Chapter 2 “Shimy Shirts”

For at least a week after we reached the homestead, Bett-Bett was kept

busy protecting Sue from the station dogs. We hadn’t been home an hour

before we heard a fearful yell, and running to see what could have

happened, found that all the dogs on the place had set on the poor

little beast, and were trying to worry her to death.

With a shriek Bett-Bett flew to the rescue. As she ran she picked up a

thick stick, and with it fought and hammered and screamed her way

into the biting, yelping mob of dogs; then picking up the dusty little

speckled ball, she fought and hammered and screamed her way out again

to a place of safety. There she sat and crooned over Sue, who licked her

face and tried to say—“How good you are, Bett-Bett.”

I don’t know how many fights we had altogether, for the dogs kept at it

till they were tired of the fun, which was not before Sue was nearly in

tatters.

While Bett-Bett was fighting these battles I was busy sewing, making

clothes for her. To begin with, I made her a bright blue dress which

pleased her very much, and the singlet was kept for a night-dress, for

she would not part with it altogether. Then I made some little white

petticoats which she called “Shimy Shirts.” When these were finished

I began to make a red dress; but oh dear, the fuss she made! and the

fright she got into! In funny pidgin English and with much waving of

her arms, she said that if you had on a red dress when there was a

thunderstorm the Debbil-debbil who made the thunder would “come on”

and kill you “dead-fellow.” When I heard this, of course I made a pink

dress, as I didn’t want the Thunder-Debbil-debbil to run off with her.

Besides, he might have been angry with me for making red dresses for

little native girls.

This Debbil-debbil is a funny sort of person, for although he gets

furious if he sees a lubra dressed in red, it pleases him wonderfully to

see an old blackfellow with as much red on as he can find. Do you know,

if this Thunder-Debbil-debbil is roaring dreadfully, and happens to

catch sight of an old man with plenty of red handkerchiefs, and scarves

of red feathers tied round him, it puts him into such a good temper that

he can’t help smiling, and then nobody gets hurt. But sometimes even a

blackfellow with yards of red stuff wound round him can do nothing to

quiet this raging Debbil-debbil; then everybody knows that the lubras

have been wearing red dresses. Such wicked, selfish people deserve to

be punished, and it’s quite a comfort to think that very soon Mr.

Thunder-Debbil-debbil will get hold of them and “kill them deadfellow.”

Of course, if anybody gets killed by mistake, it will be their fault,

for they should have given all their red things to their husbands.

Page 6

Billy Muck, one of the wise old men of the tribe, told Bett-Bett this

fearful story. Bett-Bett was engaged to be married to Billy Muck, and

it was his duty to teach her these things. I fancy Billy made it up, I

don’t know; but the wise old men, who are supposed to know everything,

have a cunning little way of telling awful tales about Debbil-debbils,

so as to get the best things for themselves.

For ages upon ages the old men have told the young men and lubras that

they must not eat fat turkeys, or the tail of the kangaroo, or indeed

any of the best things that they find when hunting. If they do, a

terrible thing will happen, for a big hunting Debbil-debbil will come on

with a rush, and in a moment make them very old and weak. “Look at us!”

cry the old rascals. “We eat these things, and behold, we are weak

old men, with no strength to fight an enemy!” This looks so true that

nobody—excepting the old men—cares about eating turkeys, and kangaroo

tails, and such things.

Bett-Bett believed all these tales, for she was a little nigger, every

bit of her. Like all niggers, she had such a generous heart that she

could not bear to have anything good without sharing it with everybody.

This was rather a nuisance, for as soon as her clothes were finished she

wanted to give most of them to the other lubras.

“Him no more got goodfellow dress, Missus,” she said, almost crying,

when I told her she must keep her clothes for herself. I didn’t know

what to do; it seemed wrong to teach her to be greedy and selfish, so I

had to say that I would make the lubras a new dress each.

This made everybody shriek with delight and for another week we had a

merry time choosing colours, sewing dresses, and conducting dog fights.

Fortunately the lubras said that “Shimy Shirts” were “silly fellow,” or

I suppose I would have had to make enough of these to go round as well.

Among the things I had given Bett-Bett was a warm “bluey” or rug, and

wrapped in this she and Sue slept on the bath-room floor every night.

She preferred the floor to a bed, and was very funny about my spring

mattress—“Him too muchee jump-up jump-up,” she said scornfully.

At bedtime, dressed in her gay singlet, she made her bed. First she

spread her “bluey” out on the floor, and jumped and pranced wildly

about till she had managed to fold it in four, Then she lifted a corner

carefully, and she and Sue crept in like a pair of young opossums. While

they were settling themselves the rug bulged and wobbled and wriggled so

much, that it looked as though it were playing at earthquakes. At last,

when all was quiet, two pairs of very bright eyes peeped out at the top

of the bluey, looking for the supper biscuit that I always had ready. As

soon as I offered it, out came a thin black arm, and then Bett-Bett, Sue

and biscuit disappeared for the night.

It was no use trying to keep these two apart. They simply could not

understand why they should not sleep together; so I told Bett-Bett that

Sue must have plenty of baths, and that if I ever found one single tick

on her, the little dog would have to be given a whipping.

The thought of such a fearful punishment for them both made Bett-Bett

shiver with fear. She called Sue and told her all about it, and made her

understand that she would have to lie still and be hunted in, so that

every horrid little insect could be found and killed. So every day, and

many times a day, they had a tick-hunt, and Bett-Bett managed to make a

great game of it.

She talked to herself all the time, and pretended that the ticks were

wicked people, and that she was a terrible Debbil-debbil, who caught

them and killed them “dead-fellow.” How she did grin as she scrunched

them between two stones.

One morning Bett-Bett was very quiet on the verandah, with Sue asleep

beside her. I wondered what she was doing, and went out to see. She was

busy unravelling threads from some pieces of rag, and I asked her what

they were for. “Me makem string,” she answered, and taking up a few

threads, stuck one of her thin little legs straight out in front of her.

Pulling up her dress, she laid the threads on her thigh, and with the

palm of her hand rolled them quickly backwards and forwards. In a few

seconds she grinned and held up a little piece of string in her fingers.

I was very interested, and sat watching her till she had made quite

a yard; then, to help to amuse her, gave her a big bundle of coloured

scraps of rag.

After a day or two, she came and showed me a pretty little bag that she

had made, by weaving and knotting this string together.

“You are a good little girl, Bett-Bett,” I said. “Now come and help me

tidy your box.”

When her clean clothes were neatly in place, I found that the “Shimy

Shirts” were all missing, and asked where they were.

“Me knock up longa Shimy Shirts,” Bett-Bett said with a grin, meaning

that she was tired of wearing them.

“But where are they?” I said.

“Longa string,” she answered cheerfully. “Me bin make em.”

Then I knew that the piles of rag she had unravelled to make into string

were her new “Shimy Shirts.”

I was really angry with her now, and set her to sew at a new one. She

obeyed with such a cheerful grin that I began to feel quite mean for

punishing her, for how could she understand that it was wrong to tear up

her own things?

I was just going to tell her to run and play, when I heard a merry

little chuckle from under the verandah. Looking to see what the fun was,

I found that Bett-Bett was having a tick-hunt. She had just found

an extra big one between Sue’s toes, which she dragged from its

hiding-place and threaded on to her needle and cotton. As she held her

thread up for me to admire, I saw that she had about a dozen of the

horrid creatures, hanging down like a string of beads. I felt quite

sick.

“Bett-Bett,” I said, “you have done enough sewing; take some soap, and

go and give yourself and Sue a good bath.”

Off they went to the creek like a pair of gay young wallabies, hopping

and skipping over everything.

In a few minutes they were both nearly white with soap lather, dancing a

wild sort of corrobboree on an old tree trunk. The dance ended suddenly

with a leap into “middle water,” as Bett-Bett called the deep holes.

They loved a bath, these two—“bogey,” the blacks call it—but neither of

them would have soap on their faces.

“Him”—meaning the soap—“bite eye belonga me,” Bett-Bett explained.