the paint-shop for nothing. He sent it out,
too, at the tail of Tom Tarrant's big van — to increase
the surprise. We were swells then for a while ; I
heard no more of a buggy until after we'd been
settled at Lahey's Creek for a couple of years. .

I told you how I went into the carrying line, and
took up a selection at Lahey's Creek — for a run for
the horses and to grow a bit of feed — and shifted
Mary and little Jim out there from Gulgong, with
Mary's young scamp of a brother James to keep
them company while I was on the road. The first
year I did well enough carrying, but I never cared
for it — it was too slow; and, besides, I was always
anxious when I was away from home. The game
was right enough for a single man — or a married
one whose wife had got the nagging habit (as many
Bushwomen have — God help 'em !), and who wanted

I A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY S CREEK.

peace and quietness sorrietimi . Bi »ides, other small
carriers started (seeing me getting on); and Tom
Tarrant, the coach-driver at Cudgeegong, had an-
other heavy spring-van built, and put it on the
roads, and he took a lot of the light stuff.

The second year I made a rise — out of ' spuds,' of
all the tilings in the world. It was Mary's idea.
Down at the lower end of our selection — Mary
called it ' the run ' — was a shallow watercourse called
Snake's Creek, dry most of the year, except for a
muddy water-hole or two ; and, just above the junc-
tion, where it ran into Lahey's Creek, was a low
piece of good black -soil flat, on our side — about
three acres. The flat was fairly clear when I came
to the selection — save for a few logs that had been
washed up there in some big ' old man ' flood, way
back in black-fellows' times ; and one day, when I
had a spell at home, I got the horses and trace-
chains and dragged the logs together — those that
wouldn't split for fencing timber — and burnt them
off. I had a notion to get the flat ploughed and
make a lucern- paddock of it. There was a good
water-hole, under a clump of she-oak in the bend,
and Mary used to take her stools and tubs and boiler
down there in the spring-cart in hot weather, and
wash the clothes under the shade of the trees —
it was cooler, and saved carrying water to the house.
And one evening after she'd done the washing she
said to me —

' Look here, Joe ; the farmers out here never seem
to get a new idea : they don't seem to me ever to
try and find out beforehand what the market is going
to be like — they just go on farming the same old

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY*S CREEK. 125

way and putting in the same old crops year after
year. They sow wheat, and, if it comes on anything
like the thing, they reap and thresh it ; if it doesn't,
they mow it for hay — and some of 'em don't have
the brains to do that in time. Now, I was looking
at that bit of flat you cleared, and it struck me that
it wouldn't be a half bad idea to get a bag of seed-
potatoes, and have the land ploughed — old Corny
George would do it cheap — and get them put in at
once. Potatoes have been dear all round for the
last couple of years.'

I told her she was talking nonsense, that the
ground was no good for potatoes, and the whole
district was too dry. ' Everybody I know has tried
it, one time or another, and made nothing of it,' I
said.

' All the more reason why you should try it, Joe,'
said Mary. ' Just try one crop. It might rain for
weeks, and then you'll be sorry you didn't take my
advice.'

' But I tell you the ground is not potato-ground,'
I said.

' How do you know ? You haven't sown any
there yet.'

' But I've turned up the surface and looked at it.
It's not rich enough, and too dry, I tell you. You
need swampy, boggy ground for potatoes. Do you
think I don't know land when I see it ? '

' But you haven't tried to grow potatoes there yet,
Joe. How do you know '

I didn't listen to any more. Mary was obstinate
when she got an idea into her head. It was no use
arguing with her. All the time I'd be talking she'd

uG A D0UB1 l BUGGY AT LAHEY'S CREEK.

just knit her forehead and go on thinking straight

ahead, on the track she'd started, — just as if I wasn't
there, — and it used to make me mad. She'd keep
driving at me till I took her advice or lost my tem-
per,— I did both at the same time, mostly.

I took in)- pipe and went out to smoke and cool
down.

A couple of days after the potato breeze, I started
with the team down to Cudgeegong for a load of
fencing-wire I had to bring out ; and after I'd kissed
Mary good-bye, she said —

1 Look here, Joe, if you bring out a bag of seed-
potatoes, James and I will slice them, and old
Corny George down the creek would bring his
plough up in the dray and plough the ground for
very little. We could put the potatoes in ourselves
if the ground were only ploughed.'

I thought she'd forgotten all about it. There was
no time to argue — I'd be sure to lose my temper,
and then I'd either have to waste an hour comforting
Mary or go off in a ' huff,' as the women call it, and
be miserable for the trip. So I said I'd see about it.
She gave me another hug and a kiss. ' Don't forget,
Joe,' she said as I started. ' Think it over on the
road.' I reckon she had the best of it that time.

About five miles along, just as I turned into the
main road, I heard some one galloping after me,
and I saw young James on his hack. I got a start,
for I thought that something had gone wrong at
home. I remember, the first day I left Mary on
the creek, for the first five or six miles I was half-
a-dozen times on the point of turning back — only I
thought she'd laugh at me.

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY S CREEK. 127

' What is it, James ? ' I shouted, before he came
up — but I saw he was grinning.

' Mary says to tell you not to forget to bring a
hoe out with you.'

' You clear off home ! ' I said, ' or I'll lay the
whip about your young hide; and don't come riding
after me again as if the run was on fire.'

' Well, you needn't get shirty with me ! ' he said.
'I don't want to have anything to do with a hoe.'
And he rode off.

I did get thinking about those potatoes, though
I hadn't meant to. I knew of an independent man
in that district who'd made his money out of a
crop of potatoes ; but that was away back in the
roaring ' Fifties — '54 — when spuds went up to
twenty-eight shillings a hundredweight (in Sydney),
on account of the gold rush. We might get good
rain now, and, anyway, it wouldn't cost much to
put the potatoes in. If they came on well, it would
be a few pounds in my pocket ; if the crop was a
failure, I'd have a better show with Mary next time
she was struck by an idea outside housekeeping,
and have something to grumble about when I felt
grumpy.

I got a couple of bags of potatoes — we could use
those that were left over ; and I got a small iron
plough and a harrow that Little the blacksmith had
lying in his yard and let me have cheap — only
about a pound more than I told Mary I gave for
them. When I took advice, I generally made the
mistake of taking more than was offered, or adding
notions of my own. It was vanity, I suppose. If
the crop came on well I could claim the plough-

A D0UB1 l BUGGY AT LAHEY'S CREEK.

and-harrow part of the Idea, anyway. (It didn't

strike me that if the crop failed Mary would have
tin' plough and harrow against me, for old Corny
would plough the -round for ten or fifteen shillings.)
Anyway, I'd want a plough and harrow later on,
and I might as well get it now ; it would give
James something to do.

I came out by the western road, by Guntawang,
and up the creek home ; and the first thing I saw
was old Corny George ploughing the flat. And
Mary was down on the bank superintending. She'd
got James with the trace-chains and the spare horses,
and had made him clear off every stick and bush
where another furrow might be squeezed in. Old
Corny looked pretty grumpy on it — he'd broken all
his ploughshares but one, in the roots ; and James
didn't look much brighter. Mary had an old felt
hat and a new pair of 'lastic-side boots of mine on,
and the boots were covered with clay, for she'd
been down hustling James to get a rotten old
stump out of the way by the time Corny came
round with his next furrow.

' I thought I'd make the boots easy for you, Joe,'
said Mary.

' It's all right, Mary,' I said. ' I'm not going
to growl.' Those boots were a bone of contention
between us ; but she generally got them off before
I got home.

Her face fell a little when she saw the plough
and harrow in the waggon, but I said that would
be all right — we'd want a plough anyway.

' I thought you wanted old Corny to plough the
ground,' she said.

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY S CREEK. 120.

' I never said so.'

' But when I sent Jim after you about the hoe
to put the spuds in, you didn't say you wouldn't
bring it,' she said.

I had a few days at home, and entered into the
spirit of the thing. When Corny was done, James
and I cross - ploughed the land, and got a stump
or two, a big log, and some scrub out of the way
at the upper end and added nearly an acre, and
ploughed that. James was all right at most Bush-
work : he'd bullock so long as the novelty lasted ;
he liked ploughing or fencing, or any graft he
could make a show at. He didn't care for grubbing
out stumps, or splitting posts and rails. We sliced
the potatoes of an evening — and there was trouble
between Mary and James over cutting through the
' eyes.' There was no time for the hoe — and besides
it wasn't a novelty to James — so I just ran furrows
and they dropped the spuds in behind me, and I
turned another furrow over them, and ran the
harrow over the ground. I think I hilled those
spuds, too, with furrows — or a crop of Indian corn
I put in later on.

It rained heavens-hard for over a week : we had
regular showers all through, and it was the finest
crop of potatoes ever seen in the district. I believe
at first Mary used to slip down at daybreak to see
if the potatoes were up ; and she'd write to me
about them, on the road. I forget how many bags
I got ; but the few who had grown potatoes in the
district sent theirs to Sydney, and spuds went up
to twelve and fifteen shillings a hundredweight in
that district. I made a few quid out of mine —

I

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY S CREEK.

and saved carriage too, for I could take them
out on the waggon. Then Mary began to hear
(through James) of a buggy that some one had
ip, or a dogcart that somebody else
wanted to get rid of — and let me know about it,
in an offhand way.

II.

JOE WILSON'S LUCK.

There was good grass on the selection all the
year. I'd picked up a small lot — about twenty
head — of half-starved steers for next to nothing,
and turned them on the run ; they came on won-
derfully, and my brother-in-law (Mary's sister's hus-
band), who was running a butchery at Gulgong,
gave me a good price for them. His carts ran
out twenty or thirty miles, to little bits of gold-
rushes that were going on at th' Home Rule,
Happy Valley, Guntawang, Tallawang, and Cooyal,
and those places round there, and he was doing
well.

Mary had heard of a light American waggonette,
when the steers went — a tray - body arrangement,
and she thought she'd do with that. ' It would be
better than the buggy, Joe,' she said — ' there'd be
more room for the children, and, besides, I could
take butter and eggs to Gulgong, or Cobborah, when
we get a few more cows.' Then James heard of a
small flock of sheep that a selector — who was about
starved off his selection out Talbragar way — wanted
to get rid of. James reckoned he could get them for
less than half-a-crovvn a-hcad. We'd had a heavy

A D0UB1 E BUGGY AT LAHEY S CREEK.

shower of rain, that came over the ranges and didn't
m to go beyond our boundaries. Mary said, ' It's
a pity to see all that grass going to waste, Joe.
B iter get those sheep and try your luck with them.
Leave some money with me, and I'll send James
over for them. Never mind about the buggy — we'll
get that when we're on our feet.'

So James rode across to Talbragar and drove a
hard bargain with that unfortunate selector, and
brought the sheep home. There were about two
hundred, wethers and ewes, and they were young
and looked a good breed too, but so poor they could
scarcely travel ; they soon picked up, though. The
drought was blazing all round and Out-Back, and
I think that my corner of the ridges was the only
place where there was any grass to speak of.
We had another shower or two, and the grass
held out. Chaps began to talk of 'Joe Wilson's
luck.'

I would have liked to shear those sheep ; but I
hadn't time to get a shed or anything ready — along
towards Christmas there was a bit of a boom in the
carrying line. Wethers in wool were going as high
as thirteen to fifteen shillings at the Homebush yards
at Sydney, so I arranged to truck the sheep down
from the river by rail, with another small lot that
was going, and I started James off with them. He
took the west road, and down Guntawang way a big
farmer who saw James with the sheep (and who was
speculating, or adding to his stock, or took a fancy
to the wool) offered James as much for them as he
reckoned I'd get in Sydney, after paying the carriage
and the agents and the auctioneer. James put the

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY's CREEK. I33

sheep in a paddock and rode back to me. He
was all there where riding was concerned. I told
him to let the sheep go. James made a Greener
shot-gun, and got his saddle done up, out of that
job.

I took up a couple more forty -acre blocks — one in
James's name, to encourage him with the fencing.
There was a good slice of land in an angle between
the range and the creek, farther down, which every-
body thought belonged to Wall, the squatter, but
Mary got an idea, and went to the local land office
and found out that it was ' unoccupied Crown land,'
and so I took it up on pastoral lease, and got a few
more sheep— I'd saved some of the best-looking ewes
from the last lot.

One evening — I was going down next day for a
load of fencing-wire for myself — Mary said, —

' Joe ! do you know that the Matthews have got
a new double buggy ? '

The Matthews were a big family of cockatoos,
along up the main road, and I didn't think much of
them. The sons were all 'bad-eggs,' though the
old woman and girls were right enough.

'Well, what of that?' I said. 'They're up to
their neck in debt, and camping like black - fellows
in a big bark humpy. They do well to go flashing
round in a double buggy.'

' But that isn't what I was going to say,' said
Mary. 'They want to sell their old single bug^y,
James says. I'm sure you could get it lor
six or seven pounds; and you could have it
done up.'

' I wish James to the devil ! ' I said. ' Can't he find

; ; ; A D< U BJ I Bt GGY AT I.Alll J S CREEK.

anything better to do than ride round after cock-
and-bull yarns about buggies?'

* Well,' said Mary, ' it was James who got the
rs and the slurp.'

Well, one word led to another, and we said things
we didn't mean — but couldn't forget in a hurry. I
remember I said something about Mary always
dragging me back just when I was getting my head
above water and struggling to make a home for her
and the children ; and that hurt her, and she spoke
of the ' homes ' she'd had since she was married.
And that cut me deep.

It was about the worst quarrel we had. When
she began to cry I got my hat and went out and
walked up and down by the creek. I hated any-
thing that looked like injustice — I was so sensitive
about it that it made me unjust sometimes. I tried
to think I was right, but I couldn't — it wouldn't have
made me feel any better if I could have thought so.
I got thinking of Mary's first year on the selection
and the life she'd had since we were married.

When I went in she'd cried herself to sleep. I
bent over and, ' Mary,' I whispered.

She seemed to wake up.

' Joe — Joe ! ' she said.

' What is it Mary ? ' I said.

' I'm pretty well sure that old Spot's calf isn't in
the pen. Make James go at once ! '

Old Spot's last calf was two years old now ; so
Mary was talking in her sleep, and dreaming she was
back in her first year.

We both laughed when I told her about it after-
wards; but I didn't feel like laughing just then.

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY'S CREEK. I35

Later on in the night she called out in her
sleep, —

'Joe — Joe! Put that buggy in the shed, or the
sun will blister the varnish ! '

I wish I could say that that was the last time I
ever spoke unkindly to Mary.

Next morning I got up early and fried the bacon
and made the tea, and took Mary's breakfast in to
her — like I used to do, sometimes, when we were
first married. She didn't say anything— just pulled
my head down and kissed me.

When I was ready to start Mary said, —

' You'd better take the spring-cart in behind the
dray and get the tyres cut and set. They're ready
to drop off, and James has been wedging them up
till he's tired of it. The last time I was out with
the children I had to knock one of them back with
a stone : there'll be an accident yet.'

So I lashed the shafts of the cart under the tail of
the waggon, and mean and ridiculous enough the
cart looked, going along that way. It suggested a
man stooping along handcuffed, with his arms held
out and down in front of him.

It was dull weather, and the scrubs looked extra
dreary and endless — and I got thinking of old
things. Everything was going all right with me,
but that didn't keep me from brooding sometimes —
trying to hatch out stones, like an old hen we had
at home. I think, taking it all round, I used to be
happier when I was mostly hard-up — and more
generous. When I had ten pounds I was more
likely to listen to a chap who said, ' Lend me a
pound-note, Joe,' than when I had fifty ; then I

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEV S CREEK.

fought shy <if careless chaps — and lost mates that
I wanted afterwards — and got the name of bring
mean. When I got a good cheque I'd be as miser-
able as a miser over the fust ten pounds I spent;
but when I got down to the last I'd buy things for
the house. And now that I was getting on, I hated
to spend a pound on anything. But then, the
farther I got away from poverty the greater the
fear I had of it — and, besides, there was always
before us all the thought of the terrible drought,
with blazing runs as bare and dusty as the road,
and dead stock rotting every yard, all along the
barren creeks.

I had a long j'arn with Mary's sister and her
husband that night in Gulgong, and it brightened
me up. I had a fancy that that sort of a brother-
in-law made a better mate than a nearer one ; Tom
Tarrant had one, and he said it was sympathy. But
while we were yarning I couldn't help thinking of
Mary, out there in the hut on the Creek, with no
one to talk to but the children, or James, who was
sulky at home, or Black Mary or Black Jimmy (our
black boy's father and mother), who weren't over-
sentimental. Or maybe a selector's wife (the near-
est was five miles away), who could talk only of
two or three things — ' lambin' ' and ' shearin' ' and
' cookin' for the men,' and what she said to her
old man, and what he said to her — and her own
ailments — over and over again.

It's a wronder it didn't drive Mary mad ! — I know
I could never listen to that woman more than an
hour. Mary's sister said, —

' Now if Mary had a comfortable buggy, she

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY S CREEK. I37

could drive in with the children oftener. Then
she wouldn't feel the loneliness so much.'

I said ' Good night ' then and turned in. There
was no getting away from that buggy. Whenever
Mary's sister started hinting about a buggy, I reck-
oned it was a put-up job between them.

III.

Till-; GHOST OF MARY'S SACRIFICE.

When I got to Gudgeegong I stopped at Gallctly's
coach - shop to leave the cart. The Galletlys
were good fellows: there were two brothers — one
was a saddler and harness - maker. Big brown-
bearded men — the biggest men in the district,
'twas said.

Their old man had died lately and left them some
money ; they had men, and only worked in their
shops when they felt inclined, or there was a special
work to do ; they were both first-class tradesmen.
I went into the painter's shop to have a look at a
double buggy that Galletly had built for a man who
couldn't pay cash for it when it was finished — and
Galletly wouldn't trust him.

There it stood, behind a calico screen that the
coach-painters used to keep out the dust when they
were varnishing. It was a first-class piece of work
— pole, shafts, cushions, whip, lamps, and all com-
plete. If you only wanted to drive one horse you
could take out the pole and put in the shafts, and
there you were. There was a tilt over the front
seat ; if you only wanted the buggy to carry two,
you could fold down the back seat, and there you

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY'S CREEK. I39,

had a handsome, roomy, single buggy. It would
go near fifty pounds.

While I was looking at it, Bill Galletly came in,
and slapped me on the back.

' Now, there's a chance for you, Joe ! ' he said.
' I saw you rubbing your head round that buggy the
last time you were in. You wouldn't get a better
one in the colonies, and you won't see another like
it in the district again in a hurry — for it doesn't pay
to build 'em. Now you're a full-blown squatter,
and it's time you took little Mary for a fly round
in her own buggy now and then, instead of
having her stuck out there in the scrub, or jolt-
ing through the dust in a cart like some old
Mother Flourbag.'

He called her ' little Mary ' because the Galletly
family had known her when she was a girl.

I rubbed my head and looked at the buggy again.
It was a great temptation.

' Look here, Joe,' said Bill Galletly in a quieter
tone. ' I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll let you have
the buggy. You can take it out and send along a
bit of a cheque when you feel you can manage it,
and the rest later on, — a year will do, or even two
years. You've had a hard pull, and I'm not likely
to be hard up for money in a hurry.'

They were good fellows the Galletlys, but they
knew their men. I happened to know that Bill
G;ilictly wouldn't let the man he built the buggy
for take it out of the shop without cash down,
though he was a big-bug round there. But that
didn't make it easier for me.

Just then Robert Galletly came into the shop.

I jo A , AT LAHEY S CREEK.

He v. i ther quieter than his brother, but the
lw w : much alii

'1. Bob,' said Bill; 'here's a chance

rid of your harness. Joe Wilson's

take that buggy off my hands.'

Galletly put his foot up on a saw-stool, took

hand out of his pockets, rested his elbow on his

knee and his chin on the palm of his hand, and

bunched up his big beard with his fingers, as he always

did when he was thinking. Presently he took his foot

down, put his hand back in his pocket, and said

to me, ' Well, Joe, I've got a double set of harness

made for the man who ordered that damned buggy,

and if )fou like I'll let you have it. I suppose when

Bill there has squeezed all he can out of you I'll

stand a show of getting something. He's a regular

Shylock, he is.'

I pushed my hat forward and rubbed the back of
my head and stared at the buggy.

' Come across to the Royal, Joe,' said Bob.

But I knew that a beer would settle the business,
so I said I'd get the wool up to the station first
and think it over, and have a drink when I came
back.

I thought it over on the way to the station, but
it didn't seem good enough. I wanted to get some
more sheep, and there was the new run to be fenced
in, and the instalments on the selections. I wanted
lots of things that I couldn't well do without.
Then, again, the farther I got away from debt and
hard-upedness the greater the horror I had of it.
I had two horses that would do; but I'd have to
get another later on, and altogether the buggy

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY'S CREEK. I4I

would run me nearer a hundred than fifty pounds.
Supposing a dry season threw me back with that
buggy on my hands. Besides, I wanted a spell.
If I got the buggy it would only mean an extra
turn of hard graft for me. No, I'd take Mary for
a trip to Sydney, and she'd have to be satisfied
with that.

I'd got it settled, and was just turning in through
the big white gates to the goods-shed when young
Black, the squatter, dashed past to the station in
his big new waggonette, with his wife and a driver
and a lot of portmanteaus and rugs and things.
They were going to do the grand in Sydney over
Christmas. Now it was young Black who was so
shook after Mary when she was in service with
the Blacks before the old man died, and if I hadn't
come along — and if girls never cared for vagabonds
— Mary would have been mistress of Haviland
homestead, with servants to wait on her ; and she
was far better fitted for it than the one that was
there. She would have been going to Sydney every
holiday and putting up at the old Royal, with every
comfort that a woman could ask for, and seeing a
play every night. And I'd have been knocking
around amongst the big stations Out-Back, or
maybe drinking myself to death at the shanties.

The Blacks didn't see me as I went by, ragged
and dusty, and with an old, nearly black, cabbage-
tree hat drawn over my eyes. I didn't care a
damn for them, or any one else, at most times,
but I had moods when I felt things.

One of Black's big wool teams was just coming
away from the shed, and the driver, a big, dark,

1 42 A I I 11 1 BUGGY AT I Alll.VS CREEK.

li fellow, with some foreign blood in him, didn't
m inclined to wheel his team an inch out of
the middle of tin- road. I stopped my horses and
waited. H'- looked at me and I looked at him —
hard. Then he wheeled off, scowling, and swear-
ing at his horses. I'd given him a hiding, six or
seven wars before, and he hadn't forgotten it. And
I felt then as if I wouldn't mind trying to give some
one a hiding.

The goods clerk must have thought that Joe
"Wilson was pretty grumpy that day. I was think-
ing of Mary, out there in the lonely hut on a barren
creek in the Bush — for it was little better — with
no one to speak to except a haggard, worn-out
Bushwoman or two, that came to see her on Sunday.
I thought of the hardships she went through in the
first year — that I haven't told you about yet ; of
the time she was ill, and I away, and no one to
understand; of the time she was alone with James
and Jim sick; and of the loneliness she fought
through out there. I thought of Mary, outside in
the blazing heat, with an old print dress and a felt
hat, and pair of 'lastic - siders of mine on, doing
the work of a station manager as well as that of
a housewife and mother. And her cheeks were
gelling thin, and her colour was going: I thought
of the gaunt, brick-brown, saw-file voiced, hopeless
and spiritless Bushwomen I knew — and some of
them not much older than Mary.

When I went back down into the town, I had
a drink with Bill Galletly at the Royal, and that
settled the buggy ; then Bob shouted, and I took
the harness. Then I shouted, to wet the bargain.

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY'S CREEK. I43

When 1 was going, Bob said, ' Send in that young
scamp of a brother of Mary's with the horses : if
the collars don't fit I'll fix up a pair of makeshifts,
and alter the others.' I thought they both gripped
my hand harder than usual, but that might have
been the beer,

IV.

THE BUGGY COMES HOME.

I ' WHIPPED the cat ' a bit, the first twenty miles or
so, but then, I thought, what did it matter? What
was the use of grinding to save money until we were
too old to enjoy it. If we had to go down in the
world again, we might as well fall out of a buggy
as out of a dray — there'd be some talk about it,
anyway, and perhaps a little sympathy. When
Mary had the buggy she wouldn't be tied down
so much to that wretched hole in the Bush ; and
the Sydney trips needn't be off either. I could
drive down to Wallerawang on the main line,
where Mary had some people, and leave the buggy
and horses there, and take the train to Sydney ;
or go right on, by the old coach-road, over the
Blue Mountains : it would be a grand drive. 1
thought best to tell Mary's sister at Gulgong
about the buggy ; I told her I'd keep it dark from
Mary till the buggy came home. She entered into
the spirit of the thing, and said she'd give the
world to be able to go out with the buggy, if only
to see Mary open her eyes when she saw it ; but
she couldn't go, on account of a new baby she
had. I was rather glad she couldn't, for it would

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY'S CREEK. Izj5

spoil the surprise a little, I thought. I wanted
that all to myself.

I got home about sunset next day, and, after tea,
when I'd finished telling Mary all the news, and a
few lies as to why I didn't bring the cart back, and
one or two other things, I sat with James, out on a
log of the wood-heap, where we generally had our
smokes and interviews, and told him all about the
buggy. He whistled, then he said —

' But what do you want to make it such a Bush-
ranging business for? Why can't you tell Mary
now ? It will cheer her up. She's been pretty
miserable since you've been away this trip.'

' I want it to be a surprise,' I said.

'Well, I've got nothing to say against a surprise,
out in a hole like this ; but it 'ud take a lot to sur-
prise me. What am I to say to Mary about taking
the two horses in? I'll only want one to bring the
cart out, and she's sure to ask.'

' Tell her you're going to get yours shod.'

' But he had a set of slippers only the other day.
She knows as much about horses as we do. I don't
mind telling a lie so long as a chap has only got to
tell a straight lie and be done with it. But Mary
asks so many questions.'

' Well, drive the other horse up the creek early,
and pick him up as you go.'

' Yes. And she'll want to know what I want with
two bridles. But I'll fix her — you needn't worry.'

'And, James,' I said, 'get a chamois leather and
sponge — we'll want 'em anyway — and you might
give the buggy a wash down in the creek, coming
home. It's sure to be covered with dust.'

K

Bl 1 BUGGY AT LAHEY'S CREEK.

- Oh 1 — orlright.'

'And if you can, time yourself to gel here in
the cool of the evening, or jusl aboul sun et.'

•What for?'

I'd thought it would be better to have the buggy

there in the cool ui the evening, when Mary would

have time to get excited and get over it — better

i in the blazing hot morning, when the sun

rose as hot as at noon, and we'd have the long

ling day before us.

' What do you want me to come at sunset for ? '
asked James. 'Do you want me to camp out in
the scrub and turn up like a blooming sundowner ? '

'Oh well,' I said, 'get here at midnight if you
like.'

We didn't say anything for a while — just sat and
puffed at our pipes. Then I said, —

' Well, what are you thinking about ? '

I'm thinking it's time you got a new hat, the sun
seems to get in through your old one too much,'
and he got out of my reach and went to see about
penning the calves. Before we turned in he said, —

' Well, what am I to get out of the job, Joe ? '

He had his eye on a double-barrel gun that
Franca the gunsmith in Cudgeegong had — one
barrel shot, and the other rifle ; so I said, —

' How much does Franca want for that gun ? '

' Five-ten ; but I think he'd take my single barrel
off it. Anyway, I can squeeze a couple of quid out
of Phil Lambert for the single barrel.' (Phil was
his bosom chum.)

'All right,' I said. 'Make the best bargain you
can.'

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY'S CREEK. I47

He got his own breakfast and made an early start
next morning, to get clear of any instructions or
messages that Mary might have forgotten to give
him overnight. He took his gun with him.

I'd always thought that a man was a fool who
couldn't keep a secret from his wife — that there
was something womanish about him. I found out.
Those three days waiting for the buggy were about
the longest I ever spent in my life. It made me
scotty with every one and everything; and poor
Mary had to suffer for it. I put in the time patch-
ing up the harness and mending the stockyard and
the roof, and, the third morning, I rode up the
ridges to look for trees for fencing-timber. I re-
member I hurried home that afternoon because I
thought the buggy might get there before me.

At tea-time I got Mary on to the buggy business.

' What's the good of a single buggy to you,
Mary ? ' I asked. ' There's only room for two,
and what are you going to do with the children
when we go out together ? '

' We can put them on the floor at our feet, like
other people do. I can always fold up a blanket or
'possum rug for them to sit on.'

But she didn't take half so much interest in buggy
talk as she would have taken at any other time, when
I didn't want her to. Women are aggravating that
way. But the poor girl was tired and not very well,
and both the children were cross. She did look
knocked up.

' We'll give the buggy a rest, Joe,' she said. (I
thought I heard it coming then.) ' It seems as far
off as ever. I don't know why you want to harp on

T.;S a DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAH1 EK.

it to-day. Now, don't look so cross, Joe — I didn't
:i to hurt you. We'll wait until we ran get a

double buggy, since you're so set on it. There'll he
plenty of time when we're better i

After tea, when the youngsters were in bed, and
she'd wash* d up, we sat outside on the edge of the
verandah iloor, Mar}- sewing, and I smoking and
watching the track up the creek.

1 Why don't you talk, Joe ? ' asked Mary. ' You
scarcely ever speak to me now : it's like drawing
blood out of a stone to get a word from you. What
makes you so cross, Joe ? '

' Well, I've got nothing to say.'

' But you should find something. Think of me —
it's very miserable for me. Have you anything on
your mind ? Is there any new trouble ? Better tell
me, no matter what it is, and not go worrying and
brooding and making both our lives miserable. If
you never tell one anything, how can you expect me
to understand ? '

I said there was nothing the matter.

' But there must be, to make you so unbearable.
Have you been drinking, Joe — or gambling ? '

I asked her what she'd accuse me of next.

' And another thing I want to speak to you about,'
she went on. ' Now, don't knit up your forehead
like that, Joe, and get impatient '

' Well, what is it ? '

' I wish you wouldn't swear in the hearing of the
children. Now, little Jim to-day, he was trying to
fix his little go-cart and it wouldn't run right, and —
and '

' Well, what did he say ? '

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY's CREEK. 149

' He — he ' (she seemed a little hysterical, trying
not to laugh) — ' he said " damn it ! " '

I had to laugh. Mary tried to keep serious, but
it was no use.

' Never mind, old woman,' I said, putting an arm
round her, for her mouth was trembling, and she was
crying more than laughing. ' It won't be always like
this. Just wait till we're a bit better off.'

Just then a black boy we had (I must tell you
about him some other time) came sidling along by
the wall, as if he were afraid somebody was going to
hit him — poor little devil ! I never did.

' What is it, Harry ? ' said Mary.

' Buggy comin', I bin thinkit.'

' Where ? '

He pointed up the creek.

' Sure it's a buggy ? '

' Yes, missus.'

' How many horses ? '

' One — two.'

We knew that he could hear and see things long
before we could. Mary went and perched on the
wood-heap, and shaded her eyes — though the sun
had gone — and peered through between the eternal
grey trunks of the stunted trees on the flat across
the creek. Presently she jumped down and came
running in.

' There's some one coming in a buggy, Joe ! ' she
cried, excitedly. * And both my white table-cloths
are rough dry. Harry ! put two flat-irons down to
the fire, quick, and put on some more wood. It's
lucky I kept those new sheets packed away. Get
up out of that, Joe ! What are you sitting grinning

150 A I BUGGY Al I AI1LY S CR] l K.

like that for ? Go and get on another shirt. Hurry
— Why! It's only James— by himself.1

She stared at me, and I sat there, grinning like a
fool.

1 Joe ! ' she said, ' whose buggy is that ? '

' Well, I suppose it's yours,' I said.

She caught her breath, and stared at the buggy
and then at me again. James drove down out of
sight into the crossing, and came up close to the
house.

'Oh, Joe! what have you done?' cried Mary.
' Why, it's a new double buggy ! ' Then she rushed
at me and hugged my head. ' Why didn't you tell
me, Joe ? You poor old boy ! — and I've been nag-
ging at you all day ! ' and she hugged me again.

James got down and started taking the horses out
— as if it was an everyday occurrence. I saw the
double-barrel gun sticking out from under the seat.
He*d stopped to wash the buggy, and I suppose
that's what made him grumpy. Mary stood on the
verandah, with her eyes twice as big as usual, and
breathing hard — taking the buggy in.

James skimmed the harness off, and the horses
shook themselves and went down to the dam for
a drink. ' You'd better look under the seats,'
growled James, as he took his gun out with great
care.

Mary dived for the buggy. There was a dozen of
lemonade and ginger-beer in a candle-box from Gal-
letly — James said that Galletly's men had a gallon
of beer, and they cheered him, James (I suppose he
meant they cheered the buggy), as he drove off;
there was a ' little bit of a ham' from Pat Murphy,

A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY's CREEK. 151

the storekeeper at Home Rule, that he'd ' cured
himself — it was the biggest I ever saw; there were
three loaves of baker's bread, a cake, and a dozen
yards of something ' to make up for the children,'
from Aunt Gertrude at Gulgong ; there was a fresh-
water cod, that long Dave Regan had caught the
night before in the Macquarie river, and sent out
packed in salt in a box ; there was a holland suit for
the black boy, with red braid to trim it ; and there
was a jar of preserved ginger, and some lollies
(sweets) (' for the lil' boy '), and a rum - looking
Chinese doll and a rattle (' for lil' girl ') from Sun
Tong Lee, our storekeeper at Gulgong — James was
chummy with Sun Tong Lee, and got his powder
and shot and caps there on tick when he was short
of money. And James said that the people' would
have loaded the buggy with ' rubbish ' if he'd waited.
They all seemed glad to see Joe Wilson getting on —
and these things did me good.

, We got the things inside, and I don't think either
of us knew what we were saying or doing for the
next half-hour. Then James put his head in and
said, in a very injured tone, —

' What about my tea ? I ain't had anything to
speak of since I left Cudgccgong. I want some
grub.'

Then Mary pulled herself together.

' You'll have your tea directly,' she said. ' Pick
up that harness at once, and hang it on the pegs in
the skillion ; and you, Joe, back that buggy under
the end of the verandah, the dew will be on it
presently — and we'll put wet bags up in front of it
to-morrow, to keep the sun off. And James will

A D0UBL1 BUGG^ AT LAHEYS CREEK.

have to go back to Cudgeegong for the cart, — we
i have that buggy to knock about in.1

'All right,1 said James — 'anything! Only get me
some grub.'

Mary fried the fish, in case it wouldn't keep till
the morning, and rubbed over the tablecloths, now
the irons were hot — James growling all the time —
and got out some crockery she had packed away
that had belonged to her mother, and set the table
in a style that made James uncomfortable.

1 I want some grub — not a blooming banquet ! ' he
paid. And he growled a lot because Mary wanted
him to eat his fish without a knife, ' and that sort of
Tommy-rot.' When he'd finished he took his gun,
and the black boy, and the dogs, and went out
'possum-shooting.

When we were alone Mary climbed into the
buggy to try the seat, and made me get up along-
side her. We hadn't had such a comfortable seat
for years ; but we soon got down, in case any one
came by, for we began to feel like a pair of fools up
there.

Then we sat, side by side, on the edge of the
verandah, and talked more than we'd done for years
— and there was a good deal of ' Do you remember? '
in it — and I think we got to understand each other
better that night.

And at last Mary said, ' Do you know, Joe, why,
I feel to-night just — just like I did the day we were
married.'

And somehow I had that strange, shy sort of
feeling too.

THE WRITER WANTS TO SAY
A WORD.

T N writing the first sketch of the Joe Wilson series,
which happened to be ' Brighten's Sister-in-
law,' I had an idea of making Joe Wilson a strong
character. Whether he is or not, the reader must
judge. It seems to me that the man's natural senti-
mental selfishness, good-nature, ' softness,' or weak-
ness— call it which you like — developed as I wrote
on.

I know Joe Wilson very well. He has been
through deep trouble since the day he brought the
double buggy to Lahey's Creek. I met him in
Sydney the other day. Tall and straight yet — rather
straighter than he had been — dressed in a comfort-
able, serviceable sac suit of ' saddle-tweed,' and wear-
ing a new sugar-loaf, cabbage -tree hat, he looked
over the hurrying street people calmly as though
they were sheep of which he was not in charge,
and which were not likely to get ' boxed ' with his.
Not the worst way in which to regard the world.

154 im" WRITER WANTS 1" say a WORD.

He talked deliberately and quietly in all thai roar

and rush. He is a young man yet, comparatively

:ing, but it would take little Mary a long while

now to pick the grey hairs out of his head, and the

process would leave him pretty bald.

In two or three short sketches in another book I
hope to complete the story of his life.

PART II.

THE GOLDEN GRAVEYARD.

]\/r OTHER MIDDLETON was an awful woman,
an ' old hand ' (transported convict) some
said. The prefix ' mother ' in Australia mostly
means 'old hag,' and is applied in that sense. In
early boyhood we understood, from old diggers,
that Mother Middleton — in common with most
other ' old hands ' — had been sent out for ' knocking
a donkey off a hen-roost.' We had never seen a
donkey. She drank like a fish and swore like a
trooper when the spirit moved her ; she went on
periodical sprees, and swore on most occasions.
There was a fearsome yarn, which impressed us
greatly as boys, to the effect that once, in her best
(or worst) days, she had pulled a mounted police-
man off his horse, and half- killed him with a
heavy pick - handle, which she used for poking
down clothes in her boiler. She said that he
had insulted her.

She could still knock down a tree and cut a load
of firewood with any Bushman ; she was square and
muscular, with arms like a navvy's ; she had often

I58 TIM 1RAVEYARD.

worked shifts, below and on top, with her husband,
when he'd be putting down a prospecting shaft
without a mate, as he often had to do becau e of
her mainly. Old di tid that it was lovely to

sit how she'd spin up a heavy green-hide bui
full of clay and ' tailings/ and land anil empty it
with a twist of her wrist. Most men were afraid
of her, and few diggers' wives were strong-minded

ugh to seek a second row with Mother Middleton.
Her voice could be heard right across Golden Gully
and Specimen Flat, whether raised in argument or
in friendly greeting. She came to the old Pipeclay
diggings with the 'rough crowd' (mostly Irish), and
when the old and new Pipeclays were worked out,
she went with the rush to Gulgong (about the last
of the great alluvial or 'poor-man's' goldfields) and
cumc back to Pipeclay when the Log Paddock gold-

1 'broke out,' adjacent to the old fields, and so
helped prove the truth of the old digger's saying,
that no matter how thoroughly ground has been
worked, there is always room for a new Ballarat.
Jimmy Middleton died at Log Paddock, and was
buried, about the last, in the little old cemetery —
appertaining to the old farming town on the river,
about four miles away — which adjoined the district
racecourse, in the Bush, on the far edge of Speci-
men Flat. She conducted the funeral. Some said
she made the coffin, and there were alleged jokes to
the effect that her tongue had provided the corpse ;
but this, I think, was unfair and cruel, for she loved
Jimmy Middleton in her awful way, and was, for all
I ever heard to the contrary, a good wife to him.
She then lived in a hut in Log Paddock, on a little

THE GOLDEN GRAVEYARD. I5Q

money in the bank, and did sewing and washing for
single diggers.

I remember hearing her one morning in neigh-
bourly conversation, carried on across the gully,
with a selector, Peter Olsen, who was hopelessly
slaving to farm a dusty patch in the scrub.

' Why don't you chuck up that dust-hole and go
up country and settle on good land, Peter Olsen ?
You're only slaving your stomach out here.' (She
didn't say stomach.)

Peter Olsen (mild-whiskered little man, afraid of
his wife). 'But then you know my wife is so
delicate, Mrs Middleton. I wouldn't like to take
her out in the Bush.'

Mrs Middleton. ' Delicate, be damned ! she's only
shamming!' (at her loudest.) 'Why don't you kick
her off the bed and the book out of her hand, and
make her go to work ? She's as delicate as I am.

Are you a man, Peter Olsen, or a ? '

This for the edification of the wife and of all within
half a mile.

Long Paddock was ' petering.' There were a few
claims still being worked down at the lowest end,
where big, red-and-white waste-heaps of clay and
gravel, rising above the blue - grey gum - bushes,
advertised deep sinking ; and little, yellow, clay-
stained streams, running towards the creek over the.
drought-parched surface, told of trouble with the
water below — time lost in baling and extra expense
in timbering. And diggers came up with their
flannels and moleskins yellow and heavy, and
dripping with wet ' mullock.'

Most of the diggers had gone to other fields, but

Till GOLDEN GRAVEYARD.

ther a few prospecting, in parties and singly,

out on the flats and amongst the ridges round Pipe-
clay. Sinking holes in search ol a new Ballarat.

Dave Regan -lanky, ing Bush native; Jim

tly — a bit of a ' Flash Jack'; and Andy Page —
a character like what ' Kit ' (in the ' Old Curiosity
Shop') might have been after a voyage to Australia
and some Colonial experience. These three were
mates from habit and not necessity, for it was all
shallow sinking where they worked. They were
poking down pot-holes in the scrub in the vicinity
of the racecourse, where the sinking was from ten
to fifteen feet.

Dave had theories — ' ideers ' or ' notions ' he called
them; Jim Bently laid claim to none — he ran by
sight, not scent, like a kangaroo-dog. Andy Page
— bv the way, great admirer and faithful retainer of
Dave Regan — was simple and trusting, but, on
critical occasions, he was apt to be obstinately,
uncomfortably, exasperatingly truthful, honest, and
he had reverence for higher things.

Dave thought hard all one quiet drowsy Sunday
afternoon, and next morning he, as head of the
party, started to sink a hole as close to the cemetery
fence as he dared. It was a nice quiet spot in
the thick scrub, about three panels along the fence
from the farthest corner post from the road. They
bottomed here at nine feet, and found encouraging
indications. They ' drove ' (tunnelled) inwards at
right angles to the fence, and at a point immedi-
ately beneath it they were ' making tucker ' ; a few
feet farther and they were making wages. The
old alluvial bottom sloped gently that way. The

THE GOLDEN GRAVEYARD. l6l

bottom here, by the way, was shelving, brownish,
rotten rock.

Just inside the cemetery fence, and at right angles
to Dave's drive, lay the shell containing all that was
left of the late fiercely lamented James Middleton,
with older graves close at each end. A grave was
supposed to be six feet deep, and local gravediggers
had been conscientious. The old alluvial bottom
sloped from nine to fifteen feet here.

Dave worked the ground all round from the
bottom of his shaft, timbering — i.e., putting in a
sapling prop — here and there where he worked
wide ; but the ' payable dirt ' ran in under the
cemetery, and in no other direction.

Dave, Jim, and Andy held a consultation in camp
over their pipes after tea, as a result of which Andy
next morning rolled up his swag, sorrowfully but
firmly shook hands with Dave and Jim, and started
to tramp Out-Back to look for work on a sheep-
station.

This was Dave's theory — drawn from a little ex-
perience and many long yarns with old diggers : —

He had bottomed on a slope to an old original
water-course, covered with clay and gravel from the
hills by centuries of rains to the depth of from nine
or ten to twenty feet ; he had bottomed on a gutter
running into the bed of the old buried creek, and
carrying patches and streaks of ' wash ' or gold-
bearing dirt. If he went on he might strike it rich
at any stroke of his pick ; he might strike the rich
' lead ' which was supposed to exist round there.
(There was always supposed to be a rich lead round
there somewhere. ' There's gold in them ridges yet

L

THE GO! D] N GRAVl YARD.

- if a man can only git at it,' says the toothless old
relic of the Roai ing 1 )ays.)

D . c might strike a ledge, ' pocket,' or ' pot-hole '
holding wash rich with gold. He had prospected
on the opp isite side of the cemetery, found no gold,
and the bottom sloping upwards towards the grave-
yard. He had prospi cted at the back of the ccme-
t( ry, found a few 'colours,' and the bottom sloping
downwards towards the point under the cemetery
towards which all indications were now leading him.
He had sunk shafts across the road opposite the
cemetery frontage and found the sinking twenty feet
and not a colour of gold. Probably the whole of the
ground under the cemetery was rich — maybe the
richest in the district. The old gravediggers had
not been gold-diggers — besides, the graves, being six
feet, would, none of them, have touched the alluvial
bottom. There was nothing strange in the fact that
none of the crowd of experienced diggers who rushed
the district had thought of the cemetery and race-
course. Old brick chimneys and houses, the clay
for the bricks of which had been taken from sites of
subsequent goldfields, had been put through the
crushing-mill in subsequent years and had yielded
' payable gold.' Fossicking Chinamen were said to
have beer the first to detect a case of this kind.

Dave reckoned to strike the Mead,' or a shelf or
ledge with a good streak of wash lying along it, at a
point about forty feet within the cemetery. But a
theory in alluvial gold-mining was much like a theory
in gambling, in some respects. The theory might be
right enough, but old volcanic disturbances — 'the
shrinkage of the earth's surface,' and that sort of old

THE GOLDEN GRAVEYARD. 163

things — upset everything. You might follow good
gold along a ledge, just under the grass, till it sud-
denly broke off and the continuation might be a
hundred feet or so under your nose.

Had the ' ground ' in the cemetery been ' open '
Dave would have gone to the point under which he
expected the gold to lie, sunk a shaft there, and
worked the ground. It would have been the quickest
and easiest way — it would have saved the labour and
the time lost in dragging heavy buckets of dirt along
a low lengthy drive to the shaft outside the fence.
But it was very doubtful if the Government could
have been moved to open the cemetery even on the
strongest evidence of the existence of a rich goldfield
under it, and backed by the influence of a number of
diggers and their backers — which last was what
Dave wished for least of all. He wanted, above all
things, to keep the thing shady. Then, again, the
old clannish local spirit of the old farming town,
rooted in years way back of the goldfields, would
have been too strong for the Government, or even a
rush of wild diggers.

' We'll work this thing on the strict Q.T.,' said
Dave.

He and Jim had a consultation by the camp fire
outside their tent. Jim grumbled, in conclusion, —

' Well, then, best go under Jimmy Middleton.
It's the shortest and straightcst, and Jimmy's the
freshest, anyway.'

Then there was another trouble. How were they
to account for the size of the waste-heap of clay on
the surface which would be the result of such an
extraordinary length of drive or tunnel for shallow

Till- G01 DEN GR Wl.VAKP.

sinkings? Dave had an Idea of carrying some of
the dirt away by night and putting it down a de-
serted shaft close by; but thai would double the
labour, and might lead to detection sooner than
anything else. There were boys 'possum - hunting
on those flats every night. Then Dave got an idea.
1 hi re was supposed to exist — and it has since
been proved — another, a second gold-bearing alluvial
bottom on that field, and several had tried for it.
( 'iie, the town watchmaker, had sunk all his money
in 'duffers,' trying for the second bottom. It was
supposed to exist at a depth of from eighty to a
hundred feet — on solid rock, I suppose. This watch-
maker, an Italian, would put men on to sink, and
superintend in person, and whenever he came to a
little 'colour '-showing shelf, or false bottom, thirty
or forty feet down — he'd go rooting round and spoil
the shaft, and then start to sink another. It was
extraordinary that he hadn't the sense to sink
straight down, thoroughly test the second bottom,
and if he found no gold there, to fill the shaft up to
the other bottoms, or build platforms at the proper
level and then explore them. He was living in a
lunatic asylum the last time I heard of him. And
the last time I heard from that field, they were
boring the ground like a sieve, with the latest
machinery, to find the best place to put down a
deep shaft, and finding gold from the second bottom
on the bore. But I'm right off the line again.

'Old Pinter,' Ballarat digger — his theory on
second and other bottoms ran as follows : —

' Ye see, this here grass surface — this here surface
with trees an' grass on it, that we're livin' on, has

THE GOLDEN GRAVEYARD. 165

got nothin' to do with us. This here bottom in the
shaller sinkin's that we're workin' on is the slope
to the bed of the new crick that was on the surface
about the time that men was missin' links. The
false bottoms, thirty or forty feet down, kin be said
to have been on the surface about the time that men
was monkeys. The secon' bottom — eighty or a hun-
dred feet down — was on the surface about the time
when men was frogs. Now '

But it's with the missing-link surface we have to
do, and had the friends of the local departed known
what Dave and Jim were up to they would have re-
garded them as something lower than missing-links.

' We'll give out we're tryin' for the second bottom,'
said Dave Regan. ' We'll have to rig a fan for air,
anyhow, and you don't want air in shallow sinkings.'

' And some one will come poking round, and look
down the hole and see the bottom,' said Jim Bently.

' We must keep 'em away,' said Dave. ' Tar the
bottom, or cover it with tarred canvas, to make it
black. Then they won't see it. There's not many
diggers left, and the rest are going ; they're chucking
up the claims in Log Paddock. Besides, I could
get drunk and pick rows with the rest and they
wouldn't come near me. The farmers ain't in love
with us diggers, so they won't bother us. No man
has a right to come poking round another man's
claim : it ain't ettykit — I'll root up that old ettykit
and stand to it — it's rather worn out now, but that's
no matter. We'll shift the tent down near the
claim and see that no one comes nosing round on
Sunday. They'll think we're only some more
second -bottom lunatics, like Francea [the mining

Till GO! DEN GRAVEYARD.

watchmaker]. We're going to get our fortune out
from under that old graveyard, Jim. You leave it

all to me till you'ir born again with brains.'

Dave's schemes were always elaborate, and that
why they so often came to the ground. He
.1 up his windlass platform a little higher, bent
about eighty feet of rope to the bole of the windlass,
which was a new one, and thereafter, whenever a
suspicious- looking party (that is to say, a cb
hove in sight, Dave would let down about forty feet
of rope and then wind, with simulated exertion,
until the slack was taken up and the rope lifted the
bucket from the shallow bottom.

' It would look better to have a whip-pole and a
horse, but we can't afford them just yet,' said Dave.

But I'm a little behind. They drove straight in
under the cemetery, finding good wash all the way.
The edge of Jimmy Middleton's box appeared in the
top comer of the ' face ' (the working end) of the
drive. They went under the butt-end of the grave.
They shoved up the end of the shell with a prop, to
prevent the possibility of an accident which might
disturb the mound above; they puddled — i.e.,
rammed — stiff clay up round the edges to keep the
loose earth from dribbling down; and having given
the bottom of the coffin a good coat of tar, they got
over, or rather under, an unpleasant matter.

Jim Bently smoked and burnt paper during his
shift below, and grumbled a good deal. ' Blowed if
I ever thought I'd be rooting for gold down among
the blanky dead men,' he said. But the dirt panned
out better every dish they washed, and Dave worked
the ' wash ' out right and left as they drove.

THE GOLDEN GRAVEYARD. 167

But, one fine morning, who should come along but
the very last man whom Dave wished to see round
there — 'Old Pinter' (James Poynton), Californian
and Victorian digger of the old school. He'd been
prospecting down the creek, carried his pick over his
shoulder — threaded through the eye in the heft of his
big-bladed, short-handled shovel that hung behind —
and his gold-dish under his arm.

I mightn't get a chance again to explain what a
gold-dish and what gold-washing is. A gold wash-
ing-dish is a flat dish — nearer the shape of a bedroom
bath-tub than anything else I have seen in England,
or the dish we used for setting milk — I don't know
whether the same is used here : the gold - dish
measures, say, eighteen inches across the top. You
get it full of wash dirt, squat down at a convenient
place at the edge of the water-hole, where there is a
rest for the dish in the water just below its own
depth. You sink the dish and let the clay and gravel
soak a while, then you work and rub it up with your
hands, and as the clay dissolves, dish it off as
muddy water or mullock. You are careful to wash
the pebbles in case there is any gold sticking to
them. And so till all the muddy or clayey matter
is gone, and there is nothing but clean gravel in the
bottom of the dish. You work this off carefully,
turning the dish about this way and that and swish-
ing the water round in it. It requires some practice.
The gold keeps to the bottom of the dish, by its own
weight. At last there is only a little half-moon of
sand or fine gravel in the bottom lower edge of the
djsh — you work the dish slanting from you. Pres-
ently the gold, if there was any in the dirt, appears

lo8 l in. G< M im n GRAVEYARD.

in 'colours,' grains, or little nuggets along the 1
of tin- half-moon of sand. The more gold th< re is
in the dirt, or the coarser the gold is, the sooner it ;q>-
A practised digger can work off the last speck

i>t gravel, without losing a 'colour,' by just working
the water round and off in the dish. Also a careful
digger could throw a handful of gold in a tub of dirt,
and, washing it off in dishfuls, recover practically
every colour.

The gold-washing ' cradle ' is a box, shaped some-
thing like a boot, and the size of a travelling trunk,
with rockers on, like a baby's cradle, and a stick up
behind for a handle ; on top, where you'll put your
foot into the boot, is a tray with a perforated iron
bottom ; the clay and gravel is thrown on the tray,
water thrown on it, and the cradle rocked smartly.
The finer gravel and the mullock goes through and
down over a sloping board covered with blanket, and
with ledges on it to catch the gold. The dish was
mostly used for prospecting ; large quantities of
wash dirt was put through the horse-power ' pud-
dling-machine,' which there isn't room to describe
here.

' 'Ello, Dave ! ' said Pinter, after looking with mild
surprise at the size of Dave's waste-heap. ' Tryin'
for the second bottom ? '

' Yes,' said Dave, guttural.

Pinter dropped his tools with a clatter at the foot
of the waste-heap and scratched under his ear like an
old cockatoo, which bird he resembled. Then he
went to the windlass, and resting his hands on his
knees, he peered down, while Dave stood by helpless
and hopeless.

THE GOLDEN GRAVEYARD. 169

Pinter straightened himself, blinking like an owl,
and looked carelessly over the graveyard.

' Tryin' for a secon' bottom,' he reflected absently.
' Eh, Dave ? '

Dave only stood and looked black.

Pinter tilted back his head and scratched the roots
of his chin-feathers, which stuck out all round like a
dirty, ragged fan held horizontally.

' Kullers is safe,' reflected Pinter.

' All right ? ' snapped Dave. ' I suppose we must
let him into it.'

' Kullers ' was a big American buck nigger, and
had been Pinter's mate for some time — Pinter was a
man of odd mates ; and what Pinter meant was that
Kullers was safe to hold his tongue.

Next morning Pinter and his coloured mate ap-
peared on the ground early, Pinter with some tools
and the nigger with a windlass-bole on his shoul-
ders. Pinter chose a spot about three panels or
thirty feet along the other fence, *he back fence
of the cemetery, and started his hole. He lost no
time for the sake of appearances, he sunk his shaft
and started to drive straight for the point under
the cemetery for which Dave was making ; he gave
out that he had bottomed on good ' indications '
running in the other direction, and would work
the ground outside the fence. Meanwhile Dave
rigged a fan — partly for the sake of appearances,
but mainly because his and Jim's lively imaginations
made the air in the drive worse than it really was.
A ' fan ' is a thing like a paddle-wheel rigged in a
box, about the size of a cradle, and something the
shape of a shoe, but rounded over the top. There

i;0 Till GO! IM N GR W 1 \ AKI).

is a small grooved wheel on the axle of the fan
outside, and an endless line, like a clothes-line, is
carried over this wheel and a groove in the edge
of a high light wooden driving-wheel rigged be-
tween two uprights in the rear and with a handle
to turn. That's how the thing is driven. A wind-
chute, like an endless pillow-slip, made of calico,
with the mouth tacked over the open toe of the
fan-box, and the end taken down the shaft and
along the drive — this carries the fresh air into the
workings.

Dave was working the ground on each side as
he went, when one morning a thought struck him
that should have struck him the day Pinter went
to work. He felt mad that it hadn't struck him
sooner.

Pinter and Kullers had also shifted their tent
down into a nice quiet place in the Bush close
handy; so, early next Sunday morning, while Pinter
and Kullers were asleep, Dave posted Jim Bently
to watch their tent, and whistle an alarm if they
stirred, and then dropped down into Pinter's hole
and saw at a glance what he was up to.

After that Dave lost no time : he drove straight
on, encouraged by the thuds of Pinter's and Kullers'
picks drawing nearer. They would strike his tunnel
at right angles. Both parties worked long hours,
only knocking off to fry a bit of steak in the pan,
boil the billy, and throw themselves dressed on
their bunks to get a few hours' sleep. Pinter had
practical experience and a line clear of graves,
and he made good time. The two parties now
found it more comfortable to be not on speaking

THE GOLDEN GRAVEYARD. 171

terms. Individually they grew furtive, and began
to feel criminal like — at least Dave and Jim did.
They'd start if a horse stumbled through the Bush,
and expected to see a mounted policeman ride up
at any moment and hear him ask questions. They
had driven about thirty-five feet when, one Satur-
day afternoon, the strain became too great, and
Dave and Jim got drunk. The spree lasted over
Sunday, and on Monday morning they felt too
shaky to come to work and had more drink. On
Monday afternoon, Kullers, whose shift it was
below, stuck his pick through the face of his drive
into the wall of Dave's, about four feet from the
end of it : the clay flaked away, leaving a hole as
big as a wash-hand basin. They knocked off for
the day and decided to let the other party take
the offensive.

Tuesday morning Dave and Jim came to work,
still feeling shaky. Jim went below, crawled along
the drive, lit his candle, and stuck it in the spiked
iron socket and the spike in the wall of the drive,
quite close to the hole, without noticing either the
hole or the increased freshness in the air. He
started picking away at the ' face ' and scraping
the clay back from under his feet, and didn't hear
Kullers come to work. Kullers came in softly and
decided to try a bit of cheerful bluff. He stuck
his great round black face through the hole, the
whites of. his eyes rolling horribly in the candle-
light, and said, with a deep guffaw — ■

"Ullo! youdar'?'

No bandicoot ever went into his hole with the
dogs after him quicker than Jim came out of his.

172 Till GOI DEN GRAVEYARD.

IK scrambled up the shaft by the foot-holes, and
sal on the edge ol the waste-heap, looking very
pale.

'What's the matter?' asked Dave. 'Have you

seen a ghost ? '

'I've seen the — the devil !' gasped Jim. 'I'm —
I'm done with this here ghoul business.'

The parties got on speaking terms again. Dave
was very warm, but Jim's language was worse.
Pinter scratched his chin -feathers reflectively till
the other party cooled. There was no appealing
to the Commissioner for goldfields ; they were out-
side all law, whether of the goldfields or otherwise —
so they did the only thing possible and sensible,
they joined forces and became ' Poynton, Regan, &
Party.' They agreed to work the ground from the
separate shafts, and decided to go ahead, irrespec-
tive of appearances, and get as much dirt out and
cradled as possible before the inevitable exposure
came along. They found plenty of ' payable dirt,'
and soon the drive ended in a cluster of roomy
chambers. They timbered up many coffins of
various ages, burnt tarred canvas and brown paper,
and kept the fan going. Outside they paid the
storekeeper with difficulty and talked of hard
times.

But one fine sunny morning, after about a week
of partnership, they got a bad scare. Jim and
Kullers were below, getting out dirt for all they
were worth, and Pinter and Dave at their wind-
lasses, when who should march down from the
cemetery gate but Mother Middleton herself. She
was a hard woman to look at. She still wore the

THE GOLDEN GRAVEYARD. 173

old-fashioned crinoline and her hair in a greasy
net ; and on this as on most other sober occasions,
she wore the expression of a rough Irish navvy
who has just enough drink to make him nasty and
is looking out for an excuse for a row. She had
a stride like a grenadier. A digger had once meas-
ured her step by her footprints in the mud where
she had stepped across a gutter : it measured three
feet from toe to heel.

She marched to the grave of Jimmy Middleton,
laid a dingy bunch of flowers thereon, with the
gesture of an angry man banging his fist down on
the table, turned on her heel, and marched out.
The diggers were dirt beneath her feet. Presently
they heard her drive on in her spring-cart on her
way into town, and they drew breaths of relief.

It was afternoon. Dave and Pinter were feeling
tired, and were just deciding to knock off work for
that day when they heard a scuffling in the direction
of the different shafts, and both Jim and Kullers
dropped down and bundled in in a great hurry.
Jim chuckled in a silly way, as if there was some-
thing funny, and Kullers guffawed in sympathy.

' What's up now ? ' demanded Dave apprehen-
sively.

' Mother Middleton,' said Jim ; ' she's blind mad
drunk, and she's got a bottle in one hand and a new
pitchfork in the other, that she's bringing out for
some one.'

' How the hell did she drop to it ? ' exclaimed
Pinter.

' Dunno,' said Jim. 'Anyway she's coming for
us. Listen to her ! '

' - I Till- GOLDEN GRAV] YARD.

They didn't have to listen hard. The Language
which came down the shaft — they weren't sure
which one — and along the drives was enough to

up the dead and make them take to the
Bush.

' Why didn't you fools make off into the Bush and
give us a chance, instead of giving her a lead here ? '
asked Dave.

Jim and Kullers began to wish they had done so.

Mrs Middleton began to throw stones down the
shaft — it was Pinter's — and they, even the oldest
and most anxious, began to grin in spite of them-
selves, fen- they knew she couldn't hurt them from
the surface, and that, though she had been a work-
ing digger herself, she couldn't fill both shafts
before the fumes of liquor overtook her.

' I wonder which shaf she'll come down,' asked
Kullers in a tone befitting the place and occasion.

'You'd better go and watch your shaft, Pinter,'
said Dave, 'and Jim and I'll watch mine.'

' I — I won't,' said Pinter hurriedly. ' I'm — I'm a
modest man.'

Then they heard a clang in the direction of
Pinter's shaft.

' She's thrown her bottle down,' said Dave.

Jim crawled along the drive a piece, urged by
curiosity, and returned hurriedly.

' She's broke the pitchfork off short, to use in the
drive, and I believe she's coming down.'

' Her crinoline '11 handicap her,' said Pinter
vacantly, ' that's a comfort.'

'She's took it off!' said Dave excitedly; and
peering along Pinter's drive, they saw first an

THE GOLDEN GRAVEYARD. 175

elastic-sided boot, then a red-striped stocking, then
a section of scarlet petticoat.

' Lemme out ! ' roared Pinter, lurching forward
and making a swimming motion with his hands
in the direction of Dave's drive. Kullers was
already gone, and Jim well on the way. Dave,
lanky and awkward, scrambled up the shaft last.
Mrs Middleton made good time, considering she
had the darkness to face and didn't know the
workings, and when Dave reached the top he had
a tear in the leg of his moleskins, and the blood ran
from a nasty scratch. But he didn't wait to argue
over the price of a new pair of trousers. He made
off through the Bush in the direction of an encour-
aging whistle thrown back by Jim.

' She's too drunk to get her story listened to to-
night,' said Dave. ' But to-morrow she'll bring the
neighbourhood down on us.'

' And she's enough, without the neighbourhood,'
reflected Pinter.

Some time after dark they returned cautiously,
reconnoitred their camp, and after hiding in a
hollow log such things as they couldn't carry, they
rolled up their tents like the Arabs, and silently
stole away.

THE CHINAMAN'S GHOST.

' CIMPLE as striking matches,' said Dave Regan,
Bushman ; ' but it gave me the biggest scare
I ever had — except, perhaps, the time I stumbled
in the dark into a six - feet digger's hole, which
might have been eighty feet deep for all I knew
when I was falling. (There was an eighty- feet
shaft left open close by.)

' It was the night of the day after the Queen's
birthday. I was sinking a shaft with Jim Bently
and Andy Page on the old Redclay goldfield, and
we camped in a tent on the creek. Jim and me
went to some races that was held at Peter Ander-
son's pub., about four miles across the ridges, on
Queen's birthday. Andy was a quiet sort of chap,
a teetotaller, and we'd disgusted him the last time
he was out for a holiday with us, so he stayed at
home and washed and mended his clothes, and
read an arithmetic book. (He used to keep the
accounts, and it took him most of his spare
time.')

'Jim and me had a pretty high time. We all got

M

i yB chinaman's ghost.

pretty tight after the rue-., and I wanted to fight
Jim, or Jim wanted to fight me — I don't remember
which. We were old chums, and we nearly always
wanted to fight each other when we got a bit on,
and we'd fight if we weren't stopped. I remember
once Jim got maudlin drunk and begged and prayed
of me to fight him, as if he was praying for his life.
Tom Tarrant, the coach-driver, used to say that
Jim and me must be related, else we wouldn't
hate each other so much when we were tight and
truthful.

'Anyway, this day, Jim got the sulks, and
caught his horse and went home early in the
evening. My dog went home with him too ; I
must have been carrying on pretty bad to disgust
the dog.

* Next evening I got disgusted with myself, and
started to walk home. I'd lost my hat, so Peter
Anderson lent me an old one of his, that he'd worn
on Ballarat he said : it was a hard, straw, flat, broad-
brimmed affair, and fitted my headache pretty tight.
Peter gave me a small flask of whisky to help me
home. I had to go across some flats and up a
long dark gully called Murderer's Gully, and over
a gap called Dead Man's Gap, and down the ridge
and gullies to Redclay Creek. The lonely flats
were covered with blue-grey gum bush, and looked
ghostly enough in the moonlight, and I was pretty
shaky, but I had a pull at the flask and a mouth-
ful of water at a creek and felt right enough. I
began to whistle, and then to sing : I never used
to sing unless I thought I was a couple of miles
out of earshot of any one.

THE CHINAMAN S GHOST. 179

' Murderer's Gully was deep and pretty dark most
times, and of course it was haunted. Women and
children wouldn't go through it after dark ; and
even me, when I'd grown up, I'd hold my back
pretty holler, and whistle, and walk quick going
along there at night-time. We're all afraid of
ghosts, but we won't let on.

' Some one had skinned a dead calf during the day
and left it on the track, and it gave me a jump, I
promise you. It looked like two corpses laid out
naked. I finished the whisky and started up over
the gap. All of a sudden a great ' old man '
kangaroo went across the track with a thud-thud,
and up the siding, and that startled me. Then
the naked, white glistening trunk of a stringy-bark
tree, where some one had stripped off a sheet of
bark, started out from a bend in the track in a
shaft of moonlight, and that gave me a jerk. I
was pretty shaky before I started. There was a
Chinaman's grave close by the track on the top
of the gap. An old chow had lived in a hut there
for many years, and fossicked on the old diggings,
and one day he was found dead in the hut, and
the Government gave some one a pound to bury
him. When I was a nipper we reckoned that his
ghost haunted the gap, and cursed in Chinese be-
cause the bones hadn't been sent home to China.
It was a lonely, ghostly place enough.

' It had been a smotheringly hot day and very
close coming across the fiats and up the gully —
not a breath of air; but now as I got higher I
saw signs of the thunderstorm we'd expected all
day, and felt the breath oi a warm breeze on my

[80 THE CHINAMAN'S GHOST.

(acc. When I got into the top of the gap the
first thing I saw was something white amongst the
dark bushes over the spot where the Chinaman's
grave w s, and I stood staring at it with both
It moved out of the shadow pr< sently, and
1 s lw that it was a white bullock, and I felt re-
lieved. I'd hardly felt relieved when, all at once,
there came a "pat-pat-pat" of running feet close
behind me! I jumped round quick, but there was
nothing there, and while I stood staring all ways
for Sunday, there came a "pat-pat," then a pause,
and then " pat -pat -pat -pat " behind me again:
it was like some one dodging and running off
that time. I started to walk down the track
pretty fast, but hadn't gone a dozen yards when
" pat - pat - pat," it was close behind me again.
I jerked my eyes over my shoulder but kept my
legs going. There was nothing behind, but I
fancied I saw something slip into the Bush to the
right. It must have been the moonlight on the
moving boughs; there was a good breeze blowing
now. I got down to a more level track, and was
making across a spur to the main road, when
" pat - pat ! " " pat - pat - pat, pat -pat- pat ! " it was
after me again. Then I began to run — and it
began to run too! " pat - pat - pat " after me all the
time. I hadn't time to look round. Over the
spur and down the siding and across the flat to
the road I went as fast as I could split my legs
apart. I had a scared idea that I was getting a
touch of the "jim-jams," and that frightened me
more than any outside ghost could have done.
I stumbled a few times, and saved myself, but, just

THE CHINAMAN'S GHOST. l8l

before I reached the road, I fell slithering on to
my hands on the grass and gravel. I thought I'd
broken both my wrists. I stayed for a moment on
my hands and knees, quaking and listening, squint-
ing round like a great gohana ; I couldn't hear nor
see anything. I picked myself up, and had hardly
got on one end, when "pat-pat!" it was after me
again. I must have run a mile and a half alto-
gether that night. It was still about three-quarters
of a mile to the camp, and I ran till my heart beat
in my head and my lungs choked up in my throat.
I saw our tent-fire and took off my hat to run
faster. The footsteps stopped, then something
about the hat touched my fingers, and I stared at
it — and the thing dawned on me. I hadn't noticed
at Peter Anderson's — my head was too swimmy to
notice anything. It was an old hat of the style
that the first diggers used to wear, with a couple
of loose ribbon ends, three or four inches long,
from the band behind. As long as I walked
quietly through the gully, and there was no wind,
the tails didn't flap, but when I got up into the
breeze, they flapped or were still according to how
the wind lifted them or pressed them down flat on
the brim. And when I ran they tapped all the
time ; and the hat being tight on my head, the
tapping of the ribbon ends against the straw
sounded loud of course.

' I sat down on a log for a while to get some of
my wind back and cool down, and then I went to
the camp as quietly as I could, and had a long
drink of water.

' " You seem to be a bit winded, Dave," said Jim

[8a THE chinaman's ghost.

Bently, "and mighty thirsty. Did the Chinaman's
ghost chase you

■ I told him not to talk rot, and went into tin-
tent, and lay down on my bunk, and had a. good
rest.'

THE LOADED DOG.

p\AVE REGAN, Jim Bently, and Andy Page
were sinking a shaft at Stony Creek in search
of a rich gold quartz reef which was supposed to
exist in the vicinity. There is always a rich reef
supposed to exist in the vicinity ; the only questions
are whether it is ten feet or hundreds beneath the
surface, and in which direction. They had struck
some pretty solid rock, also water which kept them
baling. They used the old-fashioned blasting-powder
and time-fuse. They'd make a sausage or cartridge
of blasting-powder in a skin of strong calico or can-
vas, the mouth sewn and bound round the end of
the fuse ; they'd dip the cartridge in melted tallow
to make it water-tight, get the drill-hole as dry as
possible, drop in the cartridge with some dry dust,
and wad and ram with stiff clay and broken brick.
Then they'd light the fuse and get out of the hole
and wait. The result was usually an ugly pot-hole
in the bottom of the shaft and half a barrow-load of
broken rock.

There was plenty of fish in the creek, fresh-water

i.Vj THE l OADBD HOG.

bream, cod, rat-fish, and tailers. The party were
fond of fish, and Andy and Dave of fishing. Andy
would fish for three hours at a stretch it encouraged

by a ' nibble ' i »r a ' bite ' m >w and then — say once in
twenty minutes. The butcher was always willing to
meat in exchange for fish when they caught
more than they could eat; but now it was winter,
and these fish wouldn't bite. However, the creek
was low, just a chain of muddy water-holes, from the
hole with a few bucketfuls in it to the sizable pool
with an average depth of six or seven feet, and they
could get fish by baling out the smaller holes or
muddying up the water in the larger ones till the
fish rose to the surface. There was the cat-fish,
with spikes growing out of the sides of its head,
and if you got pricked you'd know it, as Dave said.
Andy took off his boots, tucked up his trousers, and
went into a hole one day to stir up the mud with his
feet, and he knew it. Dave scooped one out with
his hand and got pricked, and he knew it too; his
arm swelled, and the pain throbbed up into his
shoulder, and down into his stomach too, he said,
like a toothache he had once, and kept him awake
for two nights — only the toothache pain had a
' burred edge,' Dave said.

Dave got an idea.

' Why not blow the fish up in the big water-hole
with a cartridge ? ' he said. ' I'll try it.'

He thought the thing out and Andy Page worked
it out. Andy usually put Dave's theories into prac-
tice if they were practicable, or bore the blame for
the failure and the chaffing of his mates if they
weren't.

THE LOADED DOG. 185

He made a cartridge about three times the size of
those they used in the rock. Jim Bently said it was
big enough to blow the bottom out of the river.
The inner skin was of stout calico ; Andy stuck
the end of a six-foot piece of fuse well down in the
powder and bound the mouth of the bag firmly to it
with whipcord. The idea was to sink the cartridge
in the water with the open end of the fuse attached
to a float on the surface, ready for lighting. Andy
dipped the cartridge in melted bees'-wax to make it
water-tight. ' We'll have to leave it some time be-
fore we light it,' said Dave, ' to give the fish time to
get over their scare when we put it in, and come
nosing round again ; so we'll want it well water-
tight.'

Round the cartridge Andy, at Dave's suggestion,
bound a strip of sail canvas — that they used for
making water- bags — to increase the force of the
explosion, and round that he pasted layers of stiff
brown paper — on the plan of the sort of fireworks
we called ' gun-crackers.' He let the paper dry in
the sun, then he sewed a covering of two thicknesses
of canvas over it, and bound the thing from end to
end with stout fishing-line. Dave's schemes were
elaborate, and he often worked his inventions out to
nothing. The cartridge was rigid and solid enough
now — a formidable bomb; but Andy and Dave wanted
to be sure. Andy sewed on another layer of canvas,
dipped the cartridge in melted tallow, twisted a length
of fencing-wire round it as an afterthought, dipped it
in tallow again, and stood it carefully against a tent-
peg, where he'd know where to find it, and wound
the fuse loosely round it. Then he went to the

1S6 THE i I >ADI D l

camp-fire to try some potatoes which wore boiling
in their jackets in a billy, and to sec about frying
some chops for dinner. Pave and Jim were at work
in the claim that morning.

They had a big black young retriever dog — or
rather an overgrown pup, a big, foolish, four-footed
mate, who was always slobbering round them and
lashing their legs with his heavy tail that swung
round like a stock-whip. Most of his head was
usually a rod, idiotic, slobbering grin of appreciation
of his own silliness. He seemed to take life, the
world, his two-legged mates, and his own instinct as
a huge joke. He'd retrieve anything : he carted back
most of the camp rubbish that Andy threw away.
They had a cat that died in hot weather, and Andy
threw it a good distance away in the scrub ; and
early one morning the dog found the cat, after it
had been dead a week or so, and carried it back to
camp, and laid it just inside the tent-flaps, where it
could best make its presence known when the mates
should rise and begin to sniff suspiciously in the
sickly smothering atmosphere of the summer sun-
rise. He used to retrieve them when they went in
swimming; he'd jump in after them, and take their
hands in his mouth, and try to swim out with them,
and scratch their naked bodies with his paws. They
loved him for his good-heartedness and his foolish-
ness, but when they wished to enjoy a swim they
had to tie him up in camp.

He watched Andy with great interest all the
morning making the cartridge, and hindered him
considerably, trying to help ; but about noon he
went off to the claim to see how Dave and Jim

THE LOADED DOG. 187

were getting on, and to come home to dinner with
them. Andy saw them coming, and put a panful of
mutton-chops on the fire. Andy was cook to-day;
Dave and Jim stood with their backs to the fire,
as Bushmen do in all weathers, waiting till dinner
should be ready. The retriever went nosing round
after something he seemed to have missed.

Andy's brain still worked on the cartridge ; his
eye was caught by the glare of an empty kerosene-
tin lying in the bushes, and it struck him that it
wouldn't be a bad idea to sink the cartridge packed
with clay, sand, or stones in the tin, to increase the
force of the explosion. He may have been all out,
from a scientific point of view, but the notion looked
all right to him. Jim Bently, by the way, wasn't
interested in their ' damned silliness.' Andy noticed
an empty treacle -tin — the sort with the little tin
neck or spout soldered on to the top for the con-
venience of pouring out the treacle — and it struck
him that this would have made the best kind of
cartridge-case : he would only have had to pour in
the powder, stick the fuse in through the neck, and
cork and seal it with bees'-wax. He was turning to
suggest this to Dave, when Dave glanced over his
shoulder to see how the chops were doing — and
bolted. He explained afterwards that he thought
he heard the pan splattering extra, and looked to
see if the chops were burning. Jim Bently looked
behind and bolted after Dave. Andy stood stock-
still, staring after them.

' Run, Andy ! run ! ' they shouted back at him.
' Run ! ! ! Look behind you, you fool ! ' Andy
turned slowly and looked, and there, close behind

Iss Till I OADBD MOG.

him, was the retriever with the cartridge in his
mouth wedged into In-; broadest and silliest grin.
And that wasn't all. The dog had come round the
lire to Andy, and the loose end of the fuse had
trailed ami waggled over the burning sticks into the
blaze; Andy had slit and nicked the firing end of
the fuse well, and now it was hissing and spitting
properly.

Andy's legs started with a jolt; his legs started
before his brain did, and he made after Dave and
Jim. And the dog followed Andy.

Dave and Jim were good runners — Jim the best —
for a short distance ; Andy was slow and heavy, but
he had the strength and the wind and could last.
The dog leapt and capered round him, delighted as
a dog could be to find his mates, as he thought, on
for a frolic. Dave and Jim kept shouting back,
' Don't foller us ! don't foller us, you coloured fool ! '
but Andy kept on, no matter how they dodged.
They could never explain, any more than the dog,
why they followed each other, but so they ran,
Dave keeping in Jim's track in all its turnings, Andy
after Dave, and the dog circling round Andy — the
live fuse swishing in all directions and hissing and
spluttering and stinking. Jim yelling to Dave not
to follow him, Dave shouting to Andy to go in
another direction — to ' spread out,' and Andy roar-
ing at the dog to go home. Then Andy's brain
began to work, stimulated by the crisis : he tried
to get a running kick at the dog, but the dog
dodged ; he snatched up sticks and stones and threw
them at the dog and ran on again. The retriever
saw that he'd made a mistake about Andv, and left

THE LOADED DOG. 189

him and bounded after Dave. Dave, who had the
presence of mind to think that the fuse's time wasn't
up yet, made a dive and a grab for the dog, caught
him by the tail, and as he swung round snatched the
cartridge out of his mouth and flung it as far as he
could : the dog immediately bounded after it and
retrieved it. Dave roared and cursed at the dog,
who seeing that Dave was offended, left him and
went after Jim, who was well ahead. Jim swung to
a sapling and went up it like a native bear ; it was a
young sapling, and Jim couldn't safely get more than
ten or twelve feet from the ground. The dog laid
the cartridge, as carefully as if it was a kitten, at the
foot of the sapling, and capered and leaped and
whooped joyously round under Jim. The big pup
reckoned that this was part of the lark — he was all
right now — it was Jim who was out for a spree.
The fuse sounded as if it were going a mile a minute.
Jim tried to climb higher and the sapling bent and
cracked. Jim fell on his feet and ran. The dog
swooped on the cartridge and followed. It all took
but a very few moments. Jim ran to a digger's
hole, about ten feet deep, and dropped down into
it — landing on soft mud — and was safe. The dog
grinned sardonically down on him, over the edge, for
a moment, as if he thought it would be a good lark
to drop the cartridge down on Jim.

' Go away, Tommy,' said Jim feebly, ' go away.'
The dog bounded off after Dave, who was the only
one in sight now ; Andy had dropped behind a log,
where he lay flat on his face, having suddenly
remembered a picture of the Russo - Turkish war
with a circle of Turks lying flat on their faces

igo THE i OADI D DOG.

(as if" they were ashamed) round a newly- arrived
shell.

I re was a small hotel or shanty on the creek,
on the main road, not far from the claim. Dave
was desperate, the time Hew much faster in his
stimulated imagination than it did in reality, so he
for the shanty. There were several casual
Bushmen on the verandah and in the bar; Dave
rushed into the bar, banging the door to behind
him. ' My do<j; ! ' he gasped, in reply to the aston-
ished stare of the publican, 'the blanky retriever —
he's got a live cartridge in his mouth '

The retriever, finding the front door shut against
him, had bounded round and in by the back way,
and now stood smiling in the doorway leading from
the passage, the cartridge still in his mouth and
the fuse spluttering. They burst out of that bar.
Tommy bounded first after one and then after
another, for, being a young dog, he tried to make
friends with everybody.

The Bushmen ran round corners, and some shut
themselves in the stable. There was a new weather-
board and corrugated-iron kitchen and wash-house
on piles in the back-yard, with some women washing
clothes inside. Dave and the publican bundled in
there and shut the door — the publican cursing Dave
and calling him a crimson fool, in hurried tones, and
wanting to know what the hell he came here for.

The retriever went in under the kitchen, amongst
the piles, but, luckily for those inside, there was a
vicious yellow mongrel cattle-dog sulking and nurs-
ing his nastiness under there — a sneaking, fighting,
thieving canine, whom neighbours had tried for

THE LOADED DOG. igi

years to shoot or poison. Tommy saw his danger —
he'd had experience from this dog — and started out
and across the yard, still sticking to the cartridge.
Half-way across the yard the yellow dog caught him
and nipped him. Tommy dropped the cartridge,
gave one terrified yell, and took to the Bush. The
yellow dog followed him to the fence and then ran
back to see what he had dropped.

Nearly a dozen other dogs came from round all
the corners and under the buildings — spidery, thiev-
ish, cold-blooded kangaroo - dogs, mongrel sheep-
and cattle-dogs, vicious black and yellow dogs — that
slip after you in the dark, nip your heels, and vanish
without explaining — and yapping, yelping small fry.
They kept at a respectable distance round the nasty
yellow dog, for it was dangerous to go near him
when he thought he had found something which
might be good for a dog to eat. He sniffed at the
cartridge twice, and was just taking a third cautious
sniff when

It was very good blasting powder — a new brand
that Dave had recently got up from Sydney ; and the
cartridge had been excellently well made. Andy
was very patient and painstaking in all he did, and
nearly as handy as the average sailor with needles,
twine, canvas, and rope.

Bushmen say that that kitchen jumped off its piles
and on again. When the smoke and dust cleared
away, the remains of the nasty yellow dog were lying
against the paling fence of the yard looking as if he
had been kicked into a fire by a horse and afterwards
rolled in the dust under a barrow, and finally thrown
against the fence from a distance. Several saddle-

nil LOADED noc

horses, which had been 'hanging-up' round the

verandah, were galloping wildly down the road in
clouds of dust, with broken bridle-reins flying; and
from a circle round the outskirts, from every point
of the compass in the scrub, came the yelping
of dogs. Two of them went home, to the place
where they were hom, thirty miles away, and
hed it the same night and stayed there; it
was not till towards evening that the rest came
back cautiously to make inquiries. One was try-
ing to walk on two legs, and most of 'cm looked
more or less singed ; and a little, singed, stumpy-
tailed dog, who had been in the habit of hopping
the back half of him along on one leg, had reason
to be glad that he'd saved up the other leg all
those years, for he needed it now. There was one
old one-eyed cattle-dog round that shanty for years
afterwards, who couldn't stand the smell of a gun
being cleaned. He it was who had taken an in-
terest, only second to that of the yellow dog, in
the cartridge. Bushmen said that it was amusing
to slip up on his blind side and stick a dirty ramrod
under his nose : he wouldn't wait to bring his
solitary eye to bear — he'd take to the Bush and
stay out all night.

For half an hour or so after the explosion there
were several Bushmen round behind the stable who
crouched, doubled up, against the wall, or rolled
gently on the dust, trying to laugh without shriek-
ing. There were two white women in hysterics at
the house, and a half-caste rushing aimlessly round
with a dipper of cold water. The publican was
holding his wife tight and begging her between

THE LOADED DOG. 193

her squawks, to 'hold up for my sake, Mary, or I'll
lam the life out of ye.'

Dave decided to apologise later on, ' when things
had settled a bit,' and went back to camp. And
the dog that had done it all, 'Tommy,' the great,
idiotic mongrel retriever, came slobbering round
Dave and lashing his legs with his tail, and trotted
home after him, smiling his broadest, longest, and
reddest smile of amiability, and apparently satisfied
for one afternoon with the fun he'd had.

Andy chained the dog up securely, and cooked
some more chops, while Dave went to help Jim
out of the hole.

And most of this is why, for years afterwards,
lanky, easy - going Bushmen, riding lazily past
Dave's camp, would cry, in a lazy drawl and with
just a hint of the nasal twang —

''El-lo, Da-a-ve ! How's the fishin' getting on,
Da-a-ve ? '

POISONOUS JIMMY GETS LEFT.

I.

DAVE REGAN'S YARN.

1 \ ~\ fHEN we got tired of digging about Mudgee-
Budgee, and getting no gold,' said Dave
Regan, Bushman, ' me and my mate, Jim Bently,
decided to take a turn at droving ; so we went with
Bob Baker, the drover, overland with a big mob
of cattle, way up into Northern Queensland.

' We couldn't get a job on the home track, and we
spent most of our money, like a pair of fools, at
a pub. at a town way up over the border, where
they had a flash barmaid from Brisbane. We sold
our pack-horses and pack-saddles, and rode out of
that town with our swags on our riding-horses in
front of us. We had another spree at another
place, and by the time we got near New South
Wales we were pretty well stumped.

'Just the other side of Mulgatown, near the
border, we came on a big mob of cattle in a

POl ' JIMMY Gl is l l it.

paddock, and a party oi drovers camped on the
creek. They had brought the cattle down from

the north and wen- going no farther with them;
their boss had ridden on into Mulgatown to get
the cheques to pay them off, and they were wait-
ing for him.

'"And Poisonous Jimmy is waiting for us," said
one of them.

' Poisonous Jimmy kept a shanty a piece along
tlic road from their camp towards Mulgatown. He
was called " Poisonous Jimmy " perhaps on account
of his liquor, or perhaps because he had a job of
poisoning dingoes on a station in the Bogan scrubs
at one time. He was a sharp publican. He had a
girl, and they said that whenever a shearing -shed
cut-out on his side and he saw the shearers coming
along the road, he'd say to the girl, " Run and get
your best frock on, Mary ! Here's the shearers com-
min'." And if a chequeman wouldn't drink he'd try
to get him into his bar and shout for him till he was
too drunk to keep his hands out of his pockets.

' " But he won't get us," said another of the
drovers. " I'm going to ride straight into Mulga-
town and send my money home by the post as soon
as I get it."

' " You've always said that, Jack," said the first
drover.

' We yarned a while, and had some tea, and then
me and Jim got on our horses and rode on. We
were burned to bricks and ragged and dusty and
parched up enough, and so were our horses. We
only had a few shillings to carry us four or five
hundred miles home, but it was mighty hot and

POISONOUS JIMMY GETS LEFT. 1QJ

dusty, and we felt that we must have a drink at
the shanty. This was west of the sixpenny-line at
that time — all drinks were a shilling along here.

'Just before we reached the shanty I got an idea.

' " We'll plant our swags in the scrub," I said to
Jim.

' " What for ? " said Jim.

' " Never mind — you'll see," I said.

' So we unstrapped our swags and hid them in the
mulga scrub by the side of the road ; then we rode
on to the shanty, got down, and hung our horses to
the verandah posts.

' " Poisonous" came out at once, with a smile on
him that would have made anybody home-sick.

' He was a short nuggety man, and could use his
hands, they said ; he looked as if he'd be a nasty,
vicious, cool customer in a fight — he wasn't the sort
of man you'd care to try and swindle a second time.
He had a monkey shave when he shaved, but now it
was all frill and stubble — like a bush fence round a
stubble-field. He had a broken nose, and a cunning,
sharp, suspicious eye that squinted, and a cold stony
eye that seemed fixed. If you didn't know him well
you might talk to him for five minutes, looking at
him in the cold stony eye, and then discover that it
was the sharp cunning little eye that was watching
you all the time. It was awful embarrassing. It
must have made him awkward to deal with in a
fight.

' " Good day, mates," he said.

' " Good day," we said.

'"It's hot."

'"It's hot."

KjS I • USONOUS JIMMY GETS LEI r.

' We went into the bar, and Poisonous got behind

the coin

' " What are you going to have ? " he asked, rub-
bing up his glasses \\ itli a

' We had two lonj -beei .

'"Never mind that," said Poisonous, serin
put my hand in my pocket; "it's my shout. I
don't suppose your boss is back yet ? I saw him go
in to Mulgatown this morning."

'"No. he ain't back," I said; "I wish he was.
We're getting tired of waiting for him. We'll give
him another hour, and then some of us will have to
ride in to see whether he's got on the boose, and get
hold of him if he has."

1 " I suppose you're waiting for your cheques ? " he
said, turning to fix some bottles on the shelf.

' " Yes," I said, " we are ; " and I winked at Jim,
and Jim winked back as solemn as an owl.

' Poisonous asked us all about the trip, and how
long we'd been on the track, and what sort of a
boss we had, dropping the questions offhand now
an' then, as for the sake of conversation. We
could see that he was trying to get at the size
of our supposed cheques, so we answered ac-
cordingly.

' " Have another drink." he said, and he filled the
pewters up again. " It's up to me," and he set to
work boring out the glasses with his rag, as if he
was short-handed and the bar was crowded with
customers, and screwing up his face into what I
suppose he considered an innocent or unconscious
expression. The girl began to sidle in and out with
a smart frock and a see-you -after- dark smirk on.

POISONOUS JIMMY GETS LEFT. I99

' " Have you had dinner ? " she asked. We could
have done with a good meal, but it was too risky —
the drovers' boss might come along while we were
at dinner and get into conversation with Poisonous.
So we said we'd had dinner.

' Poisonous filled our pewters again in an offhand
way.

' " I wish the boss would come," said Jim with a
yawn. " I want to get into Mulgatown to-night,
and I want to get some shirts and things before I
go in. I ain't got a decent rag to me back. I don't
suppose there's ten bob amongst the lot of us."

' There was a general store back on the creek, near
the drovers' camp.

'"Oh, go to the store and get what you want,"
said Poisonous, taking a sovereign from the till and
tossing it on to the counter. " You can fix it up
with me when your boss comes. Bring your mates
along."

' " Thank you," said Jim, taking up the sovereign
carelessly and dropping it into his pocket.

'"Well, Jim," I said, "suppose we get back to
camp and see how the chaps are getting on ? "

'"All right," said Jim.

' " Tell them to come down and get a drink," said
Poisonous ; " or, wait, you can take some beer along
to them if you like," and he gave us half a gallon of
beer in a billy-can. He knew what the first drink
meant with Bushmen back from a long dry trip.

' We got on our horses, I holding the billy very
carefully, and rode back to where our swags were.

' " I say," said Jim, when we'd strapped the swags
to the saddles, " suppose we take the beer back to

poisonous jimm\ i.i rs ii i r.

chaps: it's meant for them, and it's only a fair
thing, anyway -w much as we can hold

till we get into Mulgatown."

'••It might get them into a row," 1 said, "and
they seem decent chaps. Let's hang the hilly on a
twig, and that old swagman that's coming along will
think there's angels in the Bush."

'"Oh! what's a row?" said Jim. "They can
take care of themselves ; they'll have the beer any-
way and a lark with Poisonous when they take the
can hack and it comes to explanations. I'll ride
back to them."

'So Jim rode back to the drovers' camp with the
beer, and when he came back to me he said that the
drovers seemed surprised, but they drank good luck
to him.

' We rode round through the mulga behind the
shanty and came out on the road again on the
Mulgatown side: we only stayed at Mulgatown to
buy some tucker and tobacco, then we pushed on
and camped for the night about seven miles on the
safe side of the town.'

II

TOLD BY ONE OF THE OTHER DROVERS.

' Talkin' o' Poisonous Jimmy, I can tell you a yarn
about him. We'd brought a mob of cattle down for
a squatter the other side of M ulgatown. We camped
about seven miles the other side of the town, waitin'
for the station hands to come and take charge of the
stock, while the boss rode on into town to draw our
money. Some of us was goin' back, though in the
end we all went into M ulgatown and had a boose up
with the boss. But while we was waitin' there come
along two fellers that had been drovin' up north.
They yarned a while, an' then went on to Poisonous
Jimmy's place, an' in about an hour one on 'em
come ridin' back with a can of beer that he said
Poisonous had sent for us. We all knew Jimmy's
little games — the beer was a bait to get us on the
drunk at his place ; but we drunk the beer, and
reckoned to have a lark with him afterwards. When
the boss come back, an' the station hands to take the
bullocks, we started into Mulgatown. We stopped
outside Poisonous's place an' handed the can to the
girl that was grinnin' on the verandah. Poisonous
come out with a grin on him like a parson with a
broken nose.

M lUS jimmy GETS i. hi' r.

' " I '. ! il :v. boys ! " he says.

'" Good di in m ," we says.

'"It's li it," he

' " It's blanky hot," I says.

' He seemed to expect us to get down. "Where
are you off to? " lie says.

' '• Mulgatown," I says. " It will be cooler thi
and we sung out, "So-long, Poisonous!" and rode
on.

' He stood starin' for a minute ; then he started
shoutin', " Hi! hi there!" after us, but we took no
notice, an' rode on. When we looked back last
he was runnin' into the scrub with a bridle in his
hand.

' We jogged along easily till we got within a
mile of Mulgatown, when we heard somebody
gallopin' after us, an' lookin' back we saw it was
Poisonous.

' He was too mad and too winded to speak at first,
so he rode along with us a bit gasping : then he burst
out.

'"Where's them other two carnal blanks?" he
shouted.

' " What other two ? " I asked. " We're all here.
What's the matter with you anyway ? "

'"All here!" he yelled. "You're a lurid liar!
What the flamin' sheol do you mean by swiggin' my
beer an' flingin' the coloured can in me face ? with-
out as much as thank yer! D'yer think I'm a
flamin' !"

' Oh, but Poisonous Jimmy was wild.

' " Well, we'll pay for your dirty beer," says one
of the chaps, puttin' his hand in his pocket. " We

POISONOUS JIMMY GETS LEFT. 203

didn't want yer slush. It tasted as if it had been
used before."

' " Pay for it ! " yelled Jimmy. " I'll well

take it out of one of yer bleedin' hides ! "

' We stopped at once, and I got down an' obliged
Jimmy for a few rounds. He was a nasty customer
to fight ; he could use his hands, and was cool as a
cucumber as soon as he took his coat off: besides,
he had one squirmy little business eye, and a big
wall-eye, an', even if you knowed him well, you
couldn't help watchin' the stony eye — it was no
good watchin' his eyes, you had to watch his hands,
and he might have managed me if the boss hadn't
stopped the fight. The boss was a big, quiet-voiced
man, that didn't swear.

' " Now, look here, Myles," said the boss (Jimmy's
name was Myles) — " Now, look here, Myles," sez
the boss, "what's all this about?"

'"What's all this about?" says Jimmy, gettin'
excited agen. " Why, two fellers that belonged to
your party come along to my place an' put up half-
a-dozen drinks, an' borrered a sovereign, an' got a
can o' beer on the strength of their cheques. They
sez they was waitin' for you — an' I want my crimson
money out o' some one ! "

' " What was they like ? " asks the boss.

'"Like?" shouted Poisonous, swearin' all the
time. " One was a blanky long, sandy, sawny feller,
and the other was a short, slim feller with black
hair. Your blanky men knows all about them be-
cause they had the blanky billy o' beer."

' " Now, what's this all about, you chaps ? " sez
the boss to us.

i ois< »nous jimmy t.i rs mi r.

we told him as much as we knowed about
them two fellers.

• [*ve heard men swear that could swear in a rough
shearin'-shed, but I never heard a man swear like
P nous Jimmy when he saw how he'd been left.
It was enough to split stumps. He said he wanted
to see those fellers, just once, before he died.

' He rode with us into Mulgatown, got mad drunk,
an' started out along the road with a tomahawk after
the long sandy feller and the slim dark feller ; but
two mounted police went after him an' fetched him
back. He said he only wanted justice; he said he
only want' d to stun them two fellers till he could
give 'em in charge.

'They fined him ten bob.'

THE GHOSTLY DOOR.

TOLD BY ONE OF DAVE'S MATES.

r^\AVE and I were tramping on a lonely Bush
track in New Zealand, making for a sawmill
where we expected to get work, and we were caught
in one of those three-days' gales, with rain and hail
in it and cold enough to cut off a man's legs.
Camping out was not to be thought of, so we just
tramped on in silence, with the stinging pain coming
between our shoulder-blades — from cold, weariness,
and the weight of our swags — and our boots, full of
water, going splosh, splosh, splosh along the track.
We were settled to it — to drag on like wet, weary,
muddy working bullocks till we came to somewhere
— when, just before darkness settled down, we saw
the loom of a humpy of some sort on the slope of
a tussock hill, back from the road, and we made for
it, without holding a consultation.

< It was a two-roomed hut built of waste timber
from a sawmill, and was either a deserted settler's
home or a hut attached to an abandoned saw-

nil GHOST] V POOR.

mill round there somewhere. The windows were
boarded up. We dumped our swags under the
little verandah ami banged at the door, to make
sure; then Dave pulled a couple of boards off a

window and looked in: there was light enough to
see that the place was empty. Dave pulled off
some more boards, put his arm in through a broken
pane, clicked the catch back, and then pushed up
the window and got in. I handed in the swags to
him. The room was very draughty; the wind came
in through the broken window and the cracks
between the slabs, so we tried the partitioned-off
room — the bedroom — and that was better. It
had been lined with chaff- bags, and there were
two stretchers left by some timber-getters or other
Bush contractors who'd camped there last ; and
there were a box and a couple of three-legged
stools.

We carried the remnant of the wood-heap inside,
made a fire, and put the billy on. We unrolled our
swags and spread the blankets on the stretchers ;
and then we stripped and hung our clothes about
the fire to dry. There was plenty in our;tucker-
bagsf so we had a good feed. I hadn't shaved for
days, and Dave had a coarse red beard with a twist
in it like an ill-used fibre brush — a beard that got
redder the longer it grew; he had a hooked nose,
and his hair stood straight up (I never saw a man
so easy-going about the expression and so scared
about the head), and he was very tall, with long,
thin, hairy legs. We must have looked a weird
pair as we sat there, naked, on the low three-legged
stools, with the billy and the tucker on the box

THE GHOSTLY DOOR 207

between us, and ate our bread and meat with
clasp-knives.

' I shouldn't wonder,' says Dave, ' but this is the
"whare"1 where the murder was that we heard about
along the road. I suppose if any one was to come
along now and look in he'd get scared.' Then after
a while he looked down at the flooring-boards close
to my feet, and scratched his ear, and said, ' That
looks very much like a blood-stain under your stool,
doesn't it, Jim ? '

I shifted my feet and presently moved the stool
farther away from the fire — it was too hot.

I wouldn't have liked to camp there by myself,
but I don't think Dave would have minded — he'd
knocked round too much in the Australian Bush
to mind anything much, or to be surprised at any-
thing ; besides, he was more than half murdered
once by a man who said afterwards that he'd mistook
him for some one else : he must have been a very
short-sighted murderer.

Presently we put tobacco, matches, and bits of
candle we had, on the two stools by the heads of our
bunks, turned in, and filled up and smoked comfort-
ably, dropping in a lazy word now and again about
nothing in particular. Once I happened to look
across at Dave, and saw him sitting up a bit and
watching the door. The door opened very slowly,
wide, and a black cat walked in, looked first at me,
then at Dave, and walked out again ; and the door
closed behind it.

Dave scratched his ear. 'That's rum,' he said.

1 ' Whare,' ' whorrie,' Maori name for house.

l ill (.11. IS I iv Dl »0R.

'I could have sworn I fastened thai door. They
• have left the cat behind.'

' It looks like it," I said. ' Neither of us has b< n
on the boi i e lately.'

He got out of bed and up on his long hairy
spindle-shanks.

The door had the ordinary, common black oblong
lock with a brass knob. Dave died the latch and
found it fast; he turned the knob, opened the door,
and called, 'Puss — puss — puss!' but the cat
wouldn't come. He shut the door, tried the knob
to see that the catch had caught, and got into bed
aga i n .

He'd scarcely settled down when the door opened
slowly, the black cat walked in, stared hard at Dave,
and suddenly turned and darted out as the door
closed smartly.

I looked at Dave and he looked at me — hard;
then he scratched the back of his head. I never
saw a man look so puzzled in the face and scared
about the head.

He got out of bed very cautiously, took a stick of
firewood in his hand, sneaked up to the door, and
snatched it open. There was no one there. Dave
took the candle and went into the next room, but
couldn't see the cat. He came back and sat down
by the fire and meowed, and presently the cat
answered him and came in from somewhere — she'd
been outside the window, I suppose ; he kept on
meowing and she sidled up and rubbed against his
hairy shin. Dave could generally bring a cat that
way. He had a weakness for cats. I'd seen him
kick a dog, and hammer a horse — brutally, I

THE GHOSTLY DOOR. 200,

thought — but I never saw him hurt a cat or let
any one else do it. Dave was good to cats : if a cat
had a family where Dave was round, he'd see her
all right and comfortable, and only drown a fair
surplus. He said once to me, ' I can understand a
man kicking a dog, or hammering a horse when it
plays up, but I can't understand a man hurting a
cat.'

He gave this cat something to eat. Then he went
and held the light close to the lock of the door, but
could see nothing wrong with it. He found a key
on the mantel-shelf and locked the door. He got
into bed again, and the cat jumped up and curled
down at the foot and started her old drum going,
like shot in a sieve. Dave bent down and patted
her, to tell her he'd meant no harm when he
stretched out his legs, and then he settled down
again.

We had some books of the ' Deadwood Dick ' school.
Dave was reading ' The Grisly Ghost of the Haunted
Gulch,' and I had 'The Dismembered Hand,' or 'The
Disembowelled Corpse,' or some such names. They
were first-class preparation for a ghost.

I was reading away, and getting drowsy, when I
noticed a movement and saw Dave's frightened head
rising, with the terrified shadow of it on the wall.
He was staring at the door, over his book, with both
eyes. And that door was opening again — slowly —
and Dave had locked it ! I never felt anything so
creepy . the foot of my bunk was behind the door,
and I drew up my feet as it came open ; it opened
wide, and stood so. We waited, for five minutes it
seemed, hearing each other breathe, watching for the

o

JIO THE GHOSTLY DOOR.

door to close; then Dave got out, very gingerly, and
up on one endj and wenl to the door like a cat on
wet 1 nicks.

' You shot llic hi 'It outside the catch,' I said,
as he caught hold of the door — like one grabs a
craw-fish.

' I'll swear I didn't,' said Dave. But he'd already
turned the key a couple of times, so he couldn't be
sure. He shut and locked the door again. ' Now,
get out and see for yourself,' he said.

I got out, and tried the door a couple of times and
found it all right. Then we both tried, and agreed
that it was locked.

I got back into bed, and Dave was about half
in when a thought struck him. He got the
heaviest piece of firewood and stood it against
the door.

■ What are you doing that for ? ' I asked.

' If there's a broken-down burglar camped round
here, and trying any of his funny business, we'll hear
him if he tries to come in while we're asleep,' says
Dave. Then he got back into bed. We composed
our nerves with the ' Haunted Gulch ' and ' The Dis-
embowelled Corpse,' and after a while I heard Dave
snore, and was just dropping off when the stick fell
from the door against my big toe and then to the
ground with tremendous clatter. I snatched up
my feet and sat up with a jerk, and so did Dave — the
cat went over the partition. That door opened, only
a little way this time, paused, and shut suddenly.
Dave got out, grabbed a stick, skipped to the door,
and clutched at the knob as if it were a nettle, and
the door wouldn't come ! — it was fast and locked !

THE GHOSTLY DOOR. 211

Then Dave's face began to look as frightened as his
hair. He lit his candle at the fire, and asked me to
come with him ; he unlocked the door and we went
into the other room, Dave shading his candle very
carefully and feeling his way slow with his feet.
The room was empty; we tried the outer door and
found it locked.

' It muster gone by the winder,' whispered Dave.
I noticed that he said 'it' instead of 'he.' I saw
that he himself was shook up, and it only needed
that to scare me bad.

We went back to the bedroom, had a drink of
cold tea, and lit our pipes. Then Dave took the
waterproof cover off his bunk, spread it on the
floor, laid his blankets on top of it, his spare
clothes, &c, on top of them, and started to roll
up his swag.

' What are you going to do, Dave ? ' I asked.

' I'm going to take the track,' says Dave, ' and
camp somewhere farther on. You can stay here, if
you like, and come on in the morning.'

I started to roll up my swag at once. We dressed
and fastened on the tucker-bags, took up the billies,
and got outside without making any noise. We held
our backs pretty hollow till we got down on to the
road.

'That comes of camping in a deserted house,' said
Dave, when we were safe on the track. No Australian
Bushman cares to camp in an abandoned homestead,
or even near it — probably because a deserted home
looks ghostlier in the Australian Bush than anywhere
else in the world.

It was blowing hard, but not raining so much.

THE GHI 1ST] v DOOR.

We went on along the track (<<v a couple of miles
and camped on the sheltered side of a round tus! ock
hill, in a hole where there had been a Landslip. We

I all our candle-ends I i fire alight, hut i

we got it started we knocked the wet bark off manuka
sticks and 1",l;s and piled them on, and soon had a
roaring lire Winn the ground got a little drier we
rigged a hit of a shelter from the showers with some
sticks ami the oil-cloth swag-covers; then we made
some coffee ami got through the night pretty com-
fortably. In the morning Dave said, ' I'm going
back to that house.'

' What for ? ' I said.

' I'm going to find out what's the matter with
that crimson door. If I don't I'll never be able
to sleep easy within a mile of a door so long as
I live.'

So we went back. It was still blowing. The
thing was simple enough by daylight — after a little
watching and experimenting. The house was built
of odds and ends and badly fitted. It ' gave ' in the
wind in almost any direction — not much, not more
than an inch or so, but just enough to throw the
door-frame out of plumb and out of square in such a
way as to bring the latch and bolt of the lock clear
of the catch (the door-frame was of scraps joined).
Then the door swung open according to the hang of
it ; and when the gust was over the house gave back,
and the door swung to — the frame easing just a little
in another direction. I suppose it would take
Edison to invent a thing like that, that came about
by accident. The different strengths and directions
of the gusts of wind must have accounted for the

THE GHOSTLY DOOR. 213

variations of the door's movements — and maybe the
draught of our big fire had helped.

Dave scratched his head a good bit.

' I never lived in a house yet,' he said, as we
came away — ' I never lived in a house yet without
there was something wrong with it. Gimme a good
tent.'

A WILD IRISHMAN.

A BOUT seven years ago I drifted from Out-Back
in Australia to Wellington, the capital of New
Zealand, and up country to a little town called
Pahiatua, which meaneth the ' home of the gods,'
and is situated in the Wairarappa (rippling or
sparkling water) district. They have a pretty
little legend to the effect that the name of the
district was not originally suggested by its rivers,
streams, and lakes, but by the tears alleged to
have been noticed, by a dusky squire, in the eyes
of a warrior chief who was looking his first, or last
— I don't remember which — upon the scene. He
was the discoverer, I suppose, now I come to think
of it, else the place would have been already named.
Maybe the scene reminded the old cannibal of the
home of his childhood.

Pahiatua was not the home of my god ; and it
rained for five weeks. While waiting for a remit-
tance, from an Australian newspaper — which, I
anxiously hoped, would arrive in time for enough
of it to be left (after paying board) to take me

-! 1 6 A WILD IRISHMAN.

away somewhere I spent many hours in the little
shop oi a shoemaker who had been a digger; and
he told me yarns of the old days <>n the West
Coast of Middle Island. And, ever and anon, lie
returned to one, a hard-case from the West Coast,
called ' The Flour of Wheat,' and his cousin, and
his mate, Dinny Murphy, dead. And ever and
again the shoemaker (he was large, humorous,
and good-natured) made me promise that, when
I dropped across an old West Coast digger —
no matter who or what he was, or whether he
was drunk or sober — I'd ask him if he knew the
' Flour of Wheat,' and hear what he had to
say.

I make no attempt to give any one shade of the
Irish brogue— it can't be done in writing.

'There's the little red Irishman,' said the shoe-
maker, who was Irish himself, ' who always wants
to fight when he has a glass in him ; and there's
the big sarcastic dark Irishman who makes more
trouble and fights at a spree than half-a-dozen
little red ones put together ; and there's the cheer-
ful easy-going Irishman. Now the Flour was a
combination of all three and several other sorts.
He was known from the first amongst the boys
at Th' Canary as the Flour o' Wheat, but no
one knew exactly why. Some said that the right
name was the F-1-o-w-e-r, not F-1-o-u-r, and that
he was called that because there was no flower
on wheat. The name might have been a compli-
ment paid to the man's character by some one
who understood and appreciated it — or appreciated

A WILD IRISHMAN. 2IJ

it without understanding it. Or it might have
come of some chance saying of the Flour himself,
or his mates — or an accident with bags of flour.
He might have worked in a mill. But we've had
enough of that. It's the man — not the name.
He was just a big, dark, blue -eyed Irish digger.
He worked hard, drank hard, fought hard — and
didn't swear. No man had ever heard him swear
(except once) ; all things were ' lovely ' with him.
He was always lucky. He got gold and threw it
away.

'The Flour was sent out to Australia (by his friends)
in connection with some trouble in Ireland in
eighteen - something. The date doesn't matter :
there was mostly trouble in Ireland in those days ;
and nobody, that knew the man, could have the
slightest doubt that he helped the trouble — provided
he was there at the time. I heard all this from a
man who knew him in Australia. The relatives
that he was sent out to were soon very anxious to
see the end of him. He was as wild as they made
them in Ireland. When he had a few drinks, he'd
walk restlessly to and fro outside the shanty, swing-
ing his right arm across in front of him with elbow
bent and hand closed, as if he had a head in
chancer}', and muttering, as though in explanation
to himself —

' " Oi must be walkin' or foightin' ! — Oi must be
walkin' or foightin'! — Oi must be walkin' or
foightin' ! "

' They say that he wanted to eat his Australian
relatives before he was done ; and the story goes
that one night, while he was on the spree, they

2X8 A WILD IRISHMAN.

put thi'ir belongings into a cart and took to the
Bush.

'There's no floury record f<>r several years; then
the Flour turned up on the west coast of New
/calami and was never very far from a pub. kept
by a cousin (that he had tracked, unearthed, or
discover 1 s mehow) at a place called " Th'
Canary." I remember the first time I saw the
Flour.

' I was on a bit of a spree myself, at Th' Canary,
and one evening I was standing outside Brady's
(the Flour's cousin's place) with Tom Lyons and
Dinny Murphy, when I saw a big man coming across
the flat with a swag on his back.

' " B' God, there's the Flour o' Wheat comin' this
minute," says Dinny Murphy to Tom, "an' no one
else."

' " B' God, ye're right ! " says Tom.

'There were a lot of new chums in the big room
at the back, drinking and dancing and singing, and
Tom says to Dinny —

' " Dinny, I'll bet you a quid an' the Flour'll run
against some of those new chums before he's an hour
on the spot."

' But Dinny wouldn't take him up. He knew the
Flour.

' " Good day, Tom ! Good day, Dinny ! "

' " Good day to you, Flour ! "

' I was introduced.

' " Well, boys, come along," says the Flour.

' And so we went inside with him. The Flour had
a few drinks, and then he went into the back-room
where the new chums were. One of them was

A WILD IRISHMAN. 210,

dancing a jig, and so the Flour stood up in front of
him and commenced to dance too. And presently
the new chum made a step that didn't please the
Flour, so he hit him between the eyes, and knocked
him down — fair an' flat on his back.

'"Take that," he says. "Take that, me lovely
whipper-snapper, an' lay there ! You can't dance.
How dare ye stand up in front of me face to dance
when ye can't dance ? "

' He shouted, and drank, and gambled, and danced,
and sang, and fought the new chums all night, and
in the morning he said —

' " Well, boys, we had a grand time last night.
Come and have a drink with me."

' And of course they went in and had a drink with
him.

' Next morning the Flour was walking along the
street, when he met a drunken, disreputable old hag,
known among the boys as the " Nipper."

'"Good morning, me lovely Flour o' Wheat!"
says she.

'"Good morning, me lovely Nipper!" says the
Flour.

' And with that she outs with a bottle she had in
her dress, and smashed him across the face with it.
Broke the bottle to smithereens !

' A policeman saw her do it, and took her up ; and
they had the Flour as a witness, whether he liked
it or not. And a lovely sight he looked, with his
face all done up in bloody bandages, and only
one damaged eye and a corner of his mouth on
duty.

J-O A \\ li D tRISHM \N.

'"It's nothing at all, your Honour," he said to
the S.M.; "only a pin-scratch it's nothing at all.
I I it pass. I had no right to speak to the lovely

in at all."

'But they didn't let it pass, — they fined her a
quid.

' And the Flour paid the fine.

' But, alas for human nature ! It was pretty much
the same even in those days, and amongst those
men, as it is now. A man couldn't do a woman a
good turn without the dirty -minded blackguards
taking it for granted there was something between
them. It was a great joke amongst the boys who
knew the Flour, and who also knew the Nipper; but
as it was carried too far in some quarters, it got to
be no joke to the Flour — nor to those who laughed
too loud or grinned too long.

' The Flour's cousin thought he was a sharp man.
The Flour got " stiff." He hadn't any money, and
his credit had run out, so he went and got a blank
summons from one of the police he knew. He pre-
tended that he wanted to frighten a man who owed
him some money. Then he filled it up and took it
to his cousin.

'"What d'ye think of that?" he says, handing
the summons across the bar. " What d'ye think of
me lovely Dinny Murphy now ? "

' " Why, what's this all about ? '

' " That's what I want to know. I borrowed a
five-pound-note off of him a fortnight ago when I
was drunk, an' now he sends me that."

' " Well, I never would have dream'd that of

A WILD IRISHMAN. 221

Dinny," says the cousin, scratching his head and
blinking. " What's come over him at all ? "

' " That's what I want to know."

' " What have you been doing to the man ? "

' " Divil a thing that I'm aware of."

' The cousin rubbed his chin-tuft between his fore-
finger and thumb.

' " Well, what am I to do about it ? " asked the
Flour impatiently.

' " Do ? Pay the man, of course ? "

' " How can I pay the lovely man when I haven't
got the price of a drink about me ? "

'The cousin scratched his chin.

'"Well — here, I'll lend you a five-pound-note for
a month or two. Go and pay the man, and get back
to work."

' And the Flour went and found Dinny Murphy,
and the pair of them had a howling spree together
up at Brady's, the opposition pub. And the cousin
said he thought all the time he was being had.

' He was nasty sometimes, when he was about
half drunk. For instance, he'd come on the ground
when the Orewell sports were in full swing and
walk round, soliloquising just loud enough for you
to hear ; and just when a big event was coming
off he'd pass within earshot of some committee
men — who had been bursting themselves for weeks
to work the thing up and make it a success — saying
to himself —

'"'Where's the Orewell sports that I hear so
much about ? I don't see them ! Can any one
direct me to the Orewell sports ? "

222 A WILD IRISHMAN.

'Or he'd pass a raffle, lottery, lucky-bag]
golden-barrel business of some sort, —

'•"N^ gamblin' for the Flour. I don't believe
in their little shwindles. It ought to be shtopped.
in" young people ashtray."

' Or he'd pass an Englishman he didn't like, —

'" Look at Jinneral Roberts I He's a man! He's
an Irishman ! England has to come to Ireland for
its Jinnerals ! Lnk at Jinneral Roberts in the
marshes of Candyharl"

' They always had sports at Orewell Creek on
New Year's Day — except once — and old Duncan
was always there, — never missed it till the day he
died. He was a digger, a humorous and good-
hearted " hard-case." They all knew " old Duncan."

' But one New Year's Eve he didn't turn up,
and was missed at once. " Where's old Duncan ?
Any one seen old Duncan?" "Oh, he'll turn up
alright." They inquired, and argued, and waited,
but Duncan didn't come.

' Duncan was working at Duffers. The boys in-
quired of fellows who came from Duffers, but they
hadn't seen him for two days. They had fully ex-
pected to find him at the creek. He wasn't at
Aliaura nor Notown. They inquired of men who
came from Nelson Creek, but Duncan wasn't
there.

' " There's something happened to the lovely man,"
said the Flour of Wheat at last. " Some of us had
better see about it."

' Pretty soon this was the general opinion, and
so a party started out over the hills to Duffers

A WILD IRISHMAN. 223

before daylight in the morning, headed by the
Flour.

'The door of Duncan's "whare" was closed
— but not padlocked. The Flour noticed this, gave
his head a jerk, opened the door, and went in.
The hut was tidied up and swept out — even the
fireplace. Duncan had "lifted the boxes" and
" cleaned up," and his little bag of gold stood on
a shelf by his side — all ready for his spree. On
the table iay a clean neckerchief folded ready to
tie on. The blankets had been folded neatly and
laid on the bunk, and on them was stretched Old
Duncan, with his arms lying crossed on his chest,
and one foot — with a boot on — resting on the ground.
He had his " clean things " on, and was dressed ex-
cept for one boot, the necktie, and his hat. Heart
disease.

' "Take your hats off and come in quietly, lads,"
said the Flour. " Here's the lovely man lying dead
in his bunk."

4 There were no sports at Oreweil that New Year.
Some one said that the crowd from Nelson Creek
might object to the sports being postponed on old
Duncan's account, but the Flour said he'd see to
that.

' One or two did object, but the Flour reasoned
with them and there were no sports.

' And the Flour used to say, afterwards, " Ah, but
it was a grand time we had at the funeral when
Duncan died at Duffers."

'The Flour of Wheat carried his mate, Dinny

2 I | \ WII.I' IKI; |1 m \\.

Nfurphy, all the way in from Th' Canary to

■ I on his back. Dinny was very bad —

the man was dying of the dysentery or something.

The Flour laid him down on a spare bunk in the

■n, and hailed the si

' " Inside then — come out ! "

'The doctor ami some of the hospital people
came to see wli.it was the matter. The doctor
was a heavy swell, with a 1 >i .^ cigar, held up in
front of him between two fat, soft, yellow-white
fingers, and a dandy little pair of gold-rimmed
dasses nipped onto his nose with a spring.

' " There's me lovely mate lying there dying of
the dysentry," says the Flour, "and you've got
to fix him up and bring him round."

' Then he shook his fist in the doctor's face and
said —

' " If you let that lovely man die — look out ! "

' The doctor was startled. He backed off at
first; then he took a puff at his cigar, stepped
forward, had a careless look at Dinny, and gave
some order to the attendants. The Flour went
to the door, turned half round as he went out, and
shook his fist at them again, and said —

' " If you let that lovely man die — mind ! "

' In about twenty minutes he came back, wheeling
a case of whisky in a barrow. He carried the
case inside, and dumped it down on the floor.

'"There," he said, "pour that into the lovely
man."

' Then he shook his fist at such members of the
staff as were visible, and said —

' " If you let that lovely man die — look out ! "

A WILD IRISHMAN. 225

* They were used to hard - cases, and didn't
take much notice of him, but he had the hospital
in an awful mess ; he was there all hours of the
day and night ; he would go down town, have a
few drinks and a fight maybe, and then he'd say,
"Ah, well, I'll have to go up and see how me
lovely mate's getting on."

1 And every time he'd go up he'd shake his fist
at the hospital in general and threaten to murder
'em all if they let Dinny Murphy die.

1 Well, Dinny Murphy died one night. The next
morning the Flour met the doctor in the street,
and hauled off and hit him between the eyes, and
knocked him down before he had time to see who
it was.

'"Stay there, ye little whipper-snapper," said
the Flour of Wheat; "you let that lovely man
die!"

' The police happened to be out of town that
day, and while they were waiting for them the
Flour got a coffin and carried it up to the hospital,
and stood it on end by the doorway.

' " I've come for me lovely mate ! " he said to
the scared staff— or as much of it as he baled up
and couldn't escape him. " Hand him over. He's
going back to be buried with his friends at Th'
Canary. Now, don't be sneaking round and sidling
off, you there; you needn't be frightened; I've
settled with the doctor."

'But they called in a man who had some influ-
ence with the Flour, and between them — and with
the assistance of the prettiest nurse on the prem-
ises— they persuaded him to wait. Dinny wasn't

P

826 A w ILD IRISHMAN.

ready yet; their were papers to sign; it wouldn't
be decent to the dead; he had t<> be prayed over;
he had to be washed and shaved, and fixed up
decent and comfortable. Anyway, they'd have him
ready in an hour, or take the consequences.

' The Flour objected on the ground that all this
could be done equally as well and better by the
boys at Th' Canary. "However," he said, "I'll
be round in an hour, and if you haven't got me
lovely mate ready — look out ! " Then he shook his
fist sternly at them once more and said —

' " I know yer dirty tricks and dodges, and if
there's e'er a pin-scratch on me mate's body — look
out ! If there's a pairin' of Dinny's toe-nail rnissin'
— look out ! "

' Then he went out — taking the coffin with him.

' And when the police came to his lodgings to
arrest him, they found the coffin on the floor by
the side of the bed, and the Flour lying in it on
his back, with his arms folded peacefully on his
bosom. He was as dead drunk as any man could
get to be and still be alive. They knocked air-
holes in the coffin-lid, screwed it on, and carried
the coffin, the Flour, and all to the local lock-up.
They laid their burden down on the bare, cold floor
of the prison-cell, and then went out, locked the
door, and departed several ways to put the " boys "
up to it. And about midnight the " boys" gathered
round with a supply of liquor, and waited, and
somewhere along in the small hours there was a
howl, as of a strong Irishman in Purgatory, and
presently the voice of the Flour was heard to plead
in changed and awful tones —

A WILD IRISHMAN. 227

'"Pray for me soul, boys — pray for me soul!
Let bygones be bygones between us, boys, and
pray for me lovely soul ! The lovely Flour's in
Purgatory ! "

' Then silence for a while ; and then a sound
like a dray-wheel passing over a packing-case. . . .
That was the only time on record that the Flour
was heard to swear. And he swore then.

'They didn't pray for him — they gave him a
month. And, when he came out, he went half-way
across the road to meet the doctor, and he — to
his credit, perhaps — came the other half. They
had a drink together, and the Flour presented
the doctor with a fine specimen of coarse gold
for a pin.

' " It was the will o' God, after all, doctor,"
said the Flour. " It was the will o' God. Let
bygones be bygones between us; gimme your hand,
doctor. . . v Good-bye."

' Then he left for Th' Canary.'

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH.

' Oh, tell her a tale of the fairies bright —

That only the Bushmen know —
Who guide the feet of the lost aright,
Or carry them up through the starry night,

Where the Bush-lost babies go.'

T T E was one of those men who seldom smile.
There are many in the Australian Bush,
where drift wrecks and failures of all stations and
professions (and of none), and from all the world.
Or, if they do smile, the smile is either mechanical
or bitter as a rule — cynical. They seldom talk.
The sort of men who, as bosses, are set down by
the majority — and without reason or evidence — as
being proud, hard, and selfish, — ' too mean to live,
and too big for their boots.'

But when the Boss did smile his expression was
very, very gentle, and very sad. I have seen him
smile down on a little child who persisted in sit-
ting on his knee and prattling to him, in spite of
his silence and gloom. He was tall and gaunt,
with haggard grey eyes — haunted grey eyes some-

l 111 B \rn S IN I in BUSH.

times— and hair and beard thick and strong, but
He was not above forty-five. He was ol
the type of men who die in harness, with their hair
thick and strong, but grey or white when it should
be brown. The opposite type, I fancy, would he
the soft, dark-haired, blue-eyed men who grow bald
sooiur than they grow grey, and fat and contented,
and die respectably in their beds.

His name was Head — Walter Head. He was a
boss drover on the overland routes. I engaged
with him at a place north of the Queensland border
to travel down to Bathurst, on the Great Western
Line in New South Wales, with something over
a thousand head of store bullocks for the Sydney
market. I am an Australian Bushman (with city
experience) — a rover, of course, and a ne'er-do-well,
I suppose. I was born with brains and a thin skin
— worse luck ! It was in the days before I was
married, and I went by the name of ' Jack Ellis '
this trip, — not because the police were after me,
but because I used to tell yarns about a man
named Jack Ellis — and so the chaps nicknamed
me.

The Boss spoke little to the men : he'd sit at
tucker or with his pipe by the camp-fire nearly as
silently as he rode his night-watch round the big,
restless, weirddooking mob of bullocks camped on
the dusky starlit plain. I believe that from the
first he spoke oftener and more confidentially to me
than to any other of the droving party. There was
a something of sympathy between us — I can't ex-
plain what it was. It seemed as though it were
an understood thing between us that we under-

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 23I

stood each other. He sometimes said things to
me which would have needed a deal of explanation
— so I thought — had he said them to any other
of the party. He'd often, after brooding a long
while, start a sentence, and break off with ' You
know, Jack.' And somehow I understood, with-
out being able to explain why. We had never
met before I engaged with him for this trip. His
men respected him, but he was not a popular boss :
he was too gloomy, and never drank a glass nor
' shouted ' on the trip : he was reckoned a ' mean
boss,' and rather a nigger-driver.

He was full of Adam Lindsay Gordon, the
English-Australian poet who shot himself, and so
was I. I lost an old copy of Gordon's poems on
the route, and the Boss overheard me inquiring
about it ; later on he asked me if I liked Gordon.
We got to it rather sheepishly at first, but by-and-
by we'd quote Gordon freely in turn when we were
alone in camp. ' Those are grand lines about Burke
and Wills, the explorers, aren't they, Jack ? ' he'd
say, after chewing his cud, or rather the stem of
his briar, for a long while without a word. (He had
his pipe in his mouth as often as any of us, but
somehow I fancied he didn't enjoy it : an empty
pipe or a stick would have suited him just as well,
it seemed to me.) ' Those are great lines,' he'd
say—

'"In Collins Street standeth a statue tall —
A. statue tall on a pillar of stone —
Telling its story to great and small

Of the dust reclaimed from the sand-waste lone.

THE BABIES IN ["HE BUSH.

V and wasted, worn and wan,

.! faint, and languid and low,
: i a dj ing man,
\\ lu> lu> gone, my friends, where we all mu

That's a grand thing, Jack. How docs it go ?- -

"With a pistol clenched in his failing hand,
And the 61m of death o'er his fading eyes,
He saw the sun go down on the sand,'" —

The Boss would straighten up with a si^h that
might have been half a yawn —

' '• And he slept and never saw it rise,"'

—speaking with a sort of quiet force all the time.
Then maybe he'd stand with his back to the tire
roasting his dusty leggings, with his hands behind
his back and looking out over the dusky plain.

'"What mattered the sand or the whit'ning chalk,
The blighted herbage or blackened log,
The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk,

Or the hot red tongue of the native dog?"

They don't matter much, do they, Jack ? '
' Damned if I think they do, Boss ! ' I'd say.

' "The couch was rugged, those sextons rude,
But, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know
That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms' food
Where once they have gone where we all must go.':>

Once he repeated the poem containing the lines —

'"Love, when we wandered here together,

Hand in hand through the sparkling weather-
God surely loved us a little then."

Beautiful lines those, Jack.

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 233

" Then skies were fairer and shores were firmer,
And the blue sea over the white sand rolled —
Babble and prattle, and prattle and murmur' —

How does it go, Jack ? ' He stood up and turned
his face to the light, but not before I had a glimpse
of it. I think that the saddest eyes on earth are
mostly women's eyes, but I've seen few so sad as the
Boss's were just then.

It seemed strange that he, a Bushman, preferred
Gordon's sea poems to his horsey and bushy
rhymes ; but so he did. I fancy his favourite poem
was that one of Gordon's with the lines —

' I would that with sleepy soft embraces

The sea would fold me, would find me rest
In the luminous depths of its secret places,
Where the wealth of God's marvels is manifest 1'

He usually spoke quietly, in a tone as though
death were in camp ; but after we'd been on
Gordon's poetry for a while he'd end it abruptly
with, ' Well, it's time to turn in,' or, ' It's time to
turn out,' or he'd give me an order in connection
with the cattle. He had been a well-to-do squatter
on the Lachlan river-side, in New South Wales,
and had been ruined by the drought, they said.
One night in camp, and after smoking in silence
for nearly an hour, he asked —

' Do you know Fisher, Jack — the man that owns
these bullocks ? '

'I've heard of him,' I said. Fisher was a big
squatter, with stations both in New South Wales
and in Ouccnsland.

' Well, he came to my station on the Lachlan

nn BABIl S ix nil BUSH.

years ago without a pinny in his pocket, or d< cenl
rag to his back, or a crust in his tucker-bag, and
I gave him a job. He's my boss now. Ah, well!
it's tin- way of Australia, you know. Jack.'

The Boss had one man who went on every
droving trip with him; he was 'bred' on the
Boss's station, they said, and had been with him
practically all his life. His name was 'Andy.'
I forget his other name, if he really had one.
Andy had charge of the ' droving-plant ' (a tilted
two -horse waggonette, in which we carried the
rations and horse -feed), and he did the cooking
and kept accounts. The Boss had no head for
figures. And)- might have been twenty- five or
thirty- five, or anything in between. His hair
stuck up like a well-made brush all round, and
his big grey eyes also had an inquiring expression.
His weakness was girls, or he theirs, I don't know
which (half-castes not barred). He was, I think,
the most innocent, good-natured, and open-hearted
scamp I ever met. Towards the middle of the
trip Andy spoke to me one night alone in camp
about the Boss.

'The Boss seems to have taken to you, Jack,
all right.'

'Think so ? ' I said. I thought I smelt jealousy
and detected a sneer.

' I'm sure of it. It's very seldom he takes to
any one.'

I said nothing.

Then after a while Andy said suddenly —

' Look here, Jack, I'm glad of it. I'd like to
see him make a chum of some one, if only for

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 235

one trip. And don't you make any mistake about
the Boss. He's a white man. There's precious
few that know him — precious few now ; but I do,
and it'll do him a lot of good to have some one
to yarn with.' And Andy said no more on the
subject for that trip.

The long, hot, dusty miles dragged by across
the blazing plains — big clearings rather — and
through the sweltering hot scrubs, and we reached
Bathurst at last ; and then the hot dusty days and
weeks and months that we'd left behind us to
the Great North -West seemed as nothing, — as I
suppose life will seem when we come to the end
of it.

The bullocks were going by rail from Bathurst
to Sydney. We were all one long afternoon getting
them into the trucks, and when we'd finished the
boss said to me —

' Look here, Jack, you're going on to Sydney,
aren't you ? '

1 Yes ; I'm going down to have a fly round.'

'Well, why not wait and go down with Andy
in the morning ? He's going down in charge of
the cattle. The cattle-train starts about daylight.
It won't be so comfortable as the passenger; but
you'll save your fare, and you can give Andy a
hand with the cattle. You've only got to have
a look at 'em every other station, and poke up
any that fall down in the trucks. You and Andy
are mates, aren't you ? '

I said it would just suit me. Somehow I fancied
that the Boss seemed anxious to have my company
for one more evening, and, to tell the truth, I felt

1 ill B \i'll s in THE BUSH.

really sorry to part with him. I'd had to work
as hard as am- oi the other chaps; but I liked
him, ami I believed he liked me. He'd struck
me as a m.m who'd been quietened down by some
heavy trouble, and I felt sorry for him without
knowing what the trouble was.

'Come and have a drink, Boss,' I said. The
ag< at had paid us off during the day.

He turned into a hotel with me.

'I don't drink, Jack,' he said; 'but I'll take a
glass with you.'

' I didn't know you were a teetotaller, Boss,' I
said. I had not been surprised at his keeping so
strictly from the drink on the trip; but now that
it was over it was a different thing.

' I'm not a teetotaller, Jack,' he said. ' I can
take a glass or leave it.' And he called for a
long beer, and we drank ' Here's luck ! ' to each
other.

' Well,' I said, ' I wash I could take a glass or
leave it.' And I meant it.

Then the Boss spoke as I'd never heard him
speak before. I thought for the moment that the
one drink had affected him ; but I understood before
the night was over. He laid his hand on my
shoulder with a grip like a man who has suddenly
made up his mind to lend you five pounds.
'Jack!' he said, 'there's worse things than drink-
ing, and there's worse things than heavy smoking.
When a man who smokes gets such a load of
trouble on him that he can find no comfort in
his pipe, then it's a heavy load. And when a
man who drinks gets so deep into trouble that

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 237

he can find no comfort in liquor, then it's deep
trouble. Take my tip for it, Jack.'

He broke off, and half turned away with a jerk
of his head, as if impatient with himself; then pre-
sently he spoke in his usual quiet tone —

' But you're only a boy yet, Jack. Never mind
me. I won't ask you to take the second drink.
You don't want it ; and, besides, I know the
signs.'

He paused, leaning with both hands on the edge
of the counter, and looking down between his arms
at the floor. He stood that way thinking for a
while ; then he suddenly straightened up, like a
man who'd made up his mind to something.

' I want you to come along home with me, Jack,'
he said ; ' we'll fix you a shake-down.'

I forgot to tell you that he was married and lived
in Bathurst.

' But won't it put Mrs Head about ? '

' Not at all. She's expecting you. Come along;
there's nothing to see in Bathurst, and you'll have
plenty of knocking round in Sydney. Come on,
we'll just be in time for tea.'

He lived in a brick cottage on the outskirts of the
town — an old-fashioned cottage, with ivy and climb-
ing roses, like you see in some of those old settled
districts. There was, I remember, the stump of a
tree in front, covered with ivy till it looked like a
giant's club with the thick end up.

When we got to the house the Boss paused a
minute with his hand on the gate. He'd been home
a couple of days, having ridden in ahead of the
bullocks.

jjS nil- BABIES EN nil- BUSH.

'Jack.' he said, 'I must tell you that Mrs Head
had a greal trouble at one time. We — we lost our
two children. It does her good to talk to a stranger

now and again — she's always better afterwards; but
there's very few I care to bring. You — you needn't
notice anything strange. And agree with her, Jack.
You know, Jack.'

'That's all right, Boss,' I said. I'd knocked
about the Bush too long, and run against too many
strange characters and things, to be surprised at
anything much.

The door opened, and he took a little woman in
his arms. I saw by the light of a lamp in the room
behind that the woman's hair was grey, and I reck-
oned that he had his mother living with him. And
— we do have odd thoughts at odd times in a flash
— and I wondered how Mrs Head and her mother-
in-law got on together. But the next minute I was
in the room, and introduced to ' My wife, Mrs
Head,' and staring at her with both eyes.

It was his wife. I don't think I can describe her.
For the first minute or two, coming in out of the
dark and before my eyes got used to the lamp-light,
I had an impression as of a little old woman — one
of those fresh-faced, well-preserved, little old ladies
— who dressed young, wore false teeth, and aped the
giddy girl. But this was because of Mrs Head's
impulsive welcome of me, and her grey hair. The
hair was not so grey as I thought at first, seeing it
with the lamp-light behind it : it was like dull-brown
hair lightly dusted with flour. She wore it short,
and it became her that way. There was something
aristocratic about her face— her nose and chin — I

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 239

fancied, and something that you couldn't describe.
She had big dark eyes — dark-brown, I thought,
though they might have been hazel : they were a
bit too big and bright for me, and now and again,
when she got excited, the white showed all round
the pupils — just a little, but a little was enough.

She seemed extra glad to see me. I thought at
first that she was a bit of a gusher.

' Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Mr Ellis,' she said,
giving my hand a grip. ' Walter — Mr Head — has
been speaking to me about you. I've been expect-
ing you. Sit down by the fire, Mr Ellis; tea will
be ready presently. Don't you find it a bit chilly ? '
She shivered. It was a bit chilly now at night on
the Bathurst plains. The table was set for tea, and
set rather in swell style. The cottage was too well
furnished even for a lucky boss drover's home ; the
furniture looked as if it had belonged to a tony
homestead at one time. I felt a bit strange at first,
sitting down to tea, and almost wished that I was
having a comfortable tuck-in at a restaurant or in a
pub. dining-room. But she knew a lot about the
Bush, and chatted away, and asked questions about
the trip, and soon put me at my ease. You see, for
the last year or two I'd taken my tucker in my
hands, — hunk of damper and meat and a clasp-knife
mostly, — sitting on my heel in the dust, or on a log
or a tucker-box.

There was a hard, brown, wrinkled old woman
that the Heads called 'Auntie.' She waited at the
table; but Mrs Head kept bustling round herself
most of the time, helping us. Andy came in to
tea.

240 Till. BABIES IN THE BUSH.

Mrs Head bustled round like a girl of twenty in-
1 of a woman of thirty-seven, as Andy after-
wards told me she was. She had the figure and
movements of a girl, ami the impulsiveness and ex-
don too — a womanly girl; but sometimes I
fancied there was something very childish about
her face and talk. After tea she and the Boss
sat on one side of the fire and Andy and I on the
other — Andy a little behind me at the corner of
the table.

' Walter — Mr Head — tells me you've been out on
the Lachlan river, Mr Ellis ? ' she said as soon as
she'd settled down, and she leaned forward, as if
r to hear that I'd been there.

1 Yes, Mrs Head. I've knocked round all about
out there.'

She sat up straight, and put the tips of her fingers
to the side of her forehead and knitted her brows.
This was a trick she had — she often did it during
the evening. And when she did that she seemed to
forget what she'd said last.

She smoothed her forehead, and clasped her hands
in her lap.

' Oh, I"m so glad to meet somebody from the back
country, Mr Ellis,' she said. ' Walter so seldom
brings a stranger here, and I get tired of talking to
the same people about the same things, and seeing
the same faces. You don't know what a relief it is,
Mr Ellis, to see a new face and talk to a stranger.'

' I can quite understand that, Mrs Head,' I said.
And so I could. I never stayed more than three
months in one place if I could help it.

She looked into the fire and seemed to try to

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 241

think. The Boss straightened up and stroked her
head with his big sun-browned hand, and then put
his arm round her shoulders. This brought her
back.

' You know we had a station out on the Lachlan,
Mr Ellis. Did Walter ever tell you about the time
we lived there ? '

' No,' I said, glancing at the Boss. ' I know you
had a station there ; but, you know, the Boss doesn't
talk much.'

' Tell Jack, Maggie,' said the Boss ; ' I don't
mind.'

She smiled. ' You know Walter, Mr Ellis,' she
said. ' You won't mind him. He doesn't like me
to talk about the children ; he thinks it upsets me,
but that's foolish : it always relieves me to talk to a
stranger.' She leaned forward, eagerly it seemed,
and went on quickly : ' I've been wanting to tell you
about the children ever since Walter spoke to me
about you. I knew you would understand directly
I saw your face. These town people don't under-
stand. I like to talk to a Bushman. You know we
lost our children out on the station. The fairies
took them. Did Walter ever tell you about the
fairies taking the children away ? '

This was a facer. 'I — I beg pardon,' I com-
menced, when Andy gave me a dig in the back.
Then I saw it all.

1 No, Mrs Head. The Boss didn't tell me about
that.'

' You surely know about the Bush Fairies, Mr
Ellis,' she said, her big eyes fixed on my face — 'the
Bush Fairies that look after the little ones that are

THE BABIES IN' THE BUSH.

■ in the Bush, and take them away from the Bush
if they are not found ? You've surely heard of them,
Mr Ellis? Most Bushmen have that I've spoken to.

Maybe you've seen them ? Andy there has ? ' Andy
gave me another dig.

' Of course I've heard of them, Mrs Head,' I said;
' but 1 can't swear that I've seen one.'

'Andy has. Haven't you, Andy?'

' Of course I have, Mrs Head. Didn't I tell you
all about it the last time we were home ? '

' And didn't you ever tell Mr Ellis, Andy? '

' Of course he did ! ' I said, coming to Andy's
rescue ; ' I remember it now. You told me that
night we camped on the Bogan river, Andy.'

1 Of course ! ' said Andy.

' Did he tell you about finding a lost child and the
fairy with it ? '

' Yes,' said Andy; ' I told him all about that.'

'And the fairy was just going to take the child
away when Andy found it, and when the fairy saw
Andy she flew away.'

' Yes,' I said ; ' that's what Andy told me.'

' And what did you say the fairy was like, Andy? '
asked Mrs Head, fixing her eyes on his face.

' Like. It was like one of them angels you see
in Bible pictures, Mrs Head,' said Andy promptly,
sitting bolt upright, and keeping his big innocent
grey eyes fixed on hers lest she might think he was
telling lies. ' It was just like the angel in that
Christ-in-the-stable picture we had at home on the
station — the right-hand one in blue.'

She smiled. You couldn't call it an idiotic smile,
nor the foolish smile you see sometimes in melan-

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 243

choly mad people. It was more of a happy childish
smile.

' I was so foolish at first, and gave poor Walter
and the doctors a lot of trouble,' she said. ' Of
course it never struck me, until afterwards, that the
fairies had taken the children.'

She pressed the tips of the fingers of both hands
to her forehead, and sat so for a while ; then she
roused herself again —

' Bat what am I thinking about ? I haven't started
to tell you about the children at all yet. Auntie !
bring the children's portraits, will you, please ?
You'll find them on my dressing-table.'

The old woman seemed to hesitate.

• Go on, Auntie, and do what I ask you,' said Mrs
Head. ' Don't be foolish. You know I'm all right
now.'

' You mustn't take any notice of Auntie, Mr Ellis,'
she said with a smile, while the old woman's back
was turned. ' Poor old body, she's a bit crotchety
at times, as old women are. She doesn't like me to
get talking about the children. She's got an idea
that if I do I'll start talking nonsense, as I used to
do the first year after the children were lost. I was
very foolish then, wasn't I, Walter ? '

' You were, Maggie,' said the Boss. ' But that's
all past. You mustn't think of that time any
more.'

' You see,' said Mrs Head, in explanation to me,
'at first nothing would drive it out of my head that
the children had wandered about until they perished
of hunger and thirst in the Bush. As if the Bush
Fairies would let them do that.'

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH.

' V iu were very foolish, M lid the B

' but don't think about that.'

The old woman brought the portraits, a little boy
and a little girl : they must have been very pretty
children.

1 You sec,' said Mrs Head, taking the portraits
irly, and giving them to me one by one, 'we had
ill >e taken in Sydney some years before the children
were lost ; they were much younger then. Wally's
is not a good portrait; he was teething then, and
wry thin. That's him standing on the chair. Isn't
the pose good ? See, he's got one hand and one
little foot forward, and an eager look in his eyes.
The portrait is very dark, and you've got to look
close to see the foot. He wants a toy rabbit that
the photographer is tossing up to make him laugh.
In the next portrait he's sitting on the chair — he's
just settled himself to enjoy the fun. But see how
happy little Maggie looks ! You can see my arm
where I was holding her in the chair. She was six
months old then, and little Wally had just turned
two.'

She put the portraits up on the mantel-shelf.

' Let me see ; Wally (that's little Walter, you
know) — Wally was five and little Maggie three and
a half when we lost them. Weren't they, Walter ? '

' Yes, Maggie,' said the Boss.

' You were away, Walter, when it happened.'

' Yes, Maggie,' said the Boss — cheerfully, it seemed
to me — ' I was away.'

'And we couldn't find you, Walter. You see,'
she said to me, ' Walter — Mr Head — was away in
Sydney on business, and we couldn't find his address.

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 245

It was a beautiful morning, though rather warm, and
just after the break-up of the drought. The grass was
knee-high all over the run. It was a lonely place ;
there wasn't much bush cleared round the home-
stead, just a hundred yards or so, and the great
awful scrubs ran back from the edges of the
clearing all round for miles and miles — fifty or a
hundred miles in some directions without a break ;
didn't they, Walter ? '

' Yes, Maggie.'

' I was alone at the house except for Mary, a half-
caste girl we had, who used to help me with the
housework and the children. Andy was out on the
run with the men, mustering sheep; weren't you,
Andy ? '

' Yes, Mrs Head.'

' I used to watch the children close as they got to
run about, because if they once got into the edge of
the scrub they'd be lost ; but this morning little
Wally begged hard to be let take his little sister
down under a clump of blue-gums in a corner of the
home paddock to gather buttercups. You remember
that clump of gums, Walter ? '

1 1 remember, Maggie.'

' " I won't go through the fence a step, mumma,"
little Wally said. I could see Old Peter — an old
shepherd and station-hand we had — I could see him
working on a dam we were making across a creek
that ran down there. You remember Old Peter,
Walter?'

' Of course I do, Maggie.'

' I knew that Old Peter would keep an eye to the
children ; so I told little Wally to keep tight hold of

.' .['> Mil-. BABIES IN I ill- BUSH.

his sister's hand and go straight down to OKI Peter
and tell him I sent them.'

Slu' was leaning forward with her hands clasping
her knee, and telling me all this with a strange sort
oi eagerness.

' The little ones toddled off hand in hand, with
their other hands holding fast their straw hats. " In
rase a bad wind blowed," as little Maggie said. I
saw them Stoop under the first fence, and that was
the last that any one saw of them.'

1 Except the fairies, Maggie,' said the Boss quickly.

' Of course, Walter, except the fairies.'

She pressed her fingers to her temples again for a
minute.

' It seems that Old Peter was going to ride out to
the musterers' camp that morning with bread for the
men, and he left his work at the dam and started
into the Bush after his horse just as I turned back
into the house, and before the children got near him.
They either followed him for some distance or
wandered into the Bush after flowers or butter-
flies ' She broke off, and then suddenly asked

me, ' Do you think the Bush Fairies would entice
children away, Mr Ellis ? '

The Boss caught my eye, and frowned and shook
his head slightly.

' No. Pm sure they wouldn't, Mrs Head,' I said —
'at least not from what I know of them.'

She thought, or tried to think, again for a while,
in her helpless puzzled way. Then she went on,
speaking rapidly, and rather mechanically, it seemed
to me —

'The first I knew of it was when Peter came to

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 247

the house about an hour afterwards, leading his
horse, and without the children. I said — I said,
" O my God ! where's the children ? " ' Her fingers
fluttered up to her temples.

' Don't mind about that, Maggie,' said the Boss,
hurriedly, stroking her head. ' Tell Jack about the
fairies.'

' You were away at the time, Walter ? '

' Yes, Maggie.'

' And we couldn't find you, Walter ? '

' No, Maggie,' very gently. He rested his elbow
on his knee and his chin on his hand, and looked
into the fire.

' It wasn't your fault, Walter ; but if you had been
at home do you think the fairies would have taken
the children ? '

' Of course they would, Maggie. They had to :
the children were lost.'

' And they're bringing the children home next
year ? '

' Yes, Maggie— next year.'

She lifted her hands to her head in a startled way,
and it was some time before she went on again.
There was no need to tell me about the lost children.
I could see it all. She and the half-caste rushing
towards where the children were seen last, with Old
Peter after them. The hurried search in the nearer
scrub. The mother calling all the time for Maggie
and Wally, and growing wilder as the minutes flew
past. Old Peter's ride to the Blusterers'- camp.
Horsemen seeming to turn up in no time and from
nowhere, as they do in a case like this, and no
matter how lonely the district. Bushmen galloping

1 ill BABIE S IN THE BUSH.

through the scrub in all directions. The hurried
search the first day, and the mother mad with
anxiety as night came on. Her long, hopeless, wild-
1 watch through the night ; starting up at every
sound of a horse's hoof, and reading the worst in
one -lance at the rider's face. The systematic work
of the search-parties next day and the days follow-
ing. How those days do fly past. The women
from the next run or selection, and some from the
town, driving from ten or twenty miles, perhaps, to
stay with and try to comfort the mother. (' Put
the horse to the cart, Jim : I must go to that poor
woman ! ') Comforting her with improbable stories
of children who had been lost for days, and were
none the worse for it when they were found. The
mounted policemen out with the black trackers.
Search-parties cooeeing to each other about the
Bush, and lighting signal-fires. The reckless break-
neck rides for news or more help. And the Boss
himself, wild -eyed and haggard, riding about the
Bush with Andy and one or two others perhaps, and
searching hopelessly, days after the rest had given up
all hope of finding the children alive. All this passed
before me as Mrs Head talked, her voice sounding
the while as if she were in another room ; and when
I roused myself to listen, she was on to the fairies
again.

' It was very foolish of me, Mr Ellis. Weeks after
— months after, I think — I'd insist on going out on
the verandah at dusk and calling for the children.
I'd stand there and call " Maggie ! " and " Wally ! "
until Walter took me inside; sometimes he had to
force me inside. Poor Walter! But of course I

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 249

didn't know about the fairies then, Mr Ellis. I was
really out of my mind for a time.'

' No wonder you were, Mrs Head,' I said. ' It
was terrible trouble.'

1 Yes, and I made it worse. I was so selfish in my
trouble. But it's all right now, Walter,' she said,
rumpling the Boss's hair. ' I'll never be so foolish
again.'

' Of course you won't, Maggie.'

' We're very happy now, aren't we, Walter ? '

' Of course we are, Maggie.'

' And the children are coming back next year.5

' Next year, Maggie.'

He leaned over the fire and stirred it up.

' You mustn't take any notice of us, Mr Ellis,' she
went on. ' Poor Walter is away so much that I'm
afraid I make a little too much of him when he does
come home.'

She paused and pressed her fingers to her temples
again. Then she said quickly —

' They used to tell me that it was all nonsense
about the fairies, but they were no friends of mine.
I shouldn't have listened to them, Walter. You told
me not to. But then I was really not in my right
mind.'

' Who used to tell you that, Mrs Head ? ' I asked.

'The Voices,' she said; 'you know about the
Voices, Walter ? '

' Yes, Maggie. But you don't hear the Voices
now, Maggie ? ' he asked anxiously. ' You haven't
heard them since I've been away this time, have
you, Maggie ? '

' No, Walter. They've gone away a long time. I

250 I 111- BABIES IN I in BUSH.

b r voices now sometimes, but they're the Bush
Fairies' voices. I hear them calling Maggie and
Wally to come with them.' She paused again.
' And sometimes I think I hear them call me. Bui
of course I couldn't go away without you, Walter.
But I'm foolish again. I was going to ask you
about the other voices, Mr Ellis. They used to say
that it was madness about the fairies; but then, if
the f.iiries hadn't taken the children, Black Jimmy,
or the black trackers with the police, could have
tracked and found them at once.'

' Of course they could, Mrs Head,' I said.

' They said that the trackers couldn't track them
because there was rain a few hours after the children
ware lost. But that was ridiculous. It was only a
thunderstorm.'

' Why ! ' I said, ' I've known the blacks to track a
man after a week's heavy rain.'

She had her head between her fingers again, and
when she looked up it was in a scared way.

4 Oh, Walter ! ' she said, clutching the Boss's arm ;
' whatever have I been talking about? What must
Mr Ellis think of me ? Oh ! why did you let me talk
like that ? '

He put his arm round her. Andy nudged me and
got up.

' Where are you going, Mr Ellis ? ' she asked hur-
riedly. ' You're not going to-night. Auntie's made
a bed for you in Andy's room. You mustn't mind
me.'

'Jack and Andy are going out for a little while,'
said the Boss. ' They'll be in to supper. We'll
have a yarn, Maggie.'

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 2jl

' Be sure you come back to supper, Mr Ellis,' she
said. ' I really don't know what you must think of
me, — I've been talking all the time.'

'Oh, I've enjoyed myself, Mrs Head,' I said; and
Andy hooked me out.

' She'll have a good cry and be better now,' said
Andy when we got away from the house. ' She
might be better for months. She has been fairly
reasonable for over a year, but the Boss found her
pretty bad when he came back this time. It upset
him a lot, I can tell you. She has turns now and
again, and always ends up like she did just now.
She gets a longing to talk about it to a Bushman
and a stranger ; it seems to do her good. The doc-
tor's against it, but doctors don't know everything.'

1 It's all true about the children, then ? ' I asked.

1 It's cruel true,' said Andy.

' And were the bodies never found ? '

' Yes ; ' then, after a long pause, ' I found them.'

' You did ! '

' Yes ; in the scrub, and not so very far from home-
either — and in a fairly clear space. It's a wonder
the search-parties missed it ; but it often happens
that way. Perhaps the little ones wandered a long
way and came round in a circle. I found them
about two months after they were lost. They had
to be found, if only for the Boss's sake. You see,
in a case like this, and when the bodies aren't
found, the parents never quite lose the idea that
the little ones are wandering about the Bush to-
night (it might be years after) and perishing from
hunger, thirst, or cold. That mad idea haunts 'em
all their lives. It's the same, I believe, with friends

nil in i;.i BUSri.

drowned at sea. Friends ashore arc haunted for a

while with the idea ol the white sodden cor]
tossing ab >ut and drifting round in the water.'

'And you never t»>ld Mrs Head about the children
being found ? '

' Not for a long time. It wouldn't have done any
good. She was raving mad for months. He took her
to Sydney and then to Melbourne — to the best doc-
tors he could find in Australia. They could do no
good, so he sold the station — sacrificed ever) thing,
and took her to England.'

' To England ? '

'Yes; and then to Germany to a big German
doctor there. He'd offer a thousand pounds where
they only wanted fifty. It was no good. She got
worse in England, and raved to go back to Aus-
tralia and find the children. The doctors advised
him to take her back, and he did. He spent all
his money, travelling saloon, and with reserved
cabins, and a nurse, and trying to get her cured;
that's why he's droving now. She was restless in
Sydney. She wanted to go back to the station
and wait there till the fairies brought the children
home. She'd been getting the fairy idea into her
head slowly all the time. The Boss encouraged
it. But the station was sold, and he couldn't
have lived there anyway without going mad him-
self. He'd married her from Bathurst. Both of
them have got friends and relations here, so he
thought best to bring her here. He persuaded her
that the fairies were going to bring the children
here. Everybody's very kind to them. I think
it's a mistake to run away from a town where

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 253

you're known, in a case like this, though most
people do it. It was years before he gave up
hope. I think he has hopes yet — after she's been
fairly well for a longish time.'

'And you never tried telling her that the children
were found ? '

' Yes ; the Boss did. The little ones were buried
on the Lachlan river at first ; but the Boss got a
horror of having them buried in the Bush, so he
had them brought to Sydney and buried in the
Waverley Cemetery near the sea. He bought the
ground, and room for himself and Maggie when
they go out. It's all the ground he owns in wide
Australia, and once he had thousands of acres.
He took her to the grave one day. The doctors
were against it ; but he couldn't rest till he tried
it. He took her out, and explained it all to her.
She scarcely seemed interested. She read the
names on the stone, and said it was a nice stone,
and asked questions about how the children were
found and brought here. She seemed quite sensible,
and very cool about it. But when he got her home
she was back on the fairy idea again. He tried
another day, but it was no use ; so then lie let it
be. I think it's better as it is. Now and again,
at her best, she seems to understand that the
children were found dead, and buried, and she'll
talk sensibly about it, and ask questions in a quiet
way, and make him promise to take her to Syd-
ney to see the grave next time he's down.
But it doesn't last long, and she's always worse
afterwards.'

We turned into a bar and had a beer. It was a

J54 THE BABIES IN THE BUSH.

very quiet drink. Andy * shouted ' in his turn, and
while I was drinking the second beer a thought
struck me.

' The Boss was away when the children were
lost?*

1 Yes,' said Andy.

'Strange you couldn't find him.'

'Yes, it was strange; but he'll have to tell you
about that. Very likely he will ; it's either all or
nothing with him.'

' I feel damned sorry for the Boss,' I said.

1 You'd be sorrier if you knew all,' said Andy.
' It's the worst trouble that can happen to a man.
It's like living with the dead. It's — it's like a man
living with his dead wife.'

When we went home supper was ready. We
found Mrs Head, bright and cheerful, bustling
round. You'd have thought her one of the
happiest and brightest little women in Australia.
Not a word about children or the fairies. She
knew the Bush, and asked me all about my trips.
She told some good Bush stories too. It was the
pleasantest hour I'd spent for a long time.

' Good night, Mr Ellis,' she said brightly, shaking
hands with me when Andy and I were going to turn
in. 'And don't forget your pipe. Here it is ! I
know that Bushmen like to have a whiff or two
when they turn in. Walter smokes in bed. I
don't mind. You can smoke all night if you like.'

1 She seems all right,' I said to Andy when we
were in our room.

He shook his head mournfully. We'd left the
door ajar, and we could hear the Boss talking to

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 255

her quietly. Then we heard her speak ; she had
a very clear voice.

' Yes, I'll tell you the truth, Walter. I've been
deceiving you, Walter, all the time, but I did it for
the best. Don't be angry with me, Walter ' The
Voices did come back while you were away. Oh,
how I longed for you to come back ! They haven't
come since you've been home, Walter. You must
stay with me a while now. Those awful Voices
kept calling me, and telling me lies about the
children, Walter! They told me to kill myself;
they told me it was all my own fault — that I killed
the children. They said I was a drag on you, and
they'd laugh — Ha! ha! ha! — like that. They'd say,
"Come on, Maggie; come on, Maggie." They told
me to come to the river, Walter.'

Andy closed the door. His face was very
miserable.

We turned in, and I can tell you I enjoyed a soft
white bed after months and months of sleeping out at
night, between watches, on the hard ground or the
sand, or at best on a few boughs when I wasn't too
tired to pull them down, and my saddle for a pillow.

But the story of the children haunted me for an
hour or two. I've never since quite made up my
mind as to why the Boss took me home. Probably
he really did think it would do his wife good to talk
to a stranger; perhaps he wanted me to understand
— maybe he was weakening as he grew older, and
craved for a new word or hand-grip of sympathy
now and then.

Wrhcn I did get to sleep I could have slept for
three or four days, but Andy roused me out about

Till BABIl S IN' THE BUSH,

four '.. The old woman that they called

Auntie was up and had a good breakfast of <

and bacon ami coffee ready in the detached kitchen
at the back. We moved about on tiptoe and had
our breakfast quietly.

' Tin' wife made me promise to wake her to see to
our breakfast and say Good-bye to you ; but I want
her to sleep this morning, Jack,' said the Boss.
' I'm going to walk down as far as the station with
you. She made up a parcel of fruit and sandwiches
for you and Andy. Don't forget it.'

Andy went on ahead. The Boss and I walked
down the wide silent street, which was also the
main road ; and we walked two or three hundred
yards without speaking. He didn't seem sociable
this morning, or any way sentimental ; when he did
speak it was something about the cattle.

But I had to speak ; I felt a swelling and rising up
in my chest, and at last I made a swallow and blurted
out —

' Look here, Boss, old chap ! I'm damned sorry ! '

Our hands came together and gripped. The
ghostly Australian daybreak was over the Bathurst
plains.

We went on another hundred yards or so, and
then the Boss said quietly —

1 1 was away when the children were lost, Jack.
I used to go on a howling spree every six or nine
months. Maggie never knew. I'd tell her I had to
go to Sydney on business, or Out-Back to look after
some stock. When the children were lost, and for
nearly a fortnight after, I was beastly drunk in an
out-of-the-way shanty in the Bush — a sly grog-shop.

THE BABIES IN THE BUSH. 257

The old brute that kept it was too true to me. He
thought that the story of the lost children was a
trick to get me home, and he swore that he hadn't
seen me. He never told me. I could have found
those children, Jack. They were mostly new chums
and fools about the run, and not one of the three
policemen was a Bushman. I knew those scrubs
better than any man in the country.'

I reached for his hand again, and gave it a grip.
That was all I could do for him.

' Good-bye, Jack ! ' he said at the door of the
brake-van. ' Good-bye, Andy ! — keep those bullocks
on their feet.'

The cattle - train went on towards the Blue
Mountains. Andy and I sat silent for a while,
watching the guard fry three eggs on a plate over a
coal-stove in the centre of the van.

' Does the boss never go to Sydney ? ' I asked.

'Very seldom,' said Andy, 'and then only when
he has to, on business. When he finishes his busi-
ness with the stock agents, he takes a run out to
Waverley Cemetery perhaps, and comes home by
the next train.'

After a while I said, ' He told me about the
drink, Andy — about his being on the spree when the
children were lost.'

'Well, Jack,' said Andy, 'that's the thing that's
been killing him ever since, and it happened over
ten years ago.'

A BUSH DANCE.

1 HTAP, tap, tap, tap.'

The little schoolhouse and residence in the
scrub was lighted brightly in the midst of the ' close,'
solid blackness of that moonless December night,
when the sky and stars were smothered and
suffocated by drought haze.

It was the evening of the school children's ' Feast.'
That is to say that the children had been sent, and
'let go,' and the younger ones ' fetched ' through the
blazing heat to the school, one day early in the
holidays, and raced — sometimes in couples .tied
together by the legs — and caked, and bunned, and
finally improved upon by the local Chadband, and
got rid of. The schoolroom had been cleared for
dancing, the maps rolled and tied, the -desks and
blackboards stacked against the wall outside. Tea
was over, and the trestles and boards, whereon had
been spread better things than had been provided
for the unfortunate youngsters, had been taken out-
side to keep the desks and blackboards company.

On stools running end to end along one side of the

j6o A BUSH PAN* I .

room sat about twenty more or less blooming country
girls of from fifteen to twenty odd.

On the rest of the stools, running end to end
along the other wall, sat about twenty more or less
blooming chaps.

It was evident that something was seriously wrong.
None of the girls spoke above a hushed whisper.
None of the nun spoke above a hushed oath. Now
and again two or three sidled out, and if you had
followed them you would have found that they
went outside to listen hard into the darkness and to
swear.

' Tap, tap, tap.'

The rows moved uneasily, and some of the girls
turned paled faces nervously towards the side-door,
in the direction of the sound.

' Tap — tap.'

The tapping came from the kitchen at the rear of
the teacher's residence, and was uncomfortably
suggestive of a coffin being made : it was also
accompanied by a sickly, indescribable odour —
more like that of warm cheap glue than anything
else.

In the schoolroom was a painful scene of strained
listening. Whenever one of the men returned from
outside, or put his head in at the door, all eyes were
fastened on him in the flash of a single eye, and
then withdrawn hopelessly. At the sound of a
horse's step all eyes and ears were on the door,
till some one muttered, ' It's only the horses in
the paddock.'

Some of the girls' eyes began to glisten suspici-
ously, and at last the belle of the part)' — a great,

A BUSH DANCE. 261

dark-haired, pink-and-white Blue Mountain girl, who
had been sitting for a full minute staring before her,
with blue eyes unnaturally bright, suddenly covered
her face with her hands, rose, and started blindly
from the room, from which she was steered in a
hurry by two sympathetic and rather ' upset ' girl
friends, and as she passed out she was heard sobbing
hysterically —

'Oh, I can't help it! I did want to dance! It's
a sh-shame ! I can't help it ! I — I want to dance !
I rode twenty miles to dance — and — and I want to
dance ! '

A tall, strapping young Bushman rose, without
disguise, and followed the girl out. The rest began
to talk loudly of stock, dogs, and horses, and
other Bush things ; but above their voices rang
out that of the girl from the outside — being man
comforted —

1 1 can't help it, Jack ! I did want to dance ! I—
I had such — such — a job — to get mother — and — and
father to let me come — and — and now ! '

The two girl friends came back. ' He sez to leave
her to him,' they whispered, in reply to an interroga-
tory glance from the schoolmistress.

' It's — it's no use, Jack ! ' came the voice of grief.
' You don't know what — what father and mother — is.
I — I won't — be able — to ge-get away — again — for —
for — not till I'm married, perhaps.'

The schoolmistress glanced uneasily along the row
of girls. ' I'll take her into my room and make her
lie down,' she whispered to her sister, who was stay-
ing with her. ' She'll start some of the other girls
presently — it's just the weather for it,' and she passed

A BUSH DANCE.

out quietly. That schoolmistress was ;i woman of
penetration.

A final 'tap-tap' from the kitchen; thru a sound
like the squawk of a hurt or frightened child, and

the faces in the room turned quickly in that
direction and brightened. But there came a h.iii,:
and a sound like 'damn!' and hopelessness settled
down.

A shout from the outer darkness, and most of
the men and some of the girls rose and hurried
out. Fragments of conversation heard in the
darkness —

' It's two horses, I tell you ! '

' It's three, you ! '

' Lay you ! '

' Put the stuff up ! '

A clack of gate thrown open.

• Who is it, Tom ? '

Voices from gatewards, yelling, 'Johnny Mears !
They've got Johnny Mears ! '

Then rose yells, and a cheer such as is seldom
heard in scrub-lands.

Out in the kitchen long Dave Regan grabbed, from
the far side of the table, where he had thrown it, a
burst and battered concertina, which he had been for
the last hour vainly trying to patch and make air-
tight ; and, holding it out towards the back-door,
between his palms, as a football is held, he let it
drop, and fetched it neatly on the toe of his riding-
boot. It was a beautiful kick, the concertina shot
out into the blackness, from which was projected, in
return, first a short, sudden howl, then a face with
one eye glaring and the other covered by an enor-

A BUSH DANCE. 263

mous brick-coloured hand, and a voice that wanted
to know who shot ' that lurid loaf of bread ? '

But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free
voice of Joe Matthews, M.C., —

'Take yer partners! Hurry up! Take yer
partners ! They've got Johnny Mears with his
fiddle ! '

THE BUCK-JUMPER.

CATURDAY afternoon.

There were about a dozen Bush natives, from
anywhere, most of them lanky and easy-going,
hanging about the little slab -and -bark hotel on
the edge of the scrub at Capertee Camp (a team-
ster's camp) when Cob & Co.'s mail-coach and
six came dashing down the siding from round
Crown Ridge, in all its glory, to the end of the
twelve-mile stage. Some wiry, ill-used hacks were
hanging to the fence and to saplings about the
place. The fresh coach-horses stood ready in a
stock-yard close to the shanty. As the coach climbed
the nearer bank of the creek at the foot of the
ridge, six of the Bushmen detached themselves
from verandah posts, from their heels, from the
clay floor of the verandah and the rough slab wall
against which they'd been resting, and joined a
group of four or five who stood round one. He
stood with his back to the corner post of the
stock-yard, his feet well braced out in front of
him, and contemplated the toes of his tight new

nil-: BUCK-JUMP] R.

'lastic-side boots and whistled softly. He was a
clean-limbed, handsome fellow, with riding-cords,
1 rings, and a blue sash; he was Graeco-Roman-
nosed, blue-eyed, and his glossy, curly black hair
bunched up in front of the brim of a new cabbage-
tree hat, set well hack on his head.

■ Do n i< »r a quid, Jack ? ' asked one.

'Damned if I will, Jim!' said the young man
at the post. ' I'll do it for a fiver — not a blanky
-prat less.'

Jim took off his hat and 'shoved' it round, and
1 bobs ' were ' chucked ' into it. The result was
about thirty shillings.

Jack glanced contemptuously into the crown of
the hat.

' Not me ! ' he said, showing some emotion for
the first time. ' D'yer think I'm going to risk
me blanky neck for your blanky amusement for
thirty blanky bob. I'll ride the blanky horse for
a fiver, and I'll feel the blanky quids in my pocket
before I get on.'

Meanwhile the coach had dashed up to the door
of the shanty. There were about twenty pass-
engers aboard — inside, on the box-seat, on the
tail-board, and hanging on to the roof — most of
them Sydney men going up to the Mudgee races.
They got down and went inside with the driver
for a drink, while the stablemen changed horses.
The Bushmen raised their voices a little and
argued.

One of the passengers was a big, stout, hearty
man — a good -hearted, sporting man and a race-
horse-owner, according to his brands. He had a

THE BUCK-JUMPER. 267

round red face and a white cork hat. ' What's
those chaps got on outside ? ' he asked the
publican.

' Oh, it's a bet they've got on about riding a
horse,' replied the publican. 'The flash-looking
chap with the sash is Flash Jack, the horse-breaker ;
and they reckon they've got the champion outlaw
in the district out there — that chestnut horse in
the yard.'

The sporting man was interested at once, and
went out and joined the Bushmen.

' Well, chaps ! what have you got on here ? ' he
asked cheerily.

'Oh,' said Jim carelessly, 'it's only a bit of a
bet about ridin' that blanky chestnut in the corner
of the yard there.' He indicated an ungroomed
chestnut horse, fenced off by a couple of long
sapling poles in a corner of the stock-yard. ' Flash
Jack there — he reckons he's the champion horse-
breaker round here — Flash Jack reckons he can
take it out of that horse first try.'

' What's up with the horse ? ' inquired the big,
red -faced man. ' It looks quiet enough. Why,
I'd ride it myself.'

' Would yer ? ' said Jim, who had hair that stood
straight up, and an innocent, inquiring expression.
' Looks quiet, does he ? You ought to know more
about horses than to go by the looks of 'em. He's
quiet enough just now, when there's no one near
him ; but you should have been here an hour ago.
That horse has killed two men and put another
chap's shoulder out — besides breaking a cove's leg.
It took six of us all the morning to run him in and

268 THE BUCK-JUMPER.

the saddle on him; and now Flash Jack wants
to back out of it.'

'Euraliar!1 remarked Flash Jack cheerfully. 'I
said I'd ride that blanky horse out of the yard for a
fiver. I ain't goin' to risk my blank)' neck for noth-
ing and only to amuse you blanks.'

'He said he'd ride the horse inside the yard for a
quid/ said Jim.

'And get smashed against the rails!' said Flash
Jack. 'I would be a fool. I'd rather take my
chance outside in the scrub — and it's rough country
round here.'

' Well, how much do you want ? ' asked the man
in the mushroom hat.

'A fiver, I said,' replied Jack indifferently. 'And
the blank)- stuff in my pocket before I get on the
blank)- horse.'

' Are you frightened of us running away without
paying you ? ' inquired one of the passengers who had
gathered round.

'I'm frightened of the horse bolting with me with-
out me being paid,' said Flash Jack. ' I know that
horse; he's got a mouth like iron. I might be at
the bottom of the cliff on Crown Ridge road in twenty
minutes with my head caved in, and then what chance
for the quids ? '

'You wouldn't want 'em then,' suggested a pass-
enger. 'Or, say! — we'd leave the liver with the
publican to bury you.'

Flash Jack ignored that passenger. He eyed his
boots and softly whistled a tune.

' All right ! ' said the man in the cork hat, putting

THE BUCK-JUMPER. 269

his hand in his pocket. ' I'll start with a quid ;
stump up, you chaps.'

The five pounds were got together.

' I'll lay a quid to half a quid he don't stick on ten
minutes ! ' shouted Jim to his mates as soon as he
saw that the event was to come off. The passengers
also betted amongst themselves. Flash Jack, after
putting the money in his breeches-pocket, let down
the rails and led the horse into the middle of the
yard.

'Quiet as an old cow!' snorted a passenger in
disgust. ' I believe it's a sell ! '

'Wait a bit,' said Jim to the passenger, 'wait a
bit and you'll see.'

They waited and saw.

Flash Jack leisurely mounted the horse, rode
slowly out of the yard, and trotted briskly round the
corner of the shanty and into the scrub, which swal-
lowed him more completely than the sea might have
done.

Most of the other Bushmen mounted their
horses and followed Flash Jack to a clearing
in the scrub, at a safe distance from the
shanty ; then they dismounted and hung on to
saplings, or leaned against their horses, while
they laughed.

At the hotel there was just time for another drink.
The driver climbed to his seat and shouted, 'All
aboard ! ' in his usual tone. The passengers climbed
to their places, thinking hard. A mile or so along
the road the man with the cork hat remarked, with
much truth —

2;o THE BUCK-JUMPER.

'Those blanky Bushmen have got too much time
to think.1

The Bushmen returned to the shanty as soon as
tin- coach was out of sight, ami proceeded to ' knock
down' the fiver.

JIMMY GRIMSHAW'S WOOING.

HTHE Half-way House at Tinned Dog (Out-Back
in Australia) kept Daniel Myers — licensed to
retail spirituous and fermented liquors — in drink and
the horrors for upward of five years, at the end of
which time he lay hidden for weeks in a back skillion,
an object which no decent man would care to see —
or hear when it gave forth sound. ' Good accom-
modation for man and beast ' ; but few shanties save
his own might, for a consideration, have accommo-
dated the sort of beast which the man Myers had
become towards the end of his career. But at last
the eccentric Bush doctor, ' Doc' Wild ' (who per-
haps could drink as much as Myers without its
having any further effect upon his temperament
than to keep him awake and cynical), pronounced
the publican dead enough to be buried legally ; so
the widow buried him, had the skillion cleaned
Dut, and the sign altered to read, ' Margaret Myers,
licensed, &c.,' and continued to conduct the pub.
just as she had run it for over five years, with the
joyful and blessed exception that there was no

272 JIMMY GRIMSHAW S WOOING.

longer a human pig and pigstye attached, and that
the atmosphere was calm. Most of the regular
patrons of the Half-way House could have their
horrors decently, and, comparatively, quietly — or
otherwise have them privately — in the Big Scrub
adjacent ; but Myers had not been one of that
sort.

Mrs Myers settled herself to enjoy life comfortably
and happily, at the fixed age of thirty-nine, for the
next seven years or so. She was a pleasant-faced
dumpling, who had been baked solid in the droughts
of Out-Back without losing her good looks, and had
put up with a hard life, and Myers, all those years
without losing her good humour and nature. Prob-
ably, had her husband been the opposite kind of
man, she would have been different — haggard, bad-
tempered, and altogether impossible — for of such is
woman. But then it might be taken into considera-
tion that she had been practically a widow during
at least the last five years of her husband's alleged
life.

Mrs Myers was reckoned a good catch in the dis-
trict, but it soon seemed that she was not to be
caught.

' It would be a grand thing,' one of the periodical
boozers of Tinned Dog would say to his mates, ' for
one of us to have his name up on a pub.; it would
save a lot of money.'

' It wouldn't save you anything, Bill, if I got it,'
was the retort. ' You needn't come round chew-
ing my lug then. I'd give you one drink and no
more.'

The publican at Dead Camel, station managers,

JIMMY GRIMSHAW'S WOOING. 273

professional shearers, even one or two solvent squat-
ters and promising cockatoos, tried their luck in
vain. In answer to the suggestion that she ought
to have a man to knock round and look after things,
she retorted that she had had one, and was perfectly
satisfied. Few trav'lers on those tracks but tried
'a bit of bear-up' in that direction, but all to no
purpose. Chequemen knocked down their cheques
manfully at the Half-way House — to get courage
and goodwill and ' put it off ' till, at the last
moment, they offered themselves abjectly to the
landlady ; which was worse than bad judgment
on their part — it was very silly, and she told
them so.

One or two swore off, and swore to keep straight ;
but she had no faith in them, and when they
found that out, it hurt their feelings so much
that they ' broke out ' and went on record-break-
ing sprees.

About the end of each shearing the sign was
touched up, with an extra coat of paint on the
' Margaret,' whereat suitors looked hopeless.

One or two of the rejected died of love in the
horrors in the Big Scrub — anyway, the verdict was
that they died of love aggravated by the horrors.
But the climax was reached when a Queensland
shearer, seizing the opportunity when the mate,
whose turn it was to watch him, fell asleep,
went down to the yard and hanged himself on
the butcher's gallows — having first removed his
clothes, with some drink-lurid idea of leaving the
world as naked as he came into it. He climbed
the pole, sat astride on top, fixed the rope to

s

_\-.| JIMMY GRIMSHAW S WOOING.

neck and bar. but gave a yell — a yell of drunken
triumph — before he dropped, and woke his mates.

They cut him down and brought him to. Next
day he apologised to Mrs Myers, said, 'Ah, well!
So long!' to the rest, and departed — cured of drink
and love apparently. The verdict was that the
M .mky fool should have dropped before he yelled;
but she was upset and annoyed, and it began to
look as though, if she wished to continue to live on
happily and comfortably for a few years longer at
the fixed age of thirty-nine, she would either have to
give up the pub. or get married.

Her fame was carried far and wide, and she be-
came a woman whose name was mentioned with
respect in rough shearing-sheds and huts, and round
the camp-fire.

About thirty miles south of Tinned Dog one
James Grimshaw, widower — otherwise known as
' Old Jimmy,' though he was little past middle
age — had a small selection which he had wrorked,
let, given up, and tackled afresh (with sinews of war
drawn from fencing contracts) ever since the death
of his young wife some fifteen years agone. He was
a practical, square -faced, clean-shaven, clean, ai:d
tidy man, with a certain ' cleanness ' about the
shape of his limbs which suggested the old jockey
or hostler. There were two strong theories in
connection with Jimmy — one was that he had
had a university education, and the other that he
couldn't write his own name. Not nearly such a
ridiculous nor simple case Out-Back as it might
seem.

Jimmy smoked and listened without comment to

JIMMY GRIMSHAW'S WOOING. 275

the ' heard tells ' in connection with Mrs Myers, till
at last one night, at the end of his contract and over
a last pipe, he said quietly, ' I'll go up to Tinned
Dog next week and try my luck.'

His mates and the casual Jims and Bills were
taken too suddenly to laugh, and the laugh having
been lost, as Bland Holt, the Australian actor would
put it in a professional sense, the audience had
time to think, with the result that the joker swung
his hand down through an imaginary table and
exclaimed —

' By God ! Jimmy '11 do it.' (Applause.)

So one drowsy afternoon at the time of the year
when the breathless day runs on past 7 p.m., Mrs
Myers sat sewing in the bar parlour, when a clean-
shaved, clean - shirted, clean - neckerchiefed, clean-
moleskinned, greased-bluchered — altogether a model
or stage swagman came up, was served in the bar
by the half-caste female cook, and took his way to
the river - bank, where he rigged a small tent and
made a model camp.

A couple of hours later he sat on a stool on the
verandah, smoking a clean clay pipe. Just before
the sunset meal Mrs Myers asked, ' Is that trav'ler
there yet, Mary ? '

' Yes, missus. Clean pfellar that.'

The landlady knitted her forehead over her sewing,
as women do when limited for 'stuff or wondering
whether a section has been cut wrong — or perhaps
she thought of that other who hadn't been a ' clean
pfellar.' She put her work aside, and stood in the
doorway, looking out across the clearing.

JIMMY GRIMSHAW'S WOOING.

'G I day, mister,' she said, seeming to become
aware of him for the first time.

' Good-day, mi i us ! '

'Hot!'

'Hot!'

Pause.

'Trav'lin'?'

1 No, not particular ! '

She waited for him to explain. Myers was
always explaining when he wasn't raving. But the
swagman smoked on.

'Have a drink?' she suggested, to keep her end
up.

' No, thank yOu, missus. I had one an hour or so
ago. I never take more than two a-day — one before
breakfast, if I can get it, and a night-cap.'

What a contrast to Myers ! she thought.

' Come and have some tea; it's ready.'

' Thank you. I don't mind if I do.'

They got on very slowly, but comfortably. She
got little out of him except the facts that he had
a selection, had finished a contract, and was 'just
having a \odk at the country.' He politely declined
a ' shake-down,' saying he had a comfortable camp,
and preferred being out this weather. She got his
name with a ' by-the-way,' as he rose to leave, and
ho went back to camp.

He caught a cod, and they had it for breakfast
next morning, and got along so comfortable over
breakfast that he put in the forenoon pottering about
the gates and stable with a hammer, a saw, and a
box of nails.

And, well — to make it short — when the big Tinned

JIMMY GRIMSHAW S WOOING. 277

Dog shed had cut-out, and the shearers struck the
Half-way House, they were greatly impressed by a
brand-new sign whereon glistened the words —

HALF-WAY HOUSE HOTEL,

BY

JAMES GRIMSHAW.
GOOD STABLrXG.

The last time I saw Mrs Grimshaw she looked
about thirty-live.

AT DEAD DINGO.

TT was blazing hot outside and smothering hot
inside the weather-board and iron shanty at
Dead Dingo, a place on the Cleared Road, where
there was a pub. and a police-station, and which
was sometimes called ' Roasted,' and other times
' Potted Dingo ' — nicknames suggested by the ever-
lasting drought and the vicinity of the one-pub.
township of Tinned Dog.

From the front verandah the scene was straight-
cleared road, running right and left to Out- Back,
and to Bourke (and ankle-deep in the red sand dust
for perhaps a hundred miles) ; the rest blue-grey
bush, dust, and the heat-wave blazing across every
object.

There were only four in the bar-room, though it
was New Year's Day. There weren't many more in
the county. The girl sat behind the bar — the
coolest place in the shanty — reading ' Deadwood
Dick.' On a worn and torn and battered horse-hair
sofa, which had seen cooler places and better days,
lay an awful and healthy example, a bearded swag-

A r i'l \m DINGO.

man, with his aims twisted over his head and his
face to the wall, sleeping off the death of the dead
drunk. Bill ami Jim — shearer and rouseabout — sat
at a table playing cards. It was about three o'clock
in the afternoon, and they had been gambling since
nine — and the greater part of the night before — so
they were, probably, in a worse condition morally
(and perhaps physically) than the drunken swagman
on the sofa.

Close under the bar, in a dangerous place for his
legs and tail, lay a sheep-dog with a chain attached
to his collar and wound round his neck.

Presently a thump on the table, and Bill, unlucky
gambler, rose with an oath that would have been
savage if it hadn't been drawled.

' Stumped ? ' inquired Jim.

' Not a blanky, lurid deener ! ' drawled Bill.

Jim drew his reluctant hands from the cards, his
eyes went slowly and hopelessly round the room and
out the door. There was something in the eyes of
both, except when on the card-table, of the look of a
man waking in a strange place.

' Got anything ? ' asked Jim, fingering the cards
again.

Bill sucked in his cheeks, collecting the saliva
with difficulty, and spat out on to the verandah
floor.

'That's all I got,' he drawled. ' It's gone now.'

Jim leaned back in his chair, twisted, yawned, and
caught sight of the dog.

' That there dog yours ? ' he asked, brightening.

They had evidently been strangers the day before,
or as strange to each other as Bushmen can be.

AT DEAD DINGO. 281

Bill scratched behind his ear, and blinked
at the dog. The dog woke suddenly to a flea
fact.

'Yes,' drawled Bill, 'he's mine.'

'Well, I'm going Out-Back, and I want a dog,'
said Jim, gathering the cards briskly. ' Half a quid
agin the dog ? '

' Half a quid be ! ' drawled Bill. ' Call it a

quid ? '

' Half a blanky quid ! '

' A gory, lurid quid ! ' drawled Bill desperately,
and he stooped over his swag.

But Jim's hands were itching in a ghastly way
over the cards.

' Alright. Call it a quid.'

The drunkard on the sofa stirred, showed signs of
waking, but died again. Remember this, it might
come in useful.

Bill sat down to the table once more.

Jim rose first, winner of the dog. He stretched,
yawned ' Ah, well ! ' and shouted drinks. Then he
shouldered his swag, stirred the dog up with his
foot, unwound the chain, said ' Ah, well — so long ! '
and drifted out and along the road toward Out-Back,
the dog following with head and tail down.

Bill scored another drink on account of girl-pity
for bad luck, shouldered his swag, said, 'So long,
Mary ! ' and drifted out and along the road towards
Tinned Dog, on the Bourkc side.

A long, drowsy, half hour passed — the sort of
half hour that is as long as an hour in the
places where days are as long as years, and

A l DEAD DINGO.

years hold about as much as days do in other
places.

The man on the sofa woke with a start, and
I-,, knl scared and wild for a moment; then he
brought his dusty broken hoots to the Boor, rested

his elhows on his knees, took his unfortunate
head between his hands, and came back to life
gradually.

He lifted his head, looked at the girl across the
top of the bar, and formed with his lips, rather than
spoke, the words —

' Put up a drink ? ' x

She shook her head tightly and went on reading.

lie staggered up, and, leaning on the bar, made
desperate distress signals with hand, eyes, and
mouth.

' No ! ' she snapped. ' I means no when I says
no! You've had too many last drinks already,
and the boss says you ain't to have another.
If you swear again, or bother me, I'll call
him.'

He hung sullenly on the counter for a while, then
lurched to his swag, and shouldered it hopelessly
and wearily. Then he blinked round, whistled,
waited a moment, went on to the front verandah,
peered round, through the heat, with bloodshot
eyes, and whistled again. He turned and started
through to the back-door.

' What the devil do you want now ? ' demanded
the girl, interrupted in her reading for the third
time by him. ' Stampin' all over the house. You

1 'Put up a drink' — i.e., 'Give me a drink on credit,' or 'Chalk
it up.'

AT DEAD DINGO. 283

can't go through there ! It's privit ! I do wish
to goodness you'd git ! '

' Where the blazes is that there dog o' mine got
to ? ' he muttered. ' Did you see a dog ? '

' No ! What do I want with your dog ? '

He whistled out in front again, and round each
corner. Then he came back with a decided step
and tone.

' Look here ! that there dog was lyin' there agin
the wall when I went to sleep. He wouldn't stir
from me, or my swag, in a year, if he wasn't
dragged. He's been blanky well touched [stolen],
and I wouldn'ter lost him for a fiver. Are you
sure you ain't seen a dog ? ' then suddenly, as the
thought struck him : ' Where's them two chaps
that was playin' cards when I wenter sleep ? '

' Why ! ' exclaimed the girl, without thinking,
'there was a dog, now I come to think of it, but
I thought it belonged to one of them chaps. Any-
way, they played for it, and the other chap won it
and took it away.'

He stared at her blankly, with thunder gathering
in the blankness.

' What sort of a dog was it ? '

Dog described ; the chain round the neck settled it.

He scowled at her darkly.

' Now, look here,' he said ; ' you've allowed
gamblin' in this bar — your boss has. You've got
no right to let spielers gamble away a man's dog.
Is a customer to lose his dog every time he has a
doze to suit your boss? I'll go straight across to
the police camp and put you away, and I don't
care if you lose your licence. I ain't goin' to lose

AT DEAD PINGO.

my d . I wouldn'ter taken a ten-pound note for
blanky dog ! I '

She was filling a pewter hastily.

'II God's sake have a drink an' stop

\ i r row.'

He drank with satisfaction. Then he hung on the
bar with one elbow and scowled out the door.

'Which blanky way did them chaps go?' he
growled.

' The one that took the dog went towards Tinned
Dog/ .

' And I'll haveter go all the blanky way back after
him, and most likely lose me shed ! Here ! ' jerking
the empty pewter across the bar, ' fill that up again ;
I'm narked properly, I am, and I'll take twenty-four
blanky hours to cool down now. I wouldn'ter lost
that dog for twenty quid.'

He drank again with deeper satisfaction, then he
shuffled out, muttering, swearing, and threatening
louder every step, and took the track to Tinned
Doer.

Now the man, girl, or woman, who told me this
yarn has never quite settled it in his or her mind
as to who really owned the dog. I leave it to you.

TELLING MRS BAKER.

]\ /T OST Bushmen who hadn't ' known Bob Baker
to speak to,' had 'heard tell of him.' He'd
been a squatter, not many years before, on the Mac-
quarie river in New South Wales, and had made
money in the good seasons, and had gone in for
horse-racing and racehorse-breeding, and long trips
to Sydney, where he put up at swell hotels and went
the pace. So after a pretty severe drought, when
the sheep died by thousands on his runs, Bob Baker
went under, and the bank took over his station and
put a manager in charge.

He'd been a jolly, open-handed, popular man,
which means that he'd been a selfish man as far as
his wife and children were concerned, for they had
to suffer for it in the end. Such generosity is often
born of vanity, or moral cowardice, or both mixed.
It's very nice to hear the chaps sing ' For he's a jolly
good fellow,' but you've mostly got to pay for it
twice — first in company, and afterwards alone. I
once heard the chaps singing that I was a jolly good
fellow, when I was leaving a place and they were

286 I i I I IN''. MRS BAKER.

giving me a send-off. It thrilled me, and broughl a
warm gush to my eyes; but, all the same, I wished
I had half the money V6 lent them, and spent on

'em, and I wished I'd used the time I'd wasted to
he a jolly good fellow.

When I first nut Bob Baker he was a boss-drowr
on the great north-western route, and his wife lived
at the township of Solong on the Sydney side. He
was going north to new country round by the Gulf
of Carpentaria, with a big mob of cattle, on a two
years' trip; and I and my mate, Andy M'Culloch,
engaged to go with him. We wanted to have a look
at the Gulf Country.

After we had crossed the Queensland border it
seemed to me that the Boss was too fond of going
into wayside shanties and town pubs. Andy had
been with him on another trip, and he told me that
the Boss was only going this way lately. Andy
knew Mrs Baker well, and seemed to think a deal of
her. ' She's a good little woman,' said Andy. ' One
of the right stuff. I worked on their station for a
while when I was a nipper, and I know. She was
always a damned sight too good for the Boss, but
she believed in him. When I was coming away this
time she says to me, " Look here, Andy, I'm afraid
Robert is drinking again. Now I want you to look
after him for me, as much as you can — you seem to
have as much influence with him as any one. I
want you to promise me that you'll never have a
drink with him."

'And I promised,' said Andy, 'and I'll keep my
word.' Andy was a chap who could keep his word,
and nothing else. And, no matter how the Boss

TELLING MRS BAKER. 287

persuaded, or sneered, or swore at him, Andy would
never drink with him.

It got worse and worse : the Boss would ride on
ahead and get drunk at a shanty, and sometimes
he'd be days behind us ; and when he'd catch up to
us his temper would be just about as much as we
could stand. At last he went on a howling spree at
Mulgatown, about a hundred and fifty miles north
of the border, and, what was worse, he got in tow
with a flash barmaid there — one of those girls who
are engaged, by the publicans up country, as baits
for chequemen.

He went mad over that girl. He drew an advance
cheque from the stock - owner's agent there, and
knocked that down ; then he raised some more
money somehow, and spent that — mostly on the
girl.

We did all we could. Andy got him along the
track for a couple of stages, and just when we
thought he was all right, he slipped us in the night
and went back.

We had two other men with us, but had the devil's
own bother on account of the cattle. It was a mixed-
up job all round. You see it was all big runs round
there, and we had to keep the bullocks moving along
the route all the time, or else get into trouble for
trespass. The agent wasn't going to go to the ex-
pense of putting the cattle in a paddock until the
Boss sobered up ; there was very little grass on the
route or the travelling-stock reserves or camps, so
we had to keep travelling for grass.

The world might wobble and all the banks go
bung, but the cattle have to go through — that's the

288 l l M ING MRS B \i.i ic.

law of the stock-routes. So the agent wired to the
owmrs, ami. when he got their reply, he sacked the
1 '• 5s and sent the cattle on in charge of another
man. The new Boss was a drover coming south

aft< r a nip ; In' had his two brothers with him, so he
didn't want me and Andy; hut, anyway, we were
full up of this trip, so we arranged, between the agent
and the new Boss, to get most of the wages (]\\c to
us— the B< iSS had drawn some of our stuff and spent it.

We could have started on the hack track at once,
but, drunk or sober, mad or sane, good or bad, it
isn't Bush religion to desert a mate in a hole; and
the l>oss was a mate of ours ; so we stuck to him.

We camped on the creek, outside the town, and
kept him in the cam]-) with us as much as possible,
and did all we could for him.

' How could I face his wife if I went home without
him ? ' asked Andy, ' or any of his old mates ? '

The Boss got himself turned out of the pub. where
the barmaid was, and then he'd hang round the
other pubs., and get drink somehow, and fight, and
get knocked about. He was an awful object by
this time, wild-eyed and gaunt, and he hadn't washed
or shaved for days.

Andy got the constable in charge of the police
station to lock him up for a night, but it only made
him worse : we took him back to the camp next
morning, and while our eyes were off him for a few
minutes he slipped away into the scrub, stripped
himself naked, and started to hang himself to a
leaning tree with a piece of clothes-line rope. We
got to him just in time.

Then Andy wired to the Boss's brother Ned, who

TELLING MRS BAKER. 2S9

was fighting the drought, the rabbit-pest, and the
banks, on a small station back on the border. Andy
reckoned it was about time to do something.

Perhaps the Boss hadn't been quite right in his
head before he started drinking — he had acted queer
some time, now we came to think of it ; maybe he'd
got a touch of sunstroke or got brooding over his
troubles — anyway he died in the horrors within the
week.

His brother Ned turned up on the last day, and
Bob thought he was the devil, and grappled with
him. It took the three of us to hold the Boss down
sometimes.

Sometimes, towards the end, he'd be sensible for
a few minutes and talk about his ' poor wife and
children ' ; and immediately afterwards he'd fall
a-cursing me, and Andy, and Ned, and calling us
devils. He cursed everything ; he cursed his wife
and children, and yelled that they were dragging
him down to hell. He died raving mad. It was
the worst case of death in the horrors of drink that
I ever saw or heard of in the Bush.

Ned saw to the funeral : it was very hot weather,
and men have to be buried quick who die out there
in the hot weather — especially men who die in the
state the Boss was in. Then Ned went to the
public-house where the barmaid was and called the
landlord out. It was a desperate fight : the publican
was a big man, and a bit of a fighting man ; but Ned
was one of those quiet, simple-minded chaps who
will carry a thing through to death when they make
up their minds. He gave that publican nearly as
good a thrashing as he deserved. The constable in

T

20.0 'liii ING MRS BAKER.

charge of the station backed N< d, while another
policeman picked up the publican. Sounds queer
to you city people, doesn't it ?

Next morning we three started south. We stayed
a couple of days at Ned Baker's station on the
border, and then started on our threc-hundred-mile
ride down-country. The weather was still very hot,
so we decided to travel at night for a while, and left
Ned's, place at dusk. He parted from us at the
homestead gate. He gave Andy a small packet,
done up in canvas, for Mrs Baker, which Andy told
me contained Bob's pocket-book, letters, and papers.
We looked back, after we'd gone a piece along the
dusty road, and saw Ned still standing by the gate;
and a very lonely figure he looked. Ned was a
bachelor. ' Poor old Ned,' said Andy to me. ' He
was in love with Mrs Bob Baker before she got
married, but she picked the wrong man — girls
mostly do. Ned and Bob were together on the
Macquarie, but Ned left when his brother married,
and he's been up in these God-forsaken scrubs ever
since. Look, I want to tell you something, Jack :
Ned has written to Mrs Bob to tell her that Bob
died of fever, and everything was done for him that
could be done, and that he died easy — and all that
sort of thing. Ned sent her some money, and she
is to think that it was the money due to Bob when
he died. Now I'll have to go and see her when we
get to Solong ; there's no getting out of it, I'll have
to face her — and you'll have to come with me.'

' Damned if I will ! ' I said.

' But you'll have to,' said Andy. ' You'll have to
stick to me ; you're surely not crawler enough to

TELLING MRS BAKER. 20,1

desert a mate in a case like this ? I'll have to lie
like hell — I'll have to lie as I never lied to a woman
before; and you'll have to back me and corroborate
every lie.'

I'd never seen Andy show so much emotion.

' There's plenty of time to fix up a good yarn,'
said Andy. He said no more about Mrs Baker, and
we only mentioned the Boss's name casually, until
we were within about a day's ride of Solong ; then
Andy told me the yarn he'd made up about the
Boss's death.

'And I want you to listen, Jack,' he said, 'and
remember every word — and if you can fix up a
better yarn you can tell me afterwards. Now it
was like this : the Boss wasn't too well when he
crossed the border. He complained of pains in his
back and head and a stinging pain in the back of his
neck, and he had dysentery bad, — but that doesn't
matter ; it's lucky I ain't supposed to tell a woman
all the symptoms. The Boss stuck to the job as
long as he could, but we managed the cattle and
made it as easy as we could for him. He'd just
take it easy, and ride on from camp to camp, and
rest. One night I rode to a town off the route (or
you did, if you like) and got some medicine for him ;
that made him better for a while, but at last, a day
or two this side of Mulgatown, he had to give up.
A squatter there drove him into town in his buggy
and put. him up at the best hotel. The publican
knew the Boss and did all he could for him — put
him in the best room and wired for another doctor.
We wired for Ned as soon as we saw how bad the
Boss was, and Ned rode night and day and got there

2Q- Ti I LING MRS BAKER.

three days before the Boss died. The Boss was a
bit off his head some of the time with the fever, but
was calm and quiet towards the end and died easy.
llr talked a lot aboul his wife and children, and
told us to tell the wife not to fret but to cheer up
for the children's sake. How dor-, that sound? '

I'd been thinking while I listened, and an idea
struck me.

'Why not let her know the truth?' I asked.
She's sure to hear of it sooner or later; and if she
knew he was only a selfish, drunken blackguard she
might get over it all the sooner.'

' You don't know women, Jack,' said Andy quietly.
'And, anyway, even if she is a sensible woman,
we've got a dead mate to consider as well as a
living woman.'

' But she's sure to hear the truth sooner or later,'
I said, ' the Boss was so well known.'

'And that's just the reason why the truth might
be kept from her,' said Andy. ' If he wasn't well
known — and nobody could help liking him, after all,
when he was straight — if he wasn't so well known
the truth might leak out unawares. She won't
know if I can help it, or at least not yet a while.
If I see any chaps that come from the North I'll
put them up to it. I'll tell M'Grath, the publican
at Solong, too : he's a straight man — he'll keep his
ears open and warn chaps. One of Mrs Baker's
sisters is staying with her, and I'll give her a hint
so that she can warn off any women that might
get hold of a yarn. Besides, Mrs Baker is sure to
go and live in Sydney, where all her people are —
she was a Sydney- girl; and she's not likely to meet

TELLING MRS BAKER. 2Q3

any one there that will tell her the truth. I can
tell her that it was the last wish of the Boss that
she should shift to Sydney.'

We smoked and thought a while, and by-and-by
Andy had what he called a ' happy thought.' He
went to his saddle-bags and got out the small canvas
packet that Ned had given him r it was sewn up
with packing-thread, and Andy ripped it open with
his pocket-knife.

' What are you doing, Andy ? ' I asked.

' Ned's an innocent old fool, as far as sin is
concerned,' said Andy, ' I guess he hasn't looked
through the Boss's letters, and I'm just going to see
that there's nothing here that will make liars of us.'

He looked through the letters and papers by the
light of the fire. There were some letters from Mrs
Baker to her husband, also a portrait of her and the
children ; these Andy put aside. But there were
other letters from barmaids and women who were
not fit to be seen in the same street with the Boss's
wife; and there were portraits— one or two flash
ones. There were two letters from other men's
wives too.

' And one of those men, at least, was an old mate
of his ! ' said Andy, in a tone of disgust.

He threw the lot into the fire ; then he went
through the Boss's pocket-book and tore out some
leaves that had notes and addresses on them, and
burnt them too. Then he sewed up the packet
again and put it away in his saddle-bag.

' Such is life! ' said Andy, with a yawn that might
have been half a sigh.

We rode into Solong early in the day, turned our

II I I [NG MRS B m.i R.

horses out in a paddock, and put up at M'Grath's
pub. until such time as we made up our minds as
to what we'd do or where we'd go. We had an
idea of waiting until the shearing m started

and then making Out-Back to the big sheds.

Neither of us was in a hurry to go and face Mrs
Baker. 'We'll dinner,' said And)- at first;

then after dinner we had a drink, and felt sleepy —
we weren't used to big dinners of roast-beef and
vegetables and pudding, and, besides, it was drowsy
weather — so wc decided to have a snooze and then
go. When we woke up it was late in the afternoon,
so wc thought we'd put it off till after tea. ' It
wouldn't be manners to walk in while they're at
tea,' said Andy — ' it would look as if we only came
for some grub.'

But while we were at tea a little girl came with
a message that Mrs Baker wanted to see us, and
would be very much obliged if we'd call up as
soon as possible. You see, in those small towrns
you can't move without the thing getting round
inside of half an hour.

' We'll have to face the music now ! ' said Andy,
'and no get out of it.' He seemed to hang back
more than I did. There was another pub. opposite
where Mrs Baker lived, and when we got up the
street a bit I said to Andy —

' Suppose we go and have another drink first,
Andy? We might be kept in there an hour or
two.'

' You don't want another drink,' said Andy, rather
short. ' Why, you seem to be going the same way
as the Boss ! ' But it was Andy that edged off to-

TELLING MRS BAKER. 295

wards the pub. when we got near Mrs Baker's place.
' All right ! ' he said. ' Come on ! We'll have this
other drink, since you want it so bad.'

We had the drink, then we buttoned up our coats
and started across the road — we'd bought new shirts
and collars, and spruced up a bit. Half-way across
Andy grabbed my arm and asked —

' How do you feel now, Jack ? '

' Oh, Vm all right,' I said.

'For God's sake!' said And)', 'don't put your
foot in it and make a mess of it.'

1 1 won't, if you don't.'

Mrs Baker's cottage was a little weather-board
box affair back in a garden. When we went in
through the gate Andy gripped my arm again
and whispered —

' For God's sake stick to me now, Jack ! '

'I'll stick all right,' I said — 'you've been having
too much beer, Andy.'

I had seen Mrs Baker before, and remembered
her as a cheerful, contented sort of woman, bustling
about the house and getting the Boss's shirts and
things ready when we started North. Just the sort
of woman that is contented with housework and the
children, and with nothing particular about her in
the way of brains. But now she sat by the fire
looking like the ghost of herself. I wouldn't have
recognised her at first. I never saw such a change
in a woman, and it came like a shock to me.

Her sister let us in, and after a first glance at
Mrs Baker I had eyes for the sister and no one else.
She was a Sydney girl, about twenty-four or twenty-
five, and fresh and fair — not like the sun-browned

TOLLING MRS BAKER.

women we were used to sit. She was a pretty,

ht-eyed girl, and seemed quick to underst
and very sympathetic. She had been educated,
Andy had told me, and wrote stories for the Sydney

'Bulletin' and otlnr Sydiuy papers. Shu had her
hair done and was dressed in the city style, and that
took ns back a bit at first.

' It's very good of you to come,' said Mrs 1
in a weak, weary voice, when we first went in. ' I
heard you were in town.'

' We were just coming when we got your mess-
age,' said Andy. ' We'd have come before, only
we had to see to the horses.'

' It's very kind of you, I'm sure,' said Mrs Baker.

They wanted us to have tea, but we said we'd
just had it. Then Miss Standish (the sister) wanted
us to have tea and cake ; but we didn't feel as if we
could handle cups and saucers and pieces of cake
successfully just then.

There was something the matter with one of the
children in a back-room, and the sister went to see
to it. Mrs Baker cried a little quietly.

' You musn't mind me,' she said. ' I'll be all
right presently, and then I want you to tell me all
about poor Bob. It's seeing you, that saw the last
of him, that set me off.'

Andy and I sat stiff and straight, on two chairs
against the wall, and held our hats tight, and stared
at a picture of Wellington meeting Blucher on the
opposite wall. I thought it was lucky that that
picture was there.

The child was calling ' murnma,' and Mrs Baker
went in to it, and her sister came out. ' Best tell

TELLING MRS BAKER. 2Q7

her all about it and get it over,' she whispered to
Andy. ' She'll never be content until she hears
all about poor Bob from some one who was with
him when he died. Let me take your hats. Make
yourselves comfortable.'

She took the hats and put them on the sewing-
machine. I wished she'd let us keep them, for now
we had nothing to hold on to, and nothing to do
with our hands ; and as for being comfortable, we
were just about as comfortable as two cats on wet
bricks.

When Mrs Baker came into the room she brought
little Bobby Baker, about four years old ; he wanted
to see Andy. He ran to Andy at once, and Andy
took him up on his knee. He was a pretty child,
but he reminded me too much of his father.

f I'm so glad you've come, Andy ! ' said Bobby.

1 Are you, Bobby ? '

' Yes. I wants to ask you about daddy. You
saw him go away, didn't you ? ' and he fixed his
great wondering eyes on Andy's face.

' Yes,' said Andy.

' He went up among the stars, didn't he ? '

' Yes,' said Andy.

' And he isn't coming back to Bobby any more ? '

' No,' said Andy. ' But Bobby's going to him by-
and-by.'

Mrs Baker had been leaning back in her chair,
resting her head on her hand, tears glistening in
her eyes ; now she began to sob, and her sister
took her out of the room.

Andy looked miserable. ' I wish to God I was
off this job ! ' he whispered to me.

l I M [NG MRS BAR] R.

' N thai the girl that writes the stories?' I asked.

■ Yi -." he said, staring at me in a hopeless sort
oi way, ' and poems too.'

'Is Bobby going up among the stars?' asked
Bobby.

' Yes,' said Andy — ' if Bobby's good.'

' And auntie ? '

• Yes.'

' And mumma ? '
' Yes.'

' Are you going, Andy ? '
' Yes,' said Andy hopelessly.

' Did you see daddy go up amongst the stars,
Andy ? ' '

• Y s,' said Andy, ' I saw him go up.'

' And he isn't coming down again any more ? '

'No,' said Andy.

' Why isn't he ? '

' Because he's going to wait up there for you
and mumma, Bobby.'

There was a long pause, and then Bobby asked —

' Are you going to give me a shilling, Andy ? '
with the same expression of innocent wonder in
his eyes.

Andy slipped half-a- crown into his hand.
'Auntie' came in and told him he'd see Andy in
the morning and took him away to bed, after he'd
kissed us both solemnly ; and presently she and
Mrs Baker settled down to hear Andy's story.

' Brace up now, Jack, and keep your wits about
you,' whispered Andy to me just before they
came in.

' Poor Bob's brother Ned wrote to me,' said Mrs

TELLING MRS BAKER. 20,0,

Baker, ' but he scarcely told me anything. Ned's
a good fellow, but he's very simple, and never
thinks of anything.'

Andy told her about the Boss not being well
after he crossed the border.

' I knew he was not well,' said Mrs Baker,
'before he left. I didn't want him to go. I tried
hard to persuade him not to go this trip. I had
a feeling that I oughtn't to let him go. But he'd
never think of anything but me and the children.
He promised he'd give up droving after this trip,
and get something to do near home. The life
was too much for him — riding in all weathers and
camping out in the rain, and living like a dog.
But he was never content at home. It was all
for the sake of me and the children. He wanted
to make money and start on a station again. I
shouldn't have let him go. He only thought of
me and the children ! Oh ! my poor, • dear, kind,
dead husband ! ' She broke down again and sobbed,
and her sister comforted her, while Andy and I
stared at Wellington meeting Blucher on the field
of Waterloo. I thought the artist had heaped up
the dead a bit extra, and I thought that I
wouldn't like to be trod on by horses, even if I
was dead.

'Don't you mind,' said Miss Standish, 'she'll be
all right presently,' and she handed us the ' Illus-
trated Sydney Journal.' This was a great relief,
— we bumped our heads over the pictures.

Mrs Baker made Andy go on again, and he told
her how the Boss broke down near Mulgatown.
Mrs Baker was opposite him and Miss Standish

1 . I : !..; MRS B '.: I R.

ite me. Both of thi m kept their eye s 1 »n
Andy's face: he sat, with his hair straight up
like a brush as usual, and kept his big innocent
grey eyes fixed on Mrs Baker's face all the time
he was speaking. 1 watched Mi>s Standish. I
thought she was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen;
it was a bad case "f love at first sight, hut she
far ami away above me, and the case was
hopeless. I began to feel pretty miserable, and
to think hack into the past: I just heard Andy
droning away by my side.

'So we fixed him up comfortable in the wag-
gonette with the blankets and coats and things,'
Andy was saying, ' and the squatter started into
Mulgatown. ... It was about thirty miles, Jack,
wasn't it ? ' he asked, turning suddenly to me. He
always looked so innocent that there were times
when I itched to knock him down.

' More like thirty-five,' I said, waking up.

Miss Standish fixed her eyes on me, and I had
another look at Wellington and Blucher.

' They were all very good and kind to the Boss,'
said Andy. ' They thought a lot of him up there.
Everybody was fond of him.'

' I know it,' said Mrs Baker. 'Nobody could
help liking him. He was one of the kindest men
that ever lived.'

'Tanner, the publican, couldn't have been kinder
to his own brother,' said Andy. ' The local doctor
was a decent chap, but he was only a young
fellow, and Tanner hadn't much faith in him, so
he wired for an older doctor at Mackintyre, and
he even sent out fresh horses to meet the doctor's

TELLING MRS BAKER. 301

buggy. Everything was done that could be done,
I assure you, Mrs Baker.'

'I believe it,' said Mrs Baker. 'And you don't
know how it relieves me to hear it. And did the
publican do all this at his own expense?'

' He wouldn't take a penny, Mrs Baker.'

' He must have been a good true man. I wish
I could thank him.'

'Oh, Ned thanked him for you,' said Andy,
though without meaning more than he said.

' I wouldn't have fancied that Ned would have
thought of that,' said Mrs Baker. ' When I first
heard of my poor husband's death, I thought
perhaps he'd been drinking again - that worried
me a bit.'

' He never touched a drop after he left Solong,
I can assure you, Mrs Baker,' said Andy quickly.

Now I noticed that Miss Standish seemed sur-
prised or puzzled, once or twice, while Andy was
speaking, and leaned forward to listen to him ;
then she leaned back in her chair and clasped her
hands behind her head and looked at him, with
half-shut eyes, in a way I didn't like. Once or
twice she looked at me as if she was going to
ask me a question, but I always looked away quick
and stared at Blucher and Wellington, or into the
empty fireplace, till I felt that her eyes were off
me. Then she asked Andy a question or two, in
all innocence I believe now, but it scared him,
and at last he watched his chance and winked at
her sharp. Then she gave a little gasp and shut
up like a steel trap.

The sick child in the bedroom couched and cried

3 >3 TELl INT, MRS BAKER.

again. Mrs Baker went to it. We throe sat like a
deaf-and-dumb institution, Andy and I staring all
over the place: presently Miss Standish excused
herself, and wont out of the room after her sister.

She looked hard at Andy as she left the room, but
he kept his eyes aw ay.

' Brace up now, Jack,' whispered Andy to me,
'the worst is coming.'

When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy
go on with his story.

' He — he died very quietly,' said Andy, hitching
round, and resting his elbows on his knees, and
looking into the fireplace so as to have his face away
from the light. Miss Standish put her arm round
her sister. ' He died very easy,' said Andy. ' He
was a bit off his head at times, but that was while
the fever was on him. He didn't suffer much
towards the end — I don't think he suffered at all.
. . . He talked a lot about you and the children.'
(Andy was speaking very softly now.) ' He said
that you were not to fret, but to cheer up for the
children's sake. ... It was the biggest funeral ever
seen round there.'

Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the
packet half out of his pocket, but shoved it back
again.

' The only thing that hurts me now,' says Mrs
Baker presently, ' is to think of my poor hus-
band buried out there in the lonely Bush, so far
from home. It's — cruel!' and she was sobbing
again.

' Oh, that's all riyht, Mrs Baker,' said Andy, losing
his head a little. ' Ned will see to that. Ned is

TELLING MRS BAKER. 303

going to arrange to have him brought down and
buried in Sydney.' Which was about the first thing
Andy had told her that evening that wasn't a lie.
Ned had said he would do it as soon as he sold
his wool.

' It's very kind indeed of Ned,' sobbed Mrs Baker.
' I'd never have dreamed he was so kind-hearted and
thoughtful. I misjudged him all along. And that is
all you have to tell me about poor Robert ? '

' Yes,' said Andy — then one of his ' happy
thoughts ' struck him. ' Except that he hoped
you'd shift to Sydney, Mrs Baker, where you've got
friends and relations. He thought it would be better
for you and the children. He told me to tell you
that.'

' He was thoughtful up to the end,' said Mrs
Baker. ' It was just like poor Robert — always
thinking of me and the children. We are going to
Sydney next week.'

Andy looked relieved. We talked a little more,
and Miss Standish wanted to make coffee for us,
but we had to go and see to our horses. We got
up and bumped against each other, and got each
other's hats, and promised Mrs Baker we'd come
again.

' Thank you very much for coming,' she said,
shaking hands with us. ' I feel much better now.
You don't know how much you have relieved me.
Now, mind, you have promised to come and see me
again for the last time.'

Andy caught her sister's eye and jerked his head
towards the door to let her know he wanted to speak
to her outside.

I l ELLING MRS BAKER.

• G id bye, Mrs Baker,1 he said, holding on to her
hand. 'And don't you fret. You've — you've go1
the children yet. It's—it's all for the best; and,
besides, the Boss said you wasn't to fret.' And he
blundered out after me and Miss Standish.

She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave
her the packet.

' I want you to give that to her,' he said ; ' it's his
letters and papers. I hadn't the heart to give it to
her, somehow.'

'Tell me, Mr M'Culloch,' she said. 'You've kept
something back — you haven't told her the truth. It
would be better and safer for me to know. Was it
an accident — or the drink ? '

' It was the drink,' said Andy. ' I was going to
tell you — I thought it would be best to tell you. I
had made up my mind to do it, but, somehow, I
couldn't have done it if you hadn't asked me.'

' Tell me all,' she said. ' It would be better for me
to know.'

' Come a little farther away from the house,' said
Andy. She came along the fence a piece with us,
and Andy told her as much of the truth as he
could.

' I'll hurry her off to Sydney,' she said. ' We can
get away this week as well as next.' Then she stood
for a minute before us, breathing quickly, her hands
behind her back and her eyes shining in the moon-
light. She looked splendid.

' I want to thank you for her sake,' she said
quickly. ' You are good men ! I like the Bushmen !
They are grand men — they are noble! I'll probably
never see either of you again, so it doesn't matter,'

TELLING MRS BAKER. 305

and she put her white hand on Andy's shoulder and
kissed him fair and square on the mouth. ' And
you, too ! ' she said to me. I was taller than Andy,
and had to stoop. ' Good-bye ! ' she said, and ran
to the gate and in, waving her hand to us. We lifted
our hats again and turned down the road.
I don't think it did either of us any harm.

A HERO IN DINGO-SCRUBS.

""PHIS is a story — about the only one — of Job
Falconer, Boss of the Talbragar sheep-station
up country in New South Wales in the early Eighties
— when there were still runs in the Dingo - Scrubs
out of the hands of the banks, and yet squatters who
lived on their stations.

Job would never tell the story himself, at least not
complete, and as his family grew up he would
become as angry as it was in his easy-going nature
to become if reference were made to the incident in
his presence. But his wife — little, plump,, bright-
eyed Gerty Falconer — often told the story (in the
mysterious voice which women use in speaking of
private matters amongst themselves — but with bright-
ening eyes) to women friends over tea ; and always
to a new woman friend. And on such occasions she
would be particularly tender towards the unconscious
Job, and ruffle his thin, sandy hair in a way that
embarrassed him in company — made him look as
sheepish as an old big- horned ram that has just
been shorn and turned amongst the ewes. And the

|08 A 111 RO IN DINGO-SCRUBS.

woman friend on parting would give Job's hand a
squeeze which would surprise him mildly, and look
at him as it" she could love him.

According to a theory of mine, Job, to lit the
story, should have been tall, and dark, and stern, or
gloomy and quick-tempered. But he wasn't. He
was fairly tall, but he was fresh-complexioncd and
sandy (his skin was pink to scarlet in some weathers,
with blotches of umber), and his eyes were pale-grey;
his big forehead loomed babyishly, his arms were
short, and his legs bowed to the saddle. Altogether
he was an awkward, unlovely Bush bird — on foot ;
in the saddle it was different. He hadn't even a
' temper.'

The impression on Job's mind which many years
afterwards brought about the incident was strong
enough. When Job was a boy of fourteen he saw
his father's horse come home riderless — circling and
snorting up by the stockyard, head jerked down
whenever the hoof trod on one of the snapped ends
of the bridle-reins, and saddle twisted over the side
with bruised pommel and knee-pad broken off.

Tob's father wasn't hurt much, but Job's mother,
an emotional woman, and then in a delicate state of
health, survived the shock for three months only.
' She wasn't quite right in her head,' they said,
' from the day the horse came home till the last
hour before she died.' And, strange to say, Job's
father (from whom Job inherited his seemingly
placid nature) died three months later. The doctor
from the town was of the opinion that he must have
' sustained internal injuries ' when the horse threw
him. ' Doc. Wild' (eccentric Bush doctor) reckoned

A HERO IN DINGO-SCRUBS. 309

that Job's father was hurt inside when his wife died,
and hurt so badly that he couldn't pull round. But
doctors differ all over the world.

Well, the story of Job himself came about in this
way. He had been married a year, and had lately
started wool-raising on a pastoral lease he had taken
up at Talbragar : it was a new run, with new slab-
and-bark huts on the creek for a homestead, new
shearing-shed, yards — wife and everything new, and
he was expecting a baby. Job felt brand-new him-
self at the time, so he said. It was a lonely place
for a young woman ; but Gerty was a settler's
daughter. The newness took away some of the
loneliness, she said, and there was truth in that :
a Bush home in the scrubs looks lonelier the older
it gets, and ghostlier in the twilight, as the bark and
slabs whiten, or rather grow grey, in fierce summers.
And there's nothing under God's sky so weird, so
aggressively lonely, as a deserted old home in the
Bush.

Job's wife had a half-caste gin for company when
Job was away on the run, and the nearest white
woman (a hard but honest Lancashire woman from
within the kicking radius in Lancashire — wife of a
selector) was only seven miles away. She promised
to be on hand, and came over two or three times
a-week; but Job grew restless as Gerty 's time drew
near, and wished that he had insisted on sending her
to the nearest town (thirty miles away), as originally
proposed. Gerty 's mother, who lived in town, was
coming to see her over her trouble ; Job had made
arrangements with the town doctor, but prompt

A HERO IN DINGO-SCRUBS.

attendance could hardly be expected ol a doctor
who was very busy, who was too fat to ride, and
who lived thirty miles away.

Job, in common with most Bushmen and their
families round there, had more faith in Doc. Wild,

a weird Yankee who made medicine in a saucepan,
and worked more cures on Bushmen than did the
other three doctors of the district together — maybe
because the Bushmen had faith in him, or he knew
the Bush and Bush constitutions — or, perhaps, be-
cause he'd do things which no ' respectable prac-
titioner' dared do. I've described him in another
story. Some said he was a quack, and some said he
wasn't. There are scores of wrecks and mysteries
like him in the Bush. He drank fearfully, and 'on
his own,' but was seldom incapable of performing
an operation. Experienced Bushmen preferred him
three-quarters drunk : when perfectly sober he was
apt to be a bit shaky. He was tall, gaunt, had
a pointed black moustache, bushy eyebrows, and
piercing black eyes. His movements were eccentric.
He lived where he happened to be — in a town hotel,
in the best room of a homestead, in the skillion of a
sly-grog shanty, in a shearer's, digger's, shepherd's,
or boundary-rider's hut ; in a surveyor's camp or a
black-fellows' camp — or, when the horrors were on
him, by a log in the lonely Bush. It seemed all one
to him. He lost all his things sometimes — even his
clothes ; but he never lost a pigskin bag which con-
tained his surgical instruments and papers. Except
once ; then he gave the blacks £5 to find it for him.
His patients included all, from the big squatter
to Black Jimmy; and he rode as far and fast to a

A HERO IN DINGO-SCRUBS. 311

squatter's home as to a swagman's camp. When
nothing was to be expected from a poor selector
or a station hand, and the doctor was hard up, he
went to the squatter for a few pounds. He had
on occasions been offered cheques of £50 and £100
by squatters for ' pulling round ' their wives or
children ; but such offers always angered him.
When he asked for £5 he resented being offered
a £10 cheque. He once sued a doctor for alleging
that he held no diploma; but the magistrate, on
reading certain papers, suggested a settlement out
of court, which both doctors agreed to — the other
doctor apologising briefly in the local paper. It
was noticed thereafter that the magistrate and
town doctors treated Doc. Wild with great respect
— even at his worst. The thing was never ex-
plained, and the case deepened the mystery which
surrounded Doc. Wild.

As Job Falconer's crisis approached Doc. Wild
was located at a shanty on the main road, about
half-way between Job's station and the town.
(Township of Come -by -Chance — expressive name;
and the shanty was the ' Dead Dingo Hotel,' kept
by James Myles — known as 'Poisonous Jimmy,'
perhaps as a compliment to, or a libel on, the liquor
he sold.) Job's brother Mac. was stationed at the
Dead Dingo Hotel with instructions to hang round
on some pretence, see that the doctor didn't either
drink himself into the ' D.T.'s' or get sober enough
to become restless ; to prevent his going away, or
to follow him if he did ; and to bring him to the
station in about a week's time. Mac. (rather more
careless, brighter, and more energetic than his

A in R( ' l\ DINGO-SCRUB .

brother) was carrying out these instructions while
pretending, with rather great success, to be himself
on the spree at the shanty.

But one morning, early in the specified week,
job's uneasiness was suddenly greatly increased by
certain symptoms, so he sent the black boy for the
neighbour's wife and decided to ride to Come-by-
Chance to hurry out Gerty's mother, and see, by
the way, how Doc. Wild and Mac. were getting
on. On the arrival of the neighbour's wife, who
drove over in a spring-cart, Job mounted his horse
(a freshly broken filly) and started.

' Don't be anxious, Job,' said Gerty, as he bent
down to kiss her. ' We'll be all right. Wait !
you'd better take the gun — you might see those
dingoes again. I'll get it for you.'

The dingoes (native dogs) were very bad amongst
the sheep ; and Job and Gerty had started three
together close to the track the last time they were
out in company — without the gun, of course. Gerty
took the loaded gun carefully down from its straps
on the bedroom wall, carried it out, and handed
it up to Job, who bent and kissed her again and
then rode off.

It was a hot day — the beginning of a long drought,
as Job found to his bitter cost. He followed the
track for five or six miles through the thick, monot-
onous scrub, and then turned off to make a short
cut to the main road across a big ring-barked flat.
The tall gum-trees had been ring-barked (a ring of
bark taken out round the butts), or rather 'sapped'
— that is, a ring cut in through the sap — in order to
kill them, so that the little strength in the 'poor'

A HERO IN DINGO-SCRUBS. 313

soil should not be drawn out by the living roots,
and the natural grass (on which Australian stock
depends) should have a better show. The hard,
dead trees raised their barkless and whitened trunks
and leafless branches for three or four miles, and
the grey and brown grass stood tall between, dying
in the first breaths of the coming drought. All was
becoming grey and ashen here, the heat blazing and
dancing across objects, and the pale brassy dome of
the sky cloudless over all, the sun a glaring white
disc with its edges almost melting into the sky.
Job held his gun carelessly ready (it was a double-
barrelled muzzle-loader, one barrel choke-bore for
shot, and the other rifled), and he kept an eye out
for dingoes. He was saving his horse for a long
ride, jogging along in the careless Bush fashion,
hitched a little to one side — and I'm not sure that
he didn't have a leg thrown up and across in front
of the pommel of the saddle — he was riding along in
the careless Bush fashion, and thinking fatherly
thoughts in advance, perhaps, when suddenly a
great black, greasy-looking iguana scuttled off from
the side of the track amongst the dry tufts of grass
and shreds of dead bark, and started up a sapling.
' It was a whopper,' Job said afterwards ; ' must
have been over six feet, and a foot across the body.
It scared me nearly as much as the filly.'

The filly shied off like a rocket. Job kept his seat
instinctively, as was natural to him ; but before he
could more than grab at the rein — lying loosely on
the pommel — the filly ' fetched up ' against a dead
box-tree, hard as cast-iron, and Job's left leg was
jammed from stirrup to pocket. ' I felt the blood

A HERO IN DINGO-SCRUBS.

Bare up,' he said, 'and I knowed that that' — (Job
swore dow and then in an easy-going way) — 'I
knowed that that blanky leg was broken alright. I

throw the gun from me and freed my left foot from
Stirrup with my hand, and managed to fall to
the right, as the filly started off again.'

What follows comes from the statements of Doc.
Wild and Mac. Falconer, and Job's own ' wanderings
in his mind,' as he called them. ' They took a blanky
mean advantage of me,' he said, ' when they had me
down and I couldn't talk sense.'

The filly circled off a bit, and then stood staring —
as a mob of brumbies, when fired at, will sometimes
stand watching the smoke. Job's leg was smashed
badly, and the pain must have been terrible. But
he thought then with a flash, as men do in a fix.
No doubt the scene at the lonely Bush home of his
boyhood started up before him : his father's horse
appeared riderless, and he saw the look in his
mother's eyes.

Now a Bushman's first, best, and quickest chance
in a fix like this is that his horse go home rider-
less, the home be alarmed, and the horse's tracks
followed back to him ; otherwise he might lie there
for days, for weeks — till the growing grass buries his
mouldering bones. Job was on an old sheep-track
across a fiat where few might have occasion to come
for months, but he did not consider this. He
crawled to his gun, then to a log, dragging gun and
smashed leg after him. How he did it he doesn't
know. Half-lying on one side, he rested the barrel
on the log, took aim at the filly, pulled both triggers,
and then fell over and lay with his head against the

A HERO IN DINGO-SCRUBS. 315

log ; and the gun-barrel, sliding down, rested on his
neck. He had fainted. The crows were interested,
and the ants would come by-and-by.

Now Doc. Wild had inspirations ; anyway, he did
things which seemed, after they were done, to have
been suggested by inspiration and in no other pos-
sible way. He often turned up where and when he
was wanted above all men, and at no other time.
He had gipsy blood, they said ; but, anyway, being
the mystery he was, and having the face he had, and
living the life he lived — and doing the things he did
— it was quite probable that he was more nearly in
touch than we with that awful invisible world all
round and between us, of which we only see distorted
faces and hear disjointed utterances when we are
' suffering a recovery ' — or going mad.

On the morning of Job's accident, and after a long
brooding silence, Doc. Wild suddenly said to Mac.
Falconer —

' Git the hosses, Mac. We'll go to the station.'

Mac, used to the doctor's eccentricities, went to
see about the horses.

And then who should drive up but Mrs Spencer —
Job's mother-in-law — on her way from the town to
the station. She stayed to have a cup of tea and
give her horses a feed. She was square-faced, and
considered a rather hard and practical woman, but
she had plenty of solid flesh, good sympathetic com-
mon-sense, and deep-set humorous blue eyes. She
lived in the town comfortably on the interest of
some money which her husband left in the bank.
She drove an American waggonette with a good

316 A HERO IN DlNCJO-SCRtJBS.

width and length of 'hay' behind, and on this
ision she had a pole and two horses. In the
trap were a new Hock mattress and pillows, a gener-
pair of new white blankets, and boxes containing
necessaries, delicacies, and luxuries. All round she
was an excellent mother-in-law for a man to have on
hand at a critical time.

And, speaking of mother-in-law, I would like to
put in a word for her right here. She is universally
considered a nuisance in times of peace and com-
fort ; but when illness or serious trouble comes
home ! Then it's ' Write to Mother ! Wire for
Mother ! Send some one to fetch Mother ! I'll
go and bring Mother!' and if she is not near:
'Oh, I wish Mother were here! If Mother were
only near ! ' And when she is on the spot, the
anxious son-in-law : ' Don't you go, Mother ! You'll
stay, won't you, Mother ? — till we're all right ? I'll
get some one to look after your house, Mother, while
you're here.' But Job Falconer was fond of his
mother-in-law, all times.

Mac. had some trouble in finding and catching
one of the horses. Mrs Spencer drove on, and Mac.
and the doctor caught up to her about a mile before
she reached the homestead track, which turned in
through the scrubs at the corner of the big ring-
barked flat.

Doc. Wild and Mac. followed the cart-road, and
as they jogged along in the edge of the scrub the
doctor glanced once or twice across the flat through
the dead, naked branches. Mac. looked ihat way.
The crows wrere hopping about the branches of a
tree way out in the middle of the flat, flopping down

A HERO IN DINGO-SCRUBS. 317

from branch to branch to the grass, then rising
hurriedly and circling.

' Dead beast there ! ' said Mac. out of his Bush-
craft.

' No — dying,' said Doc. Wild, with less Bush ex-
perience but more intellect.

' There's some steers of Job's out there some-
where,' muttered Mac. Then suddenly, ' It ain't
drought — it's the ploorer at last ! or I'm blanked!'

Mac. feared the advent of that cattle -plague,
pleuro-pneumonia, which was raging on some other
stations, but had been hitherto kept clear of Job's
run.

' We'll go and see, if you like,' suggested Doc.
Wild.

They turned out across the flat, the horses pick-
ing their way amongst the dried tufts and fallen
branches.

' Theer ain't no sign o' cattle theer,' said the
doctor ; ' more likely a ewe in trouble about her
lamb.'

' Oh, the blanky dingoes at the sheep,' said
Mac. 'I wish we had a gun — might get a shot
at them.'

Doc. Wild hitched the skirt of a long China silk
coat he wore, free of a hip-pocket. He always
carried a revolver. ' In case I feel obliged to shoot
a first person singular one of these hot days,' he
explained once, whereat Bushmen scratched the
backs of their heads and thought feebly, without
result.

' We'd never git near enough for a shot,' said the
doctor; then he commenced to hum fragments from

tERO IN DINGO-SCRUBS.

a Bush son,'; about the finding of a lost Bushman
in the last stages of death by thirst, —

' " The crOWS kept llvin' up, DO
i iiw s Kept llyin' up I

The dog, he seen and whimpered, I
Though he was but a pup.'' '

'It must be something or other,' muttered Mac.
1 ! .ook at tin-in blanky crows ! '

'"The lost was found, we brought him round,
An<l took him from the place,
While the ants was swarmin' on the ground,
And the crows was sayin' grace !"'

' My God ! what's that ? ' cried Mac, who was
a little in advance and rode a tall horse.

It was Job's filly, lying saddled and bridled, with a
rifle-bullet (as they found on subsequent examination)
through shoulders and chest, and her head full of
kangaroo-shot. She was feebly rocking her head
against the ground, and marking the dust with her
hoof, as if trying to write the reason of it there.

The doctor drew his revolver, took a cartridge
from his waistcoat pocket, and put the filly out of
her misery in a very scientific manner ; then some-
thing— professional instinct or the something super-
natural about the doctor — led him straight to the
log, hidden in the grass, where Job lay as we left
hi in, and about fifty yards from the dead filly,
which must have staggered off some little way after
being shot. Mac. followed the doctor, shaking
violently.

' Oh, my God ! ' he cried, with the woman in his

A HERO IN DINGO-SCRUES. 319

voice — and his face so pale that his freckles stood
out like buttons, as Doc. Wild said — 'oh, my God!
he's shot himself! '

' No, he hasn't,' said the doctor, deftly turning
Job into a healthier position with his head from
under the log and his mouth to the air : then he
ran his eyes and hands over him, and Job moaned.
1 He's got a broken leg,' said the doctor. Even
then he couldn't resist making a characteristic re-
mark, half to himself: 'A man doesn't shoot himself
when he's going to be made a lawful father for the
first time, unless he can see a long way into the
future.' Then he took out his whisky-flask and
said briskly to Mac, ' Leave me your water-bag '
(Mac. carried a canvas water-bag slung under his
horse's neck), 'ride back to the track, stop Mrs
Spencer, and bring the waggonette here. Tell her
it's only a broken leg.'

Mac. mounted and rode off at a break - neck
pace.

As he worked the doctor muttered : ' He shot his
horse. That's what gits me. The fool might have
lain there for a week. I'd never have suspected
spite in that carcass, and I ought to know men.'

But as Job came round a little Doc. Wild was
enlightened.

' Where's the filly ? ' cried Job suddenly between
groans.

' She's all right,' said the doctor.

'Stop her !' cried Job, struggling to rise — 'stop
her ! — oh God ! my leg.'

' Keep quiet, you fool ! '

' Stop her ! ' yelled Job.

A HERO IN' DINGO-SCRUBS.

'Why top her?' asked the doctor. 'She won't
go fur.' he added.

'She'll go home to Gerty,' shouted Job. 'I or

God's sake stop her ! '

'O — h ! ' drawled the doctor to himself. ' I might
have guessed that. And I ought to know men.'

'Don't take me home !' demanded Job in a semi-
sensible interval. ' Take me to Poisonous Jimmy's
and tell Gerty I'm on the spree.'

When Mac. and Mrs Spencer arrived with the
waggonette Doc. Wild was in his shirt-sleeves, his
Chinese silk coat having gone for bandages. The
lower half of Job's trouser-leg and his 'lastic side-
boot lay on the ground, neatly cut off, and his
bandaged leg was sandwiched between two strips
of bark, with grass stuffed in the hollows, and
bound by saddle-straps.

'That's all I kin do for him for the present.'

Mrs Spencer was a strong woman mentally, but
she arrived rather pale and a little shaky : neverthe-
less she called out, as soon as she got within ear-
shot of the doctor —

' What's Job been doing now ? ' (Job, by the way,
had never been remarkable for doing anything.)

' He's got his leg broke and shot his horse,' re-
plied the doctor. ' But,' he added, ' whether he's
been a hero or a fool I dunno. Anyway, it's a mess
all round.'

They unrolled the bed, blankets, and pillows in
the bottom of the trap, backed it against the log,
to have a step, and got Job in. It was a ticklish
job, but they had to manage it: Job, maddened by
pain and heat, only kept from fainting by whisky,

A HERO IN DINGO-SCRUBS. 321

groaning and raving and yelling to them to stop his
horse.

' Lucky we got him before the ants did,' muttered
the doctor. Then he had an inspiration —

' You bring him on to the shepherd's hut this
side the station. We must leave him there.
Drive carefully, and pour brandy into him now
and then ; when the brandy's done pour whisky,
then gin — keep the rum till the last ' (the doctor
had put a supply of spirits in the waggonette at
Poisonous Jimmy's). ' I'll take Mac's horse and
ride on and send Peter ' (the station hand) ' back to
the hut to meet you. I'll be back myself if I can.
This business will hurry up tilings at the station.'

Which last was one of those apparently insane
remarks of the doctor's which no sane nor sober
man could fathom or see a reason for — except in
Doc. Wild's madness.

He rode off at a gallop. The burden of Job's
raving, all the way, rested on the dead filly —

' Stop her ! She must not go home to Gerty !
. . . God help me shoot ! . . . Whoa ! — whoa,
there ! . ■ . " Cope — cope — cope " — Steady, Jessie,
old girl. . . . Aim straight — aim straight ! Aim
for me, God! — I've missed! . . . Stop her!' &c.

' I never met a character like that,' commented
the doctor afterwards, ' inside a man that looked like
Job on the outside. I've met men behind revolvers
and big mustarshes in Califo'nia ; but I've met a
derned sight more men behind nothing but a good-
natured grin, here in Australia. These lanky sawney
Bushmen will do things in an easy-going way some
day that'll make the old world sit up and think hard.'

x

A HERO IN DINGO-SCRUBS.

Ih- reached the station in time, and twenty min-
: half an hour later he left the case in the
hands of the Lancashire woman — whom he

m to admire — and rode back to the hut to help

. whom tli< ■ fixed up as comfortably as

Me.

They humbugged Mrs Falconer first with a yarn
of Job's alleged phenomenal shyness, and gradually,
as she grew stronger, and the truth less important,
they told it to her. And so, instead of Job bein^r
pushed, scarlet-faced, into the bedroom to see his
first-born, Gerty Falconer herself took the child
down to the hut, and so presented Uncle Job with
mv first and favourite cousin and Bush chum.

Doc. Wild stayed round until he saw Job com-
fortably moved to the homestead, then he prepared
to depart.

' I'm sorry,' said Job, who was still weak — ' I'm
sorry for that there filly. I was breaking her in to
side-saddle for Gerty when she should get about. I
wouldn't have lost her for twenty quid.'

' Never mind, Job,' said the doctor. ' I, too, once
shot an animal I was fond of — and for the sake of a
woman — but that animal walked on two legs and
wore trousers. Good-bye, Job.'

And he left for Poisonous Jimmy's.

THE LITTLE WORLD LEFT
BEHIND.

T LATELY revisited a western agricultural district
in Australia after many years. The railway
had reached it, but otherwise things were drearily,
hopelessly, depressingly unchanged. There was
the same old grant, comprising several thousands of
acres of the richest land in the district, lying idle
still, except for a few horses allowed to run there for
a shilling a-head per week.

There were the same old selections — about as far
off as ever from becoming freeholds — shoved back
among the barren ridges ; dusty little patches in the
scrub, full of stones and stumps, and called farms,
deserted every few years, and tackled again by some
little dried-up family, or some old hatter, and then
given best once more. There was the cluster of
farms on^ the fiat, and in the foot of the gully,
owned by Australians of Irish or English descent,
with the same number of stumps in the wheat-
paddock, the same broken fences and tumble-down

..

llll LITTLE W( »R] D LEFT BE HIND.

huts and yards, and the same weak, sleepy attempt
made every season to scratch up the ground and
raise a crop. And along the creek the German

fanners — the only people there worthy of the name

— toiling (men, women, and children) from daylight
till dark, like slaves, just as they always had done;
the elder sons stoop-shouldered old men at thirty.

The row about the boundary fence between the
Sweeneys and the Joneses was unfinished still, and
the old feud between the Dunderblitzens and the
Blitzendunders was more deadly than ever — it started
three generations ago over a stray bull. The O'Dunn
was still fighting for his great object in life, which
was not to be ' onneighborly,' as he put it. I don't
want to be onneighborly,' he said, ' but I'll be aven
wid some of 'em yit. It's almost impossible for a
dacent man to live in sich a neighborhood and not
be onneighborly, thry how he will. But I'll be aven
wid some of 'em yit, marruk my wurrud.'

Jones's red steer — it couldn't have been the same
red steer — was continually breaking into Rooney's
'whate an' bringin' ivery head av the other cattle
afther him, and ruinin' him intirely.' The Rooneys
and M'Kenzies were at daggers drawn, even to the
youngest child, over the impounding of a horse be-
longing to Pat Rooney's brother-in-law, by a distant
relation of the M'Kenzies, which had happened nine
years ago.

The same sun - burned, masculine women went
past to market twice a-week in the same old carts
and driving much the same quality of carrion. The
string of overloaded spring-carts, buggies, and sweat-
ing horses went whirling into town, to ' service,'

THE LITTLE WORLD LEFT BEHIND. 325

through clouds of dust and broiling heat, on Sunday
morning, and came driving cruelly out again at
noon. The neighbours' sons rode over in the after-
noon, as of old, and hung up their poor, ill-used
little horses to bake in the sun, and sat on their heels
about the verandah, and drawled drearily concerning
crops, fruit, trees, and vines, and horses and cattle ;
the drought and ' smut ' and ' rust ' in wheat, and
the ' ploorer ' (pleuro - pneumonia) in cattle, and
other cheerful things ; that there colt or filly, or
that there cattle-dog (pup or bitch) o' mine (or
' Jim's '). They always talked most of farming there,
where no farming worthy of the name was possible
— except by Germans and Chinamen. Towards
evening the old local relic of the golden days dropped
in and announced that he intended to ' put down a
shaft ' next week, in a spot where he'd been going to
put it down twenty years ago — and every week since.
It was nearly time that somebody sunk a hole and
buried him there.

An old local body named Mrs Witherly still went
into town twice a-week with her 'bit av prodjuce,'
as O'Dunn called it. She still drove a long, bony,
blind horse in a long rickety dray, with a stout
sapling for a whip, and about twenty yards of
clothes-line reins. The floor of the dray covered
part of an acre, and one wheel was always ahead
of the other — or behind, according to which shaft
was pulled. She wore, to all appearances, the same
short frock, faded shawl, men's 'lastic sides, and
white hood that she had on when the world was
made. She still stopped just twenty minutes at old
Mrs Leatherly's on the way in for a yarn and a cup

Till I l I l i l Wi »R1 D 1 1 l r BEHIND.

of tea—- as she had always done, on the same day?
and at the same time within the memory of the
hoariest local liar. However, she had a new clothes*
line bent on t<> the old horse's front end — and we
fancy that was the reason she didn't recognise us
at first. She had never looked younger than a hard
hundred within the memory of man. I In- shrivelled
face was the colour of leather, and crossed and
recrossed with lines till there wasn't room for any
more. But her eyes were bright yet, and twinkled
with humour at times.

She had been in the Bush for fifty years, and had
fought fires, droughts, hunger and thirst, floods,
cattle and crop diseases, and all the things that
God curses Australian settlers with. She had had
two husbands, and it could be said of neither
that he had ever done an honest day's work, or
any good for himself or any one else. She had
reared something under fifteen children, her own
and others ; and there was scarcely one of them
that had not given her trouble. Her sons had
brought disgrace on her old head over and over
again, but she held up that same old head through it
all, and looked her narrow, ignorant world in the
face — and ' lived it down.' She had worked like a
slave for fifty years ; yet she had more energy and
endurance than many modern city women in her
shrivelled old body. She was a daughter of English
aristocrats.

And we who live our weak lives of fifty years or
so in the cities — we grow maudlin over our sorrows
(and beer), and ask whether life is worth living or
not.

THE LITTLE WORLD LEFT BEHIND. 327

I sought in the farming town relief from the
general and particular sameness of things, but there
was none. The railway station was about the only
new building in town. The old signs even were as
badly in need of retouching as of old. I picked up
a copy of the local ' Advertiser,' which newspaper
had been started in the early days by a brilliant
drunkard, who drank himself to death just as the
fathers of our nation were beginning to get educated
up to his style. He might have made Australian
journalism very different from what it is. There was
nothing new in the 'Advertiser' — there had been
nothing new since the last time the drunkard had
been sober enough to hold a pen. There was the
same old ' enjoyable trip ' to Drybone (whereof the
editor was the hero), and something about an on-
the-whole very enjoyable evening in some place that
was tastefully decorated, and where the visitors did
justice to the good things provided, and the small
hours, and dancing, and our host and hostess, and
respected fellow-townsmen ; also divers young ladies
sang very nicely, and a young Mr Somebody favoured
the company with a comic song.

There was the same trespassing on the valuable
space by the old subscriber, who said that ' he had
said before and would say again,' and he proceeded
to say the same things which he said in the same
paper when we first heard our father reading it to
our mother. Farther on the old subscriber pro-
ceeded to ' maintain,' and recalled attention to the
fact that it was just exactly as he had said. Arter
which he made a few abstract, incoherent remarks
about the 'surrounding district,' and concluded by

THE I-l I'll 1 Wi .'. l' LEFT Bl HIND.

that he ' tnu i onclude,1 and thanking

the editor for tre passing on the aforesaid valuable
spac .

Thei the usual leader on the Government ;

and an agitation was still carried on, by humus of

horribly-constructed correspondence to both papers,

i bridge over Dry-H Creek at Dustbin — a

place where no sane man ever had occasion

jo.

I took up the ' unreliable contemporary,' but found
nothing there except a letter from ' Parent,' another
from ' Ratepayer,' a leader on the Government, and
• A Trip to Limeburn,' which latter I suppose was
made in opposition to the trip to Drybone.

There was nothing new in the town. Even the
almost inevitable gang of city spoilers hadn't arrived
with the railway. They would have been a relief.
There was the monotonous aldermanic row, and the
w< irse than hopeless little herd of aldermen, the weird
agricultural portion of whom came in on council
days in white starched and ironed coats, as we had
always remembered them. They were aggressively
barren of ideas; but on this occasion they had risen
above themselves, for one of them had remembered
something his grandfather (old time English alder-
man) had told him, and they were stirring up all the
old local quarrels and family spite of the district
over a motion, or an amendment on a motion, that
a letter — from another enlightened body and bearing
on an equally important matter (which letter had
been sent through the post sufficiently stamped,
delivered to the secretary, handed to the chairman,
read aloud in council, and passed round several

THE LITTLE WORLD LEFT BEHIND. 329

times for private perusal) — over a motion that such
letter be received.

There was a maintenance case coming on — to the
usual well-ventilated disgust of the local religious
crank, who was on the jury ; but the case differed
in no essential point from other cases which were
always coming on and going off in my time. It was
not at all romantic. The local youth was not even
brilliant in adultery.

After I had been a week in that town the Governor
decided to visit it, and preparations were made to
welcome him and present him with an address.
Then I thought that it was time to go, and slipped
away unnoticed in the general lunacy.

'THE NEVER-NEVER COUNTRY:

By homestead, hut, and shearing- shed,

By railroad, coach, and track —
By lonely graves of our brave dead,

Up-Country and Out-Back :
To zvhere 'neath glorious clustered stars

The dreamy plains expand —
My home lies zvide a thousand miles

In the Never-Never Land.

It lies beyond the farming belt,

Wide wastes of scrub and plain.
A blazing desert in the drought,

A lake-land after rain ;
To the sky-line szvecps the waving grass,

Or whirls the scorching sand —
A phantom land, a mystic land !

The Never-Never Land.

' nil \i:\ l R-NEVER COUN I'KV.'

it ion lies,
Mounts Dreadful and Despair —

ath the rainless shies

In hopel
It spreads uor'-west by No-Man's Land-

Wh is are st •/< /< i m Si \en —

To u cattle-stations lie

Three hundred miles between.

The drovers of the Great Stock Routes

The strange Gulf country know —
Where, travelling from the southern droughts,

The big lean bullocks go ;
And camped by night where plains lie wide,

Like some old ocean s bed,
The watchmen in the starlight ride

Round fifteen hundred head.

And west of named and numbered days

The shearers walk and ride —
Jack Cornstalk and the Ne'er-do- well,

A ud the grey-beard side by side ;
They veil their eyes from moon and stars,

And slumber on the sand —
Sad memories sleep as years go round

In Never- Never Land.

' THE NEVER-NEVER COUNTRY.' 333

By lonely lints north-west of Bourke,

Through years 0/ flood and drought,
The best of English black-sheep work

Their own salvation out :
Wild fresh-faced boys grown gaunt and brown —

Stijf-lipped and haggard-eyed —
They live the Dead Past grimly down !

Where boundary-riders ride.

The College Wreck who sunk beneath,

Then rose above his shame,
Tramps J Vest in viateship with the man

Who cannot write Jus name.
' Tis there where on the barren track

No last half -crust's begrudged —
Where saint and sinner, side by side,

Judge not, and are not judged.

Oh rebels to society !

The Outcasts of the West —
Oh hopeless eyes that smile for me,

And broken hearts that jest !
The pluck to face a thousand miles-

The grit to see it through !
The communism perfected ! —

And — / am proud of you !

:i M vi 1--M \ I R COUN IKY.'

desert sand,
> fields <>■
The . .'■ turns to Maori/and,

Where the seasons come and
And this old fact conns home to mc-
And will not let me rest —

;<•/•' barren it may be,
) ' ur i wn land is tlie best !

And, lest at ease I should forget

True mateship after all,
My water-bag and billy yet

Are lunging on the wall ;
And if my fate should show the sign,

I'd tramp to sunsets grand
With gaunt and stem-eyed mates of mine

In Ncver-Never Land.

The Works, in Prose and Verse,

OF

HENRY LAWSON.

Joe Wilson and His Mates: Australian
Stories. Price, in cloth, gilt, 3s. 6d. ; post
free, 4s. In paper covers, 2s. 6d. ; post free, 3s.

Popular Verses. Is.; post tree, Is. 3d.

Humorous Verses. Is.; post free, Is. 3d.

%* Verses, Popular and Humorous may also
be had bound together in 1 vol., cloth (uniform
with "While the Billy Boils"), price, 3s. 6d.;
post free, 3s. lid.

On the Track: Stories. Eighth thousand.
Is. ; post free, Is. 3d.

Over the Sliprails: Stories. Eighth thousand.
Is.; post free, Is. 3d.

%* On the Track and Over the Sliprails may
also be had bound together in 1 vol., cloth
(uniform with "While the Billy Boils"), price,
3s. 6d. ; post free, 4s.

While the Billy Boils: Stories. Fifth Edition,
completing the twenty-third thousand. Two
parts, Is. each ; post free, Is. 3d. each ; or the
two parts in 1 vol., cloth, price 3s. 6d. ; post
free, 4s.

In the Days When the World was Wide

and Other Verses. Tenth Thousand. Price,
5s. ; post free, 5s. 5d.

The Pall Mall Gazette, in its Notice of Henry
Lawson'a latest work, "Joe Wilson and His Mates," Baye :
" In some of the stories good broad humour is the prei ailing
note. Other stories, again, have a fine, rugged pathos . . .
We can see in these rough diamonds the men who have of
late so distinguished themselves at Eland's River and else
where."

The Spectator (London) says:— "This is a volume of
realistic stories of busli life. . . . it will be eagerly read."

FEBRUARY, 1902.

LIST OF BOOKS

PUBLISHED BY

ANGUS & ROBERTSON

89 CASTLEREAGH STREET, SYDNEY
205 SWANSTON STREET, MELBOURNE

SOLD IN ENGLAND BY

THE AUSTRALIAN BOOK COMPANY
38 WEST SM1THFIELD, LONDON, E.C.

THE COMMONWEALTH SERIES

Crown s\"., Is. each [postfree ls.3d.each).

ON THE TRACK : New Stories. /.'// HBNRY LA wso.x

OVER THE SLIPRAILS : New Stories. By H. LA WSON

POPULAR VERSES. By HENRY LA WSON

Now jurat published in book form.

HUMOROUS VERSES. By HENRY LA WSON

Noir first published in book form.

WHILE THE BILLY BOILS: Australian Stories.

First Series. % HEX BY LA WSON

WHILE THE BILLY BOILS : Australian Stories.

Second Series. By HENRY LA WSON

HISTORY OF AUSTRALASIA: From the Earliest Times to
the Inauguration of the Commonwealth.

By A. W. JOSE

HISTORY OF AUSTRALIAN BUSHRANGING.

By CHARLES WHITE

Part I. — The Early Days. [iVW ready

Part II.— 1850 to 1862. [Now ready

Part III.— 1863 to 1869. [Now ready

Part IV. — 1869 to 1878. [In preparation

%* For press notices of these books see the cloth-bound editions
on pages 4, .">, 6, 13 and 15 of this catalogue.

JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES.

A New Volume of Stories.

By HENRY LAWSON", Author of " While the Billy
Boils;" "When the World was Wide and Other
Verses;" "Verses, Popular and Humorous;" "On
the Track and Over the Sliprails."

Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 4s.),
in paper covers, 2s. 6d. (post free 3s.).

The Pall Mall Gazette : " In some of the stories
good broad humour is the prevailing note. Other
stories, again, have a fine, rugged pathos . . . We
can see in these rough diamonds the men who have
of late so distinguished themselves at Eland's River
and elsewhere."

The Spectator (London) : " This is a volume of
realistic stories of bush life. ... it will be
eagerly" read."

THE POETICAL WORKS OF
BRUNTON STEPHENS.

New edition, with photogravure portrait.
Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (post
free 5s. Gd.)

VERSES : POPULAR AND
HUMOROUS.

Bj HENRY LAWSON, Author of '•When the
World was Wide, and Other Verses," "Jot; Wilson
and his Mates, "On the Track and Over the Slip-
rails," and " While the Billy Boils."

Crowo 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 4s.).

heap* r Rdition see Commonwealth Series, page 2.

Fbancis Thompson, in The Daily Chronicle: "He
is a writer of strong and ringing ballad verse, who
gets hia blows Btraight in, and at his best makes them
all tell. He can vignette the life he knows in a few
touches, and in this book shows an increased power of
selection."

Academy : " Mr. Lawson's work should be well
known to our readers; for we have urged them often
enough to make acquaintance with it. He has the
gift of movement, and he rarely offers a loose rhyme.
Technically, short of anxious lapidary work, these
verses are excellent. He varies sentiment and humour
very agreeably."

New York Evening Journal : " Such pride as a
man feels when he has true greatness as his guest,
tli is newspaper feels in introducing to a million
readers a man of ability hitherto unknown to them.
Henry Lawson is his name."

The Book Lover : " Any book of Lawson's should
be bought and treasured by all who care for the real
beginnings of Austi-alian literature. As a matter of
fact, he is the one Australian literary product, in any
distinctive sense."

ON THE TRACK AND OVER
THE SLIPRAILS.

Stories by HENRY LAWSON, Author of "While
the Billy Boils," " Joe Wilson and his Mates,'
" When the World Was Wide and Other Verses,"
and " Verses, Popular and Humorous."

Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 4s.).

For Cheaper Edition see Commonwealth Series, page S.

Daily Chronicle : " Will well sustain the reputation
its author has already won as the best writer of
Australian short stories and sketches the literary
world knows. Henry Lawson has the art, possessed
in such eminent degree by Mr. J. M. Barrie, of
sketching in a character and suggesting a whole
life-story in a single sentence."

Pall Mall Gazette : "The volume now received will
do much to enhance the author's reputation. There
is all the quiet irresistible humour of Dickens in the
description of ' The Darling River/ and the creator
of ' Truthful James ' never did anything better in
the way of character sketches than Steelman and
Mitchell. Mr. Lawson has a master's sense of what
is dramatic, and he can bring out strong effects in a
few touches. Humour and pathos, comedy and
tragedy, are equally at his command."

Glasgow Herald : " Mr. Lawson must now be
regarded as, facile princeps in the production of the
short tale. Some of these brief and even slight
sketches are veritable gems that would be spoiled by
an added word, and without a word that can be looked
upon as superfluous. "

Melbourne Punch : " Often the little stories are
wedges cut clean out of life, and presented with
artistic truth and vivid colour."

WHILE THE BILLY BOILS.

Stoimks uy HENRY LAWSON, Author of "When
the World Whs Wide and Other Verses," "Joe
Wilson and his Mates," "On the Track and Over
the Sliprails," and "Verses, Popular and Humorous."

Twenty-third Thousand. With eight plates
and vignette title by F. P. Mahony. Crown
8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 4s.).

For Cheaper EJitioJi see Commonwealth Series, page t.

The Academy : " A book of honest, direct, sympa-
thetic,, humorous writing about Australia from within
is worth a library of travellers' tales. . . . The
result is a real book — a book in a hundred. His
language is terse, supple, and richly idiomatic. He
can tell a yarn with the best."

Literature : " A book which Mrs. Campbell Praed
assured me made her feel that all she had written of
bush life was pale and ineffective."

The Spectator : " It is strange that one we would
venture to call the greatest Australian writer should
be practically unknown in England. Mr. Lawson
is a less experienced writer than Mr. Kipling, and
more unequal, hut there are two or three sketches in
this volume which for vigour and truth can hold their
own with even so great a rival."

The Times : " A collection of short and vigorous
studies and stories of Australian life and character.
A little in Bret llarte's manner, crossed, perhaps, with
that of Guy de Maupassant."

The Scotsman : " There is no lack of dramatic
imagination in the construction of the tales; and the
best of them contrive to construct a strong sensational
situation in a couple of pages."

WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE
AND OTHER VERSES.

By HENRY LAWSON, Author of "While the Billy
Boils," "Joe Wilson and his Mates," "On the
Track and Over the Sliprails," and " Verses, Popular
and Humorous."

Tenth Thousand. With photogravure por-
trait and vignette title. Crown 8vo, cloth
gilt, gilt top, 5s. (post free 5s. 5d ).

Presentation edition, French Morocco, gilt edges, 9s.

The Academy : "These ballads (for such they mostly
are) abound in spirit and manhood, in the colour and
smell of Australian soil. They deserve the popularity
which they have won in Australia, and which, we
trust, this edition will now give them in England."

Mr. R. Le Gallienne, in The Idler : " A striking
volume of ballad poetry. A volume to console one for
the tantalising postponement of Mr. Kipling's pro-
mised volume of sea ballads."

Newcastle Weekly Chronicle : " Swinging, rhyth-
mic verse."

Sydney Morning: Herald : " The verses have
natural vigour, the writer has a rough, true faculty
of characterisation, and the book is racy of the soil
from cover to cover."

Bulletin : " How graphic he is, how natural, how
true, how strong."

Otago Witness : "It were well to have such hooka
upon our shelves. . . . They are true history."

THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER
AND OTHER VERSES.

r.v a. B. PATERSON.

Twenty-Fourth Thousand. With photo-
gravure portrait and vignette title. Crown
8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (post free
5s. 5d.).

Presentation edition, French Morocco, gilt edges, 9s.

The Literary Year Book : " The immediate
success of this book of bush ballads is without parallel
in Colonial literary annals, nor can any living English
or American poet boast so wide a public, always
excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling."

The Times : " At his best he compares not unfavour-
ably with the author of ' Barrack Room Ballads.' "

Spectator : " These lines have the true lyrical cry
in them. Eloquent and ardent verses."

Athenaeum : " Swinging, rattling ballads of ready

humour, ready pathos, and crowding adventure.

Stirring and entertaining ballads about great

rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs of

the horses."

Mr. A. Patchett Martin, in Literature (London) :
"In my opinion it is the absolutely un-English,
thoroughly Australian style and character of these
new bush bards which has given them such immediate
popularity, such wide vogue, among all classes of the
rising native generation."

London: Macmillan &• Co., Limited.

AT DAWN AND DUSK: POEMS.

By VICTOR J. DALEY.

Third Thousand With photogravure
portrait and vignette title. Crown 8vo,
cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (post free 5s. 5d.),

Presentation edition, French Morocco, gilt edges, 9s.

The Bookman : " Most of these verses had already
seen the light in Australia, but they are woith more
permanent form. They are very full of graceful
poetic fancy musically expressed."

The Australasian : " It is unmistakable poetry . .
. Mr. Daley has a gift of delicate construction —
there is barely a crude idea or a thought roughly
moulded in the book."

RHYMES FROM THE MINES
AND OTHER LINES.

By EDWARD DYSON, Author of 'A Golden Shanty."

Second Thousand. With photogravure
portrait and vignette title. Crown 8vo,
cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (post free 5s. 5d.).

Presentation edition, French Morocco, gilt edges, 9s.

The Academy : "Here from within we have the

Australian minor complete: the young miner, the; old
miner, the miner in luck, and the miner oul of it, the
miner in love, and the miner in peril. Mr. Dyson
knows it all."

WHERE THE DEAD MEN LIE
AND OTHER POEMS.

Bf BARCROFT HKNUY BOAKE.

Third Thousand. With portrait and 32
illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt
top, 5s. {post free 5s. 5d.).

Presentation edition, French Morocco, gilt edgi i, 9a.

J. Beunton Stephens, in The Bulletin: "Boake's
work is often praise'd for its local colour; but it has
some tiling- Letter than that. It has atmosphere —
Australian atmosphere, that makes you feel the air of
the place — breathe the breath of the life."

THE MUTINEER. A Romance of Pitcairn
Island. By LOUIS L1ECKE and WALTER JEEFERY.

Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 4-s.).

FOR THE TERM OF HIS
NATURAL LIFE.

By MARCUS CLARKE.

With a Memoir of the Author, by A. B.
Paterson, Portrait of the Author, Map of
Eagle Hawk Neck and the vicinity, and
14 full-page views of places mentioned in
the book. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top,
3s. 6d. (post free 4s.).

10

LOVE AND LONGITUDE.

A Story of the Pacific in the Year 1900.
By R. SCOT SKIRVING.

With 8 plates, crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt
top, 5s. (post free 5s. Gd.).

Daily Telegraph : " A capital story of love and
adventure in the Pacific. . . . Seafaring folk will
find much to interest them particularly in ' Love and
Longitude/ and general readers will admire it for its
bright narrative."

OUR ARMY IN SOUTH AFRICA.

By R. SCOT SKIRVING, late Consulting Surgeon to
the Australian Contingents.

Crown 8vo, boards, 2s. (post free 2s. 2d.).

THESPIRITOFTHE BUSH FIRE
AND OTHER AUSTRALIAN FAIRY

TALES. By j- m- WHITFELl).

Second Thousand. With 32 illustrations
by G. W. Lambert. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt,
2s. 6d. (post free 3s.).

Sydney Morning Herald : " It is frankly written
for the young folks. The youngster will find a delight
in Miss Whitfeld's marvellous company."

11

lEcNS. A Story of Australian Schoolgirls.
By LOUISE MAGE

Fourth Thousand. With L 4 full-page illus-
trations by F. P. Mahony. Crown 8vo, cloth
gilt, 2s. Gd. (post free 3s.).

Sydney Morning- Herald: "Ought to he welcome
to all who Eeel the responsibility of choosing the read-
ing books of the young ... its gaiety, impulsiveness,
and youthfulness will charm them."

Sydney Daily Telegraph : " Nothing could be
more natural, more sympathetic."

The Australasian : " 'Teens' is a pleasantly-written
story, very suitable for a present or a school prize."

Bulletin : " It is written so well that it could not be
written better."

GIRLS TOGETHER.

A Sequel to " Teens." By LOUISE MACK.

Third Thousand. Illustrated by G. W.
Lambert. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.
(post free 2s. 10 d.).

Sydney Morning Herald: "'Girls Together' should
be in the library of every girl who likes a pleasant
story of real life. . . Older people will read it for
its bright touches of human nature."

Queenslander : "A story told in a dainty style that
makes it attractive to all. It is fresh, bright, and
cheery, and well worth a place on any Australian
bookshelf."

12

THE ANNOTATED CONSTITU-
TION OF THE AUSTRALIAN
COMMONWEALTH.

By Sir JOHN QUICK and R. R. GARRAN, C.M.G.

Royal 8vo, cloth gilt, 21s.

The Times : " The Annotated Constitution of the
Australian Commonwealth is a monument of industry.
. Dr. Quick and Mr. Garran have collected,
with patience and enthusiasm, every sort of infor-
mation, legal and historical, which can throw light on
the new measure. The book has evidently been a
labour of love."

HISTORY OF AUSTRALIAN
BUSH RANGING, by charles white.

To be completed in two vols. Crown 8vo,
cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. each. [Vol. I. now ready.

For Cheaper Edition see Commomvealth Series, page 2.

Press Notices of Volume I.

Year Book of Australia : " There is ( romance '
enough about it to make it of permanent interest as a
peculiar and most remarkable stage in our sorinl
history."

Queenslander : "Mr. White has supplied material
enough for twenty such novels as 'Robbery Under
Arms.' "

THE GROWTH OF THE EMPIRE.

A Handbook to the History of Greater Britain.

Bl Aktiuu W. JOSE, Author of "A Short History
of Australasia."

Second Edition. With 14 Maps. Crown
8vo, cloth gilt, 5s. (post free 5s. 6d )

Morning; Post " This book is published in Sydney,
but it deserves to be circulated throughout the United
Kingdom. The picture of the fashion in which British
enterprise made its way from settlement to settlement
has never been drawn more vividly than in these pages.
Mr. Jose's style is crisp and pleasant, now and then
even rising to eloquence on his grand theme. His
book deserves wide popularity, and it has the rare
merit of being so written as to. be attractive alike to
the young student and to the mature man of letters."

Literature : " He has studied thoroughly, and
writes vigorously. . . . Admirably done.
We commend it to Britons the world over."

Saturday Review • " He writes Imperially ; he also
often writes sympathetically. . . . We cannot
close Mr. Jose's creditable account of our misdoings
without a glow of national pride."

Yorkshire Post : " A brighter short history we do
not kuow, and this book deserves for the matter and
the manner of it to be as well known as Mr.
McCarthy's ' History of Our Own Times.' "

The Scotsman : " This admirable work is a solid
octavo of more than 400 pages. It is a thoughful, well
written, and well- arranged history. There are fourteen
excellent maps to illustrate the text."

14

HISTORY OF AUSTRALASIA.

From the Earliest Times to the Inauguration of the
Commonwealth.

By ARTHUR W. JOSE, Author of " The Growth of
the Empire." The chapter on Federation revised by
R. R. Garran, C.M.G.

With 6 maps and 64 portraits and illustra-
tions. Crown Svo, cloth, Is. 6d. (post free

Is. lOtl.J. For Cheaper Edition see Commonwealth Series, page 9.

The Book Lover: " The ignorance of the average
Australian youth about the brief history of his native
land is often deplorable. . . . ' A Short History
of Australasia/ by Arthur W. Jose, just provides the
thing wanted. Mr. Jose's previous historical work
was most favourably received in England, and this
story of our land is capitally done. It is not too long,
and it is brightly written. Its value is considerably
enhanced by the useful maps and interesting illus-
trations. A very good book to give to a boy."

Victorian Education Gazette : " The language is
graphic and simple, and there is much evidence of
careful work and acquaintance with original docu-
ments, which give the reader confidence in the
accuracy of the details. The low price of the book
leaves young Australians no excuse for remaining in
ignorance of the history of their native land."

Town and Country Journal : " His language is
graphic and simple, and he has maintained the unity
and continuity of the story of events despite the
necessity of following the subject along the seven
branches corresponding with the seven separate
colonies."

THE GEOLOGY OF SYDNEY AND
THE BLUE MOUNTAINS.

A Popular Introduction to tho Study of Australian
Geology.

By Rev. .7. MILNE CUR11AN, Lecturer in
Chemistry and Geology, Technical College, Sydney.

Second Edition. With a Glossary of Scien-
tific terms, a Reference List of commonly-
occurring Fossils, 2 coloured maps, and 83
illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, Gs.
(postjree 6s. 6<l).

Nature : " This is, strictly speaking, an elementary
manual of geology. The general plan of the work is
good ; the book is well printed and illustrated with
maps, photographic pictures of rock structure and
scenery, and figures of fossils and rock sections."

Saturday Review : " His style is animated and
inspiring, or clear and precise, as occasion demands.
The people of Sydney are to be congratulated on the
existence of such a guide to their beautiful country."

Literary World: "We can heartily recommend the
book as a very interesting one, written in a much
more readable style than is usual in works of this
kind/'

South Australian Register : " Mr. Curran has ex-
tracted a charming narrative of the earth's history out
of the prosaic stone. Though he has selected Sydney
rocks for his text, his discourse is interestingly Aus-
tralian."

16

AUSTRALIAN CAVALRY.

The N.S.W. Lancer Regiment and the First
Australian- Horse.

By FRANK WILKINSON, War Correspondent,
Sydney Daily Telegraph. With one coloured and
eight other full-page plates.

Crown 4to, boards, 2s. (post free 2s. 4d.).

SIMPLE TESTS FOR MINERALS;

Or, Every Man his Own Analyst.

By JOSEPH CAMPBELL, M.A., F.G.S, M.I.M E.

Fourth Edition, revised and enlarged (com-
pleting the ninth thousand). With illus-
trations. Cloth, round corners, 3s. 6d.
{post free 3s. 9d.).

THE KINGSWOOD COOKERY
BOOK.

By Mrs. WICKEN, M.C.A., Late Teacher of Cookery,
Technical College, Sydney.

Fifth edition, revised, completing the Nine-
teenth Thousand. 382 pages, crown 8vo,
paper cover, Is.; cloth, Is. 6d. {postage 4d.).

PRESBYTERIAN WOMEN'S
MISSIONARY ASSOCIATION
COOKERY BOOK.

Crown 8vo., cloth, Is. (post free Is. Sd.).

THE METRIC SYSTEM OF
WEIGHTS AND MEASURES, AND
DECIMAL COINAGE.

Br J. M. TAYLOR, M.A., LL B.

Witli Introductory Notes on the nature of
Decimals, and contracted methods for the
Multiplication and Division of Decimals.
Crown 8vo, 6d. {post free 7d.).

N.S.W. Educational Gazette : " A masterly and
elaborate treatise for the use of schools on a subject
of world-wide interest and importance. ... In
commercial life a knowledge of the metric system has
been for some years essential, and it is, therefore,
fitting that its underlying principles should be taught
in our schools concurrently with reduction, and prac-
tised systematically in the more advanced grades.
For this purpose the book is unquestionably the best
we have Keen."

ANSWERS TO TAYLOR'S

METRIC SYSTEM. 6d. (post free 7d.).

18

THE ELEMENTS OF EUCLID,
BOOKS l.-IV.

By J. D. ST.CLAIR MACLARDY, M.A., Lecturer

at the Training Colleges and Examiner for the New
South Wales Department of Public Instruction.

With Historical Introduction, Notes,
Appendices and Miscellaneous Examples.
Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. Gel. {post free
3s. 10d.). Book I., separately, cloth, Is. 6d.
post free Is. 9d).

N.S.W. Educational Gazette: "The most complete
and logical discussion of this part of the works of the
great geometer that we have seen. An unusual
amount of care has been bestowed on the initiatory
stages, the definitions, axioms, and postulates beinu'
treated with commendable fulness. . . . The
brevity, simplicity, and perspicuity of his methods will

appeal forcibly to students Mr. Maclardy

adheres to the plan of simplifying the proofs ami
reducing the verbiage to a minimum, and has added a
contribution to mathematical literature which we
regard as indispensable."

Victorian Educational Gazette : " Among the
legion of editions of Euclid, Mr. Maclardy's takes an
honourable place. There are many features that are
the result of the author's long experience as a lecturer
and examiner in mathematics. He has evidently
taken a pride in making his work as perfect as
possible/'

IV

ENGLISH GRAMMAR, COMPOSI-
TION, AND PRECIS WRITING.

For Use by Candidates for University and Public
Service Exams

By JAMES CONWAY, Headmaster ab Cleveland-
street Superior Public School, Sydney.

Prescribed by the Department of Public
Instruction, N.S.W., for First and Second
Class Teachers' Certificate Examinations.
New edition, revised and enlarged.
Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free
Ss. 10d,).

Sydney Morning Herald : " To its concise and
admirable arrangement of rules and definitions, which
holds good wherever the English language is spoken
or written, is added special treatment of special
difficulties. Mr. Conway adopts the excellent plan of
taking certain papers, and of answering the questions
in detail. . . . Should be in the hands of every
teacher."

Victorian Educational News : " A book which we
can heartily recommend as the most suitable we have
yet met with to place in the hands of students for our
intermediate examinations, and also for matriculation,
pupil teachers' and certificate of competency examina-
tions. We should be glad to see the work set down
in the syllabus of the Department so that it would
reach the hands of all the students and teachers
engaged in studying the subject in our State
schools."

20

A SMALLER ENGLISH
GRAMMAR, COMPOSITION,
AND PRECIS WRITING.

By JAMES CONWAY.

Prescribed by the Department of Public
Instruction, N.S.W., for Third Class and
Pupil Teachers' Examinations. New
edition, revised and enlarged. Crown 8vo,
cloth, Is. 6d. (post free Is. 9cL).

N.S.W. Educational Gazette : " The abridgment
is very well done. One recognises the hand of a man
who has had long experience of the difficulties of
this subject."

GEOGRAPHY OF NEW SOUTH

WALES. B* J- M- TAYLOR, M.A., LL.B.

New Edition, revised. With 37 illustrations
and 6 folding maps. Crown 8vo, cloth
gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 3s. 10d.).

Sydney Morning" Herald : " Something more than
a school book; it is an approach to an ideal geography."

Review of Reviews : " It makes a very attractive
handbook. Its geography is up to date ; it is not
overburdened with details, and it is richly illustrated
with geological diagrams and photographs of scenery
reproduced with happy skill."

31

CAUSERIES FAMILIERES; OR,
FRIENDLY CHATS.

A Simple and Doductivo French Course.
By Mrs. S. C. BOYD.

Prescribed for use in schools by the
Department of Public Instruction, New
South Wales.

Pupils' Edition, containing all that need be
in the hands of the learner. Crown 8v<>,
cloth, limp, Is. 6d. (post free Is. 8cL).

Teachers' Edition, containing grammatical
summaries, exercises, a full treatise on pro-
nunciation, French-Eno-lish and English-
French Vocabulary, and other matter for
the use of the teacher or of a student with-
out a master. New Edition. Crown 8vo,
cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (jjost free 3s. 10d.).

The London Spectator : " A most excellent and
practical little volume, evidently the work of a trained
teacher. It combines admirably and in an entertaining
form the advantages of the conversational with those
of the grammatical method of learning a language.5'

The Scotsman: "A pleasant and familiar tone
pervades the whole work, and it is to be welcomed as
a further step in the desired direction."

22

THE AUSTRALIAN OBJECT
LESSON BOOK.

Compiled by practical teachers, and edited by DAVID
T. WILEY,

Part I. — For Infant and Junior Classes
With 43 illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth
gilt, 3s. 6d. ; paper cover, 2s. 6d. (postage
4d.).

N.S.W. Educational Gazette: "Mr. Wiley has
wisely adopted the plan of utilising the services of
specialists. The series is remarkably complete, and
includes almost everything with which the little
learners ought to be made familiar. Through-
out the whole series the lessons have been selected
with judgment and with a due appreciation of the
capacity of the pupils for whose use they are intended."

THE AUSTRALIAN OBJECT
LESSON BOOK.

Part II. — For advanced classes. With 113
illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.;
paper cover, 2s. Gd. (postage 4d.).

Victorian Education Gazette : " Mr. Wiley and his
colleagues have provided a storehouse of useful infor-
mation on a great number of topics that can be taken
up in any Australian school."

N.S.W. Educational Gazette: "The Australian
Object Lesson Hook i.s evidently the result of infinite
patience and deep research on the part of its compiler,
who is also to be commended for the admirable
arrangement of his matter."

23

A NEW BOOK OF SONGS FOR
SCHOOLS AND SINGING
CLASSES.

I'.v IIL'GO ALPEN, Superintendent of Music,
Department of Public Instruction, New South Wales.

8vo, paper cover. Is. (post free Is. %d.).

THE AUSTRALIAN
PROGRESSIVE SONGSTER.

By S. McBurney, Mus. Doc, Fellow T.S.F. College.

Containing graded Songs, Hounds and Exer-
cises in Staff' Notation, Tonic Sol-fa and
Numerals, with Musical Theory. Price, Gd.
each part; combined, Is. (postage id. each
part).

No. 1. — For Junior Classes. No. 2. — For Senior Classes.

THE AUSTRALIAN LETTERING
BOOK.

Containing the Alphabets most useful in
Mapping, Exercise Headings, &c. with
practical applications, Easy Scrolls, Flou-
rishes, Borders, Corners, Rulings, &c.
Second Edition. New Edition, revised and
enlarged, cloth limp, Gd. (post free 7d.).

24

GEOGRAPHY OF AUSTRALIA
AND NEW ZEALAND.

With Definitions of Geographical Terms.

Second Edition, with 8 maps and 10 illus-
trations. 64 pages. 6d. (postjree 7d.).

GEOGRAPHY OF EUROPE,
ASIA AND AMERICA.

Second Edition, with 14 relief and other
maps, and 18 illustrations of transconti-
nental views, distribution of animals, &c.
84 pages 6d. (post free 7d).

GEOGRAPHY OF NEW SOUTH
WALES.

With five folding maps. 48 pages. 6d.
(postjree 7d.).

GEOGRAPHY OF AFRICA.

With five maps in relief, &c. 64 pages.
6d. (post free 7d.).

25

AUSTRALIAN SCHOOL SERIES.

Grammar and Derivation Book. 64 pages. 2d

Test Exercises in Grammar for 3rd Class, 1st Year.
tit pages. 2d.

Test Exercises in Grammar for 3rd Class, 2nd Year.
64 pages. 2d.

Table Book and Mental Arithmetic. 38 pages. Id.
Chief Events and Dates in English History. Part

I. From 55 B.C. to 1485 a.d. 50 pages. 2d.

Chief Events and Dates in English History. Part

II. From Henry VII. (1485) to Victoria (1900). C4
pages. 2d.

History of Australia. 53 pages. 2d.
Geography. Part I. Australasia and Polynesia. 64
pages. 2d.

Geography. Part II. Europe, Asia, America, and
Africa. 66 pages. 2d.

Euclid. Book I. With Definitions, Postulates, Axioms,
<kc. 64 pages. 2d.

Euclid. Book II. With Definitions and Exercises on
Books I. and II. 32 pages. 2d.

Euclid. Book III. With University " Junior " Papers
1891-1897. 60 pages. 2d.

Arithmetic— Exercises for Class II. 49 pages. 2d.

Answers, 2d.

26

Arithmetic— Exercises for Class III. 66 pages. 2d.

Answers, 2d.

Arithmetic— Exercises for Class IV. 65 pages. 2d.

Answers, 2d.

Arithmetic and Mensuration— Exercises for Class

V. With the Arithmetic Papers set at the Sydney
University Junior, the Public Service, the Sydney
Chamber of Commerce, and the Bankers' Institute
Examinations to 1900, ifcc. 112 pages. 4d.
Answers, 4d.

Algebra. Part I. 49 pages. 2d.
Answers, 2d.

Algfebra. Part II. To Quadratic Equations. Contains
over twelve hundred Exercises, including the Univer-
sity Junior, the Public Service, the Sydney Chamber
of Commerce, and the Bankers' Institute Examination
Papers to 1900, &c. 112 pages. 4d.
Answers, 4d.

THE AUSTRALASIAN
CATHOLIC SCHOOL SERIES.

History of Australia and New Zealand for Catholic
Schools, 117 pages. 4d.

Pupil's Companion to the Australian Catholic
First Reader, 32 pages, id.

Pupils Companion to the Australian Catholic
Second Reader, 64 pages. 2d.

Pupil's Companion to the Australian Catholic
Third Reader, 112 pages. 3d.

Pupil's Companion to the Australian Catholic
Fourth Reader, 160 pages. 4d.

27

THE AUSTRALIAN DRAWING
BOOK.

By F. W. WOODHOUSB, Superintendent of Drawing,
Department of Public Instruction, New South Wales.

Approved by the Department of Public
Instruction for use in the Public Schools of
New South Wales. Price, 3d. each.

No. 1A — Elementary, Straight Lines, Curves and Simple
Figures.

Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4 — Graduated Elementary Freehand,
ilar Forms, Simple Designs, &c.

Nos. 5 and 6 —Foliage, Flowers, Ornaments, Vase
Forms, &c.

No. 7— Book of Blank Pages.

N.S.W. Educational Gazette: "This series of
drawing books lias been arranged by the Superin-
tendent of Drawing for the purpose of enabling
teachers and pupils to meet fully the requirements of
the Public School Syllabus of 1899. It consists of
seven numbers, designed for the third, fourth and fifth
classes respectively, and there is also a book of blank
pages (No. 7). Nos. 1 to 4 treat of elementary
freehand, simple designs, pattern drawing, &c; Nos.
5 and 6 of foliage, flowers and ornaments. The copies
are excellently designed and executed, and carefully
graduated, and the books are printed on superior
drawing paper. ' The Australian Drawing Books'
should be used in every public school in the colony,
first on account of their intrinsic merit, and secondly
because they are the only books that accurately fit our
standard."

28

THE AUSTRALIAN COPY BOOK.

Approved by the Departments of Public
Instruction in New South Wales, Queensland
and Tasmania, by the Public Service Board
of New South Wales, and by the Chief
Inspector of Catholic Schools. Price, 2d.
each.

No. 1, Initiatory, Short Letters, Short "Words ; 2, Initiatory,
Long Letters, Words ; 3, Text, Capitals, Longer
Words ; 4, Half-Text, Short Sentences ; 5, Inter-
mediate, Australian and Geographical Sentences ; 6,
Small Hand, Double Ruling, Australian and Geo-
graphical Sentences, Prefixes and Examples ; 6a, Text,
Half-Text, Intermediate, Small Hand ; 7, Small Hand,
Single Ruling, Maxims, Quotations, Proverbs ; 8,
Advanced Small Hand, Abbreviations and Contractions
commonly met with ; 9, Commercial Terms and Forms,
Addresses ; 10, Commercial Forms, Correspondence,
Addresses; 11, Plain and Ornamental Lettering,
Mapping, Flourishes, &c.

Numerals are given in each number.

THE AUSTRALIAN PUPIL
TEACHERS' COPY BOOK.

A selection of pages from the Australian
Copy Book, arranged for use of Pupil
Teachers. 48 pages. Price, 6d.

29

ANGUS AND ROBERTSON'S
PENCIL COPY BOOK.

Approved by the N.S.W. Department of

Public Instruction. In nine numbers, id.
each.

*!No. 1, Initiatory linos, curves, letters, figures ; 2 and 3,
Short letters, easy combinations, figures; 4, Long letters,
short words, figures; 5, Long letters, words, figures ;
6, 7, and 8, Capitals, words, figures; 9, Short sentences,
figures.

GUIDE TO THE MUSICAL

EXAMINATIONS Held by the N.S.W.
Department of Public Instruction for
Teachers and Pupil Teachers in all grades.

By G. T. COTTERTLL. With the Papers set
in 1898, 1899, and 1900, and the Answers
thereto.

Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. (post free 2s. 2d.).

N.S.W. Educational Gazette: "The answers to
the questions on harmony set for second and
first class teachers, with the accompanying ex-
planatory matter, are alone worth the whole price
of the book. We would earnestly urge upon teachers
and pupil teachers intending to sic for examination
the wisdom of mastering the principles so clearly
enunciated in this valuable text-book."

30

GUIDES TO THE NEW SOUTH
WALES PUBLIC SERVICE
EXAMINATIONS.

No. I. — Containing the Papers set in
March, 1899 and Keys thereto, together
with the Regulations and Hints on suitable
Text-books. Cheaper edition. 8vo., paper
cover, Is. (postjree Is. Id.).

No. II. — Containing the Papers set in
August, 1900 and Keys thereto, together
with the revised Regulations and Hints on
suitable Text-books, and the Papers set at
the examination held in December, 1899.
Cheaper edition. 8vo, paper cover, Is.
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CALENDAR OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY.

8vo, linen, 2s. 6d. ; paper cover, Is.
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MANUAL OF PUBLIC
EXAMINATIONS HELD BY
THE UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY.

8vo., paper cover, Is. (post free Is. 3d.).

31

HANDBOOK FOR TEACHERS
OF INFANT SCHOOLS AND
JUNIOR CLASSES.

With colour chart nine colours and up-
wards of 100 illus. O. 8vo, cloth, is. <;<].
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QUALITATIVE ANALYSIS;

Notes and Tables for the Use of Students.

By Rev. J. MILNE CURRAN, Lecturer in Chemistry
and Geology, Technical College, Sydney, Author of
"The Geology of Sydney and the Blue Mountains."

With illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth gilt,
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ANNOUNCEMENTS

HISTORY OF

AUSTRALIAN BUSHRANGING.

By CHARLES WHITE. Vol. II— 18G3 to
1878, illustrated, crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.

EUCLID, BOOKS V., VI. AND XL

By J. D. ST.CLAIR MACLARDY, M.A.,

Lecturer at the Training Colleges, and
Examiner to the New South Wales Department
of Public Instruction. With Notes, Appendix,
and Miscellaneous Examples. Crown 8vo,
cloth. [Shortly.

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