M 
 
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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 
 
 r8 3 
 
 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. 
 
 tin 1 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 flow r ers 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 graft 1 : 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. W T e 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 tin 1 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 w r onder 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 ) f ou 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
 
 I ss 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. 
 
 W r hcn 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 w r orked, 
 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 tow r ns 
 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 w r ere 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. 
 (■post free Is. Id.). 
 
 CALENDAR OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY. 
 
 8vo, linen, 2s. 6d. ; paper cover, Is. 
 (postage 8d.J. 
 
 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. <;<]. 
 (post free Is. 8d.J 
 
 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, 
 4s. 6d. (iiost free 5s.). 
 
 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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