At earliest dawn we were awakened by wild, despairing shrieks, and were
instinctively groping for our revolvers when we remembered the fatted
fowls and Cheon’s lonely vigil, and turning out, dressed hastily,
realising that Christmas had come, and the pullets had sung their last
“sing-out.”
When we appeared the stars were still dimly shining, but Cheon’s face
was as luminous as a full moon, as, greeting each and all of us with a
“Melly Clisymus,” he suggested a task for each and all. Some could see
about taking the Vealer down from the gallows; six lubras were “rounded
up” for the plucking of the pullets, while the rest of us were sent out,
through wet grass and thicket, into the cold, grey dawn, to gather in
“big, big mob bough and mistletoe,” for the beautifying of all things.
How we worked! With Cheon at the helm, every one was of necessity
enthusiastic. The Vealer was quartered in double-quick time, and the
first fitful rays of sunlight found their way to the Creek crossing to
light up an advancing forest of boughs and mistletoe clumps that moved
forward on nimble black legs.
In a gleaming, rustling procession the forest of green boughs advanced,
all crimson-flecked with mistletoe and sunlight, and prostrated itself
around us in mighty heaps at the head of the homestead thoroughfare.
Then the nimble black legs becoming miraculously endowed with nimble
black bodies and arms, soon the gleaming boughs were piled high upon the
iron roof of the Eastern verandah to keep our impromptu dining-hall cool
and fresh. High above the roof rose the greenery, and over the edge of
the verandah, throughout its length, hung a deep fringe of green,
reaching right down to the ground at the posts; everywhere among the
boughs trailed long strands of bright red mistletoe, while within the
leafy bower itself hanging four feet deep from the centre of the high
roof one dense elongated mass of mistletoe swayed gently in the breeze,
its heaped-up scarlet blossoms clustering about it like a swarm of
glorious bees.
Cheon interrupted the decorations with a call to “Bressfass! Duck cully
and lice,” he sang boldly, and then followed in a doubtful, hesitating
quaver: “I—think—sausage. Must have sausage for Clisymus bress-fass,” he
said emphatically, as he ushered us to seats, and we agreed with our
usual “Of course!” But we found fried balls of minced collops, which
Cheon hastened to explain would have been sausages if only he had had
skins to pack them into.
“Him close up sausage!” he assured us, but that anxious quaver was back
in his voice, and to banish all clouds from his loyal old heart, we ate
heartily of the collops, declaring they were sausages in all BUT skins.
Skins, we persuaded him, were merely appendages to sausages, barriers,
in fact, between men and delectable feasts; and satisfied that we were
satisfied, he became all beams once more, and called our attention to
the curried duck.
The duck discussed, he hinted that dinner was the be all and end all of
“Clisymus,” and, taking the hint, we sent the preparations merrily
forward.
Every chair and stool on the run was mustered; two tables were placed
end to end beneath that clustering, mistletoe and covered with clean
white tablecloths—remembering the story of the rags and hobble rings we
refrained from serviettes—the hop-beer was set in canvas water bags to
keep it cool; and Cheon pointing out that the approach from the kitchens
was not all that could be desired, an enormous tent-fly was stretched
away from the roof of the verandah, extending it half-way to the
kitchen, and further greenery was used, decorating it within and without
to make it a fitting passage-way for the transport of Cheon’s triumphs.
Then Cheon’s kitchen decorations were renewed and added to; and after
that further suggestions suggested and attended to. Everything that
could be done was done, and by eight o’clock all was ready for Cheon’s
triumphs, all but our appetites and time of day.
By nine o’clock Mac and Tam had arrived, and after everything had been
sufficiently admired, we trooped in a body to the kitchen, obedient to a
call from Cheon.
Triumph after triumph was displayed, and after listening gravely and
graciously to our assurances that already everything was “more better’n
Pine Creek last year,” Cheon allowed us a glimpse of the pudding through
a cloud of steam, the company standing reverently around the fire trench
in a circle, as it bent over the bubbling boiler; then scuttling away
before us like an old hen with a following of chickens, he led the way
to the waterbags, and asked our opinion on the hop-beer: “You think him
jump-up longa dinner time? Eh, boss?” he said anxiously, as the Maluka,
holding a bottle between us and the light, examined it critically. “Me
make him three o’clock longa night-time.”
It looked remarkably still and tranquil, but we hoped for the best, and
half an hour later were back at the waterbags, called thither to decide
whether certain little globules were sediment or air-bubbles. Being
sanguine, we decided in favour of bubbles, and in another half-hour were
called back again to the bags to see that the bubbles were bubbles
indeed, having dropped in at the kitchens on our way to give an opinion
on veal stuffing and bread sauce; and within another half-hour were
peering into the oven to inspect further triumphs of cooking.
Altogether the morning passed quickly and merrily, any time Cheon left
us being spent in making our personal appearance worthy of the feast.
Scissors and hand-glasses were borrowed, and hair cut, and chins shaved,
until we feared our Christmas guests would look like convicts. Then the
Dandy producing blacking brushes, boots that had never seen blacking
before, shone like ebony. After that a mighty washing of hands took
place, to remove the blacking stain; and then the Quarters settled down
to a general “titivation,” Tam “cleaning his nails for Christmas,” amid
great applause.
By eleven o’clock the Dandy was immaculate, the guests satisfied that
they “weren’t too dusty,” while the Maluka, in spotless white relieved
with a silk cummerbund and tie, bid fair to outdo the Dandy. Even the
Quiet Stockman had succeeded in making a soft white shirt “look as
though it had been ironed once.” And then every lubra being radiant with
soap, new dresses, and ribbons, the missus, determined not be to outdone
in the matter of Christmas finery, burrowed into trunks and boxes, and
appeared in cream washing silk, lace fichu, ribbons, rings, and
frivolities—finery, by the way, packed down south for that “commodious
station home.”
Cheon was enraptured with the appearance of his company, and worked, and
slaved, and chuckled in the kitchen as only Cheon could, until at last
the critical moment had arrived. Dinner was ready, but an unforeseen
difficulty had presented itself. How was it to be announced, Cheon
queried, having called the missus to the kitchen for a hasty
consultation, for was it wise to puff up the Quarters with a chanted
summons?
A compromise being decided on as the only possible course, after the
booming teamster’s bell had summoned the Quarters, Cheon, all in white
himself, bustled across to the verandah to call the gentry to the dinner
by word of mouth:—“Dinner! Boss! Missus!” he sang—careful to specify his
gentry, for not even reflected glory was to be shed over the Quarters.
Then, moving in and out among the greenery as he put finishing touches
to the table here and there, he glided into the wonders of his Christmas
menu: “Soo-oup! Chuckie! Ha-am! Roooast Veal-er!” he chanted. “Cauli-
flower! Pee-es! Bee-ens! Toe-ma-toes!” (with a regretful “tinned” in
parenthesis)—“Shweet Poo-tay-toes! Bread Sau-ce!” On and on through
mince pies, sweets, cakes, and fruits, went the monotonous chant, the
Maluka and the missus standing gravely at attention, until a triumphant
paeon of “Plum-m-m Poo-dinn!” soared upwards as Cheon waddled off
through the decorated verandah extension for his soup tureen.
But a sudden, unaccountable shyness had come over the Quarters, and as
Cheon trundled away, a hurried argument reached our ears of “Go on! You
go first!” “No, you. Here! none of that”; and then, after a short
subdued scuffle, the Dandy, looking slightly dishevelled, came through
the doorway with just the suspicion of assistance from within; and the
ice being thus broken the rest of the company came forward in a body and
slipped into whichever seat came handiest.
As all of us, with the exception of the Dandy, were Scotch, four of us
being Macs, the Maluka chose our Christmas grace from Bobby Burns; and
quietly and reverently our Scotch hearts listened to those homely words:
“Some ha’e meat, and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we
ha’e meat, and we can eat, And so the Lord be thankit.”
Then came Cheon’s turn, and gradually and cleverly his triumphs were
displayed.
To begin with, we were served to clear soup—“just to tickle your
palates,” the Maluka announced, as Cheon in a hoarse whisper instructed
him to serve “little-fellow-helps” anxious that none of the keenness
should be taken from our appetites. All served, the tureen was whisked
away to ensure against further inroads, and then Cheon trundled round
the table, removing the soup plates, inquiring of each guest in turn if
he found the soup to his liking, and informing all that lubras were on
guard in the kitchen, lest the station cats should so far forget
themselves as to take an unlawful interest in our dinner.
The soup finished with, Cheon disappeared into the kitchen regions, to
reappear almost immediately at the head of a procession of lubras, each
of whom carried a piece de resistance to the feast: Jimmy’s Nellie
leading with the six pullets on one great dish, while Bett-Bett brought
up the rear with the bread sauce. On through a vista of boughs and
mistletoe came the triumphs—how glad we were the way had been made more
worthy of their progress—the lubras, of course, were with them, but we
had eyes only for the triumphs: Those pullets all a-row with plump brown
breasts bursting with impatience to reveal the snowy flesh within;
marching behind them that great sizzling “haunch” of veal, taxing Rosy’s
strength to the utmost; then Mine Host’s crisply crumbed ham trudging
along, and filling Bertie’s Nellie with delight, with its tightly
bunched little wreath of mistletoe usurping the place of the orthodox
paper frill; behind again vegetable dishes two abreast, borne by the
lesser lights of the staff (lids off, of course: none of our glory was
to be hidden under covers); tailing along with the rejected and gravy
boats came laden soup-plates to eke out the supply of vegetable dishes;
and, last of all, that creamy delight of bread sauce, borne sedately and
demurely by Bett-Bett.
As the triumphs ranged themselves into a semi-circle at the head of the
table, our first impulse was to cheer, but obeying a second impulse we
did something infinitely better, for, as Cheon relieved his grinning
waitresses, we assured him collectively, and individually, and
repeatedly that never had any one seen anything in Pine Creek so
glorious as even the dimmest shadow of this feast; and as we reiterated
our assurance, I doubt if any man in all the British Empire was prouder
or more justified in his pride than our Cheon. Cook and gardener
forsooth! Cheon was Cheon, and only Cheon; and there is no word in the
English language to define Cheon or the position he filled, simply
because there was never another like Cheon.
“Chuckie!” he sang, placing the pullets before the Maluka, and
dispatching Jimmy’s Nellie for hot plates; “Roast Vealer for Mac,” and
as Mac smiled and acknowledged the honour, Rosy was dismissed. “Boilee
Ham” was allotted to the Dandy; and as Bertie’s Nellie scampered away,
Cheon announced other triumphs in turn and in order of merit, each of
the company receiving a dish also in order of merit: Tam-o’-Shanter
contenting himself with the gravy boat, while, from the beginning, the
Quiet Stockman had been honoured with the hop-beer.
Long before the last waitress was relieved, the carvers were at work,
and the company was bubbling over with merriment. “Have some veal,
chaps?” the Sanguine Scot said, opening the ball by sticking a carving
fork into the great joint, and waving the knife in a general way round
the company; then as the gravy sizzed out in a steaming gurgle he added
invitingly: “Come on, chaps! This is VEAL prime stuff! None of your
staggering Bob tack”; and the Maluka and the Dandy bidding against him,
to Cheon’s delight, every one “came on” for some of everything; for veal
and ham and chicken and several vegetables and sauces blend wonderfully
together when a Cheon’s hand has been at the helm.
The higher the plates were piled the more infectious Cheon’s chuckle
became, until nothing short of a national calamity could have checked
our flow of spirits. Mishaps only added to our enjoyment, and when a
bottle of hop-beer went off unexpectedly as the Quiet Stockman was
preparing to open it, and he, with the best intentions in the world,
planted his thumb over the mouth of the bottle, and directed two
frothing streams over himself and the company in general, the delight of
every one was unbounded—a delight intensified a hundredfold by Cheon,
who, with his last doubt removed, danced and gurgled in the background,
chuckling in an ecstasy of joy: “My word, missus! That one beer PLENTY
jump up!” As there were no carpets to spoil, and every one’s clothes had
been washed again and again, no one’s temper was spoiled, and a clean
towel quickly repairing all damages, our only regret was that a bottle
of beer had been lost.
But the plum-pudding was yet to come, and only Cheon was worthy to carry
it to the feast; and as he came through the leafy way, bearing the huge
mottled ball, as big as a bullock’s head—all ablaze with spirits and
dancing light and crowned with mistletoe—it would have been difficult to
say which looked most pleased with itself, Cheon or the pudding; for
each seemed wreathed in triumphant smiles.
We held our breaths in astonishment, each feeling like the entire
Cratchit family rolled into one, and by the time we had recovered
speech, Cheon was soberly carrying one third of the pudding to the
missus. The Maluka had put it aside on a plate to simplify the serving
of the pudding, and Cheon, sure that the Maluka could mean such a goodly
slice for no one but the missus, had carried it off.
There were to be no “little-fellow helps” this time. Cheon saw to that,
returning the goodly slice to the Maluka under protest, and urging all
to return again and again for more. How he chuckled as we hunted for the
“luck” and the “wealth,” like a parcel of children, passing round
bushman jokes as we hunted.
“Too much country to work,” said one of the Macs, when after a second
helping they were both still “missing.” “Covered their tracks all
right,” said another. The Quiet Stockman “reckoned they were bushed all
right.” “Going in a circle,” the sick Mac suggested, and then a shout
went up as the Dandy found the “luck” in his last mouthful.
“Perhaps some one’s given the “wealth” to his dog,” Tam suggested, to
our consternation; for that was more than possible, as the dogs from
time to time had received tit-bits from their masters as a matter of
course.
But the man who deserved it most was to find it. As we sat sipping tea,
after doing our best with the cakes and water-melons, we heard strange
gurgles in the kitchen, and then Cheon appeared choking and coughing,
but triumphantly announcing that he had found the wealth in his first
mouthful. “My word! Me close up gobble him,” he chuckled, exhibiting the
pudding-coated threepence, and not one of us grudged him his good omens.
May they have been fulfilled a thousand-fold!
Undoubtedly our Christmas dinner was a huge success—from a black
fellow’s point of view it was the most sensible thing we Whites had ever
organised; for half the Vealer, another huge pudding, several yards of
sweet currant “brownie,’” a new pipe apiece, and a few pounds of tobacco
had found their way to the “humpy”; and although headaches may have been
in the near future, there was never a heartache among them.
All afternoon we sat and chatted as only the bush-folk can (the bush-
folk are only silent when in uncongenial society), “putting in” a fair
amount of time writing our names on one page of an autograph album; and
as strong brown hands tried their utmost to honour Christmas day with
something decent in the way of writing, each man declared that he had
never written so badly before, while the company murmured: “Oh, yours is
all right. Look at mine!”
Jack, however, was the exception; for when his turn came, with quiet
humour he “thought that on the whole his was a bit better’n last
Christmas,” which naturally set us discussing the advantages of
learning; but when we all agreed “it would be a bit off having to employ
a private secretary when you were doing a bit of courting,” Jack
hastened to assure us that “courting” would never be in his line—coming
events do not always throw shadows before them. Thus from “learning” we
slipped into “courtship” and marriage, and on into life—life and its
problems—and, chatting, agreed that, in spite of, or perhaps BECAUSE of,
its many acknowledged disadvantages, the simple, primitive bush-life is
the sweetest and best of all—sure that although there may have been more
imposing or less unconventional feasts elsewhere that Christmas day, yet
nowhere in all this old round world of ours could there have been a
happier, merrier, healthier-hearted gathering. No one was bored. No one
wished himself elsewhere. All were sure of their welcome. All were
light-hearted and at ease; although no one so far forgot himself as to
pour his hop-beer into the saucer in a lady’s presence, for, low be it
spoken, although the missus had a glass tumbler, there were only two on
the run, and the men-folk drank the Christmas healths from cups, and
enamel at that; for a Willy-Willy had taken Cheon unaware when he was
laden with a tray containing every glass and china cup fate had left us,
and, as by a miracle, those two glasses had been saved from the
wreckage.
But enamel cups were no hardships to the bush-folk, and besides, nothing
inconvenienced us that day—excepting perhaps doing justice to further
triumphs at afternoon tea; and all we had to wish for was the company of
Dan and the Fizzer.
To add to the general comfort, a gentle north-west breeze blew all
through the day, besides being what Bett-Bett called a “shady day,”
cloudy and cool; and to add to the general rejoicing, before we had
quite done with “Clisymus” an extra mail came in per black boy—a mail
sent out to us by the “courtesy of our officers” at the Katherine,
“seeing some of the packages felt like Christmas.”
It came to us on the verandah. Two very full Mailbags borne by two very
empty black boys, and in an incredibly short space of time there were
two very full black boys, and two very empty mail-bags; for the mail was
our delayed mail, and exactly what we wanted; and the boys had found all
they wanted at Cheon’s hospitable hands.
But even Christmas days must come to an end; and as the sun slipped down
to the west, Mac and Tam “reckoned it was time to be getting a move on
“; and as they mounted amid further Christmas wishes, with saddle-
pouches bursting with offerings from Cheon for “Clisymus supper,” a
strange feeling of sadness crept in among us, and we wondered where “we
would all be next Christmas.” Then our Christmas guests rode out into
the forest, taking with them the sick Mac, and as they faded from our
sight we knew that the memory of that Christmas day would never fade out
of our lives; for we bush-folk have long memories and love to rest now
and then beside the milestones of the past.