the beginning. He was now graver even than usual while he briefly
addressed his youthful auditors.
"My dear children," he said, "I am going away, and have to leave you
in the care of this young lady, Miss Edgeworth. I am sure you will
find her to be a better teacher than myself, because she has been
trained in the schools of the great city of Dublin, and I,
unfortunately, had no training at all; she is highly educated, and
will be, I doubt not, a perfect blessing to the rising generation of
the Rocky Waterholes. I hope you will be diligent, obedient, and
respectful to her. Good-bye, and God bless you all."
These words were spoken in the tone of a judge passing sentence of
death on a criminal, and Miss Edgeworth was in doubt whether it would
be becoming under the circumstances to laugh or to cry, so she made
no speech in reply. She said afterwards to Mrs. Martin, "Mr. Philip
must have been a most severe master; I can see sternness on his
brow." Moreover, she was secretly aware that she did not deserve his
compliments, and that her learning was limited, especially in
arithmetic; she had often to blame the figures for not adding up
correctly. For this reason she had a horror of examinations, and
every time the inspector came round she was in a state of mortal
fear. His name was Bonwick. He was a little man, but he was so
learned that the teachers looked forward to his visits with awe. A
happy idea came into Miss Edgeworth's mind. She was, it is true, not
very learned, nor was she perfect in the practice of the twelve
virtues, but she had some instinctive knowledge of the weakness of
the male man. Mr. Bonwick was an author, a learned author who had
written books--among others a school treatise on geography. Miss
Edgeworth bought two copies of this work, and took care to place them
on her table in the school every morning with the name of the author
in full view. On his next visit Mr. Bonwick's searching eyes soon
detected the presence of his little treatise, and he took it up with
a pleased smile. This was Miss Edgeworth's opportunity; she said, in
her opinion, the work was a must excellent one, and extremely well
adapted for the use of schools.
The inspector was more than satisfied; a young lady of so much
judgment and discrimination was a peerless teacher, and Miss
Edgeworth's work was henceforward beyond all question.
There were no coaches running to Nyalong, and, as Philip's poverty
did not permit him to purchase a horse, and he had scruples about
stealing one, he packed up his swag and set out on foot. It may be
mentioned as bearing on nothing in particular that, after Philip had
taken leave of Miss Edgeworth, she stood at a window, flattened her
little nose against one of the panes, and watched him trudging away
as long as he was in sight. Then she said to Mrs. Martin:
"Ain't it a pity that so respectable a young man should be tramping
through the bush like a pedlar with a pack?"
"No, indeed, miss, not a bit of it," replied Mrs. Martin; "nearly
every man in the country has had to travel with his swag one time or
another. We are all used to it; and it ain't no use of your looking
after him that way, for most likely you'll never see him again." But
she did.
About two miles from the Waterholes Philip overtook another swagman,
a man of middle age, who was going to Nyalong to look for work. He
had tried the diggings, and left them for want of luck, and Philip,
having himself been an unlucky digger, had a fellow feeling for the
stranger. He was an old soldier named Summers.
"I am three and fifty years old," he said, "and I 'listed when I was
twenty. I was in all the wars in India for nineteen years, and never
was hit but once, and that was on the top of my head. Look here," he
took off his hat and pointed to a ridge made by the track of a
bullet, "if I had been an inch taller I shouldn't be here now. And
maybe it would have been all the better. I have been too long at the
fighting to learn another trade now. When I 'listed I was told my
pay would be a shilling a day and everything found. A shilling a day
is seven shillings a week, and I thought I should live like a
fighting cock, plenty to eat and a shilling a day for drink or sport.
But I found out the difference when it was too late. They kept a
strict account against every man; it was full of what they called
deductions, and we had to pay for so many things out of that shilling
that sometimes for months together I hadn't the price of a pint o'
threepenny with a trop o' porter through it."
"What was the biggest battle you ever were in?" enquired Philip.
"Well, I had some close shaves, but the worst was when we took a
stockade from the Burmans. My regiment was the 47th, and one company
of ours, sixty-five, rank and file, and two companies from other
regiments were ordered to attack it. Our officers were all shot down
before we reached the stockade, but we got in, and went at the
Burmans with the bayonet. But such a crowd came at us from the rear
of the stockade that we had to go out again, and we ran down the
hill. Our ranks were broken, and we had no time to rally before a
lot of horsemen were among us. My bayonet was broken, and I had
nothing but my empty musket to fight with. I warded off the sabre
cuts with it right and left, so, dodging among the horses, and I was
not once wounded. It was all over in a hot minute or two, but, when
the supports came up, and we were afterwards mustered, only five men
of our company answered the roll-call. Of course I was one of them,
and the barrel of my musket was notched like a saw by all the strokes
I had parried with it." The last time Philip saw Summers he was
hammering bluestone by the roadside. The pomp and circumstance of
glorious war had left him in hisold age little better than a beggar.
Philip found Nyalong without much trouble, and renewed the
acquaintance begun at Bendigo with Mr. Barton and the other diggers.
To all appearance his promotion was not worth much; he might as well
have stayed at the Waterholes. Mr. McCarthy acted as school director
--an honorary office--and he showed Philip the school. He said:
"It is not of much account, I must acknowledge; we were short of
funds, and had to put it up cheap. Most of the wall, you see, is
only half a brick thick, and, during the sudden gusts that come
across the lake, the north side bulges inward a good deal; so, when
you hear the wind coming you had better send the children outside
until the gale is over. That is what Mr. Foy, the last teacher did.
And, I must tell you also this school has gone to the dogs; there are
some very bad boys here--the Boyles and the Blakes. When they saw
Mr. Foy was going to use his cane on them they would dart out of the
school, the master after them. Then there was a regular steeplechase
across the paddocks, and every boy and girl came outside to watch it,
screaming and yelling. It was great fun, but it was not
school-teaching. I am afraid you will never manage the Boyles and
the Blakes. Mr. McLaggan, the minister, once found six of them
sitting at the foot of a gum tree, drinking a bottle of rum. He
spoke to them, told them that they were young reprobates, and were
going straight to hell. Hugh Boyle held out the bottle, and said,
'Here, Mr. McLaggan, wouldn't you like a nip yourself?' The minister
was on horseback, and always carried a whip with a heavy lash, and it
was a beautiful sight the way he laid the lash on those Boyles and
Blakes. I really think you had better turn them out of the school,
Mr. Philip, or else they will turn you out."
Mr. Philip's lips closed with a snap. He said, "It is my duty to
educate them; turning them out of school is not education. We will
see what can be done."
As everyone knows, the twelve virtues of a good master are Gravity,
Silence, Humility, Prudence, Wisdom, Patience, Discretion, Meekness,
Zeal, Vigilance, Piety, and Generosity. I don't suppose any teacher
was ever quite perfect in the practice of them, but a sincere
endeavour is often useful. On reflection, Philip thought it best to
add two other virtues to the catalogue--viz., Firmness, and a Strap
of Sole-Leather.
There was a full attendance of scholars the first morning, and when
all the names had been entered on the roll, Philip observed that the
Boyles and the Blakes were all there; they were expecting some new
kind of fun with the new master. In order that the fun might be
inside the school and not all over the paddocks, Philip placed his
chair near the door, and locked it. Then education began; the
scholars were all repeating their lessons, talking to one another
aloud and quarrelling.
"Please, sir, Josh Blake's a-pinching me." "Please, sir, Hugh Boyle
is a-scroodgin." "Please, sir, Nancy Toomey is making faces at me."
It was a pandemonium of little devils, to be changed, if possible,
into little angels. The master rose from the chair, put up one hand,
and said: "Silence!"
Every eye was on him, every tongue was silent, and every ear was
listening, "Joseph Blake and Hugh Boyle, come this way." They did so.
"No one here is to shout or talk, or read in a loud voice. If any of
you want to speak to me you must hold up your hand, so. When I nod
you can come to me. If you don't do everything I tell you, you will
be slapped on the hand, or somewhere else, with this strap."
He held it up to view. It was eighteen inches long, three inches
broad, heavy, and pliant. The sight of it made Tommy Traddles and
many other little boys and girls good all at once; but Joseph and
Hugh went back to their seats grinning at one another. Mr. Foy had
often talked that way, but it always came to nothing.
Hugh was the hero of the school, or rather the leading villain. In
about two minutes he called out, "Please, sir, Josh Blake is
a-shoving me with his elbow."
"Hugh Boyle, come this way." He came.
"Now, Hugh, I told you that there must be no speaking or reading
aloud. Of course you forgot what I said; you should have put up your
hand."
In the course of the day Hugh received two slaps, then three, then
four. He began to fear the strap as well as to feel it. That was
the beginning of wisdom.
Nancy Toomey was naughty, and was sent into a corner. She was sulky
and rebellious when told to return to her seat. She said, in the
hearing of Tommy Traddles, "The master is a carroty-headed crawler."
It is as well to remark that Philip's hair was red; a man with red
hair is apt to be of a hasty temper, and, as a matter of fact, I had
seen Philip's fist fly out very rapidly on several occasions before
he began to practise the twelve virtues.
Tommy put up his hand, and, at a nod, went up to the master.
"Well, Tommy, what is the matter?"
"Please, sir, Nancy Toomey has been calling you a carroty-headed crawler."
Tommy's eyebrows were raised, his eyes and mouth wide open. Philip
looked over his head at Nancy, whose face was on fire. He slowly
repeated:
"Nancy Toomey has been calling me a carroty-headed crawler, has she?"
"Yes, sir. That's what she called you. I heard her."
"Well, Tommy, go to your seat like a good boy. Nancy won't call
names any more."
In a little more than a week perfect discipline and good order
prevailed in the school.
A BUSH HERMIT.
It is not good for man to be alone, but Philip became a hermit. Half
a mile from the school and the main road there was an empty slab hut
roofed with shingles. It was on the top of a long sloping hill,
which afforded a beautiful view over the lake and the distant hills.
Half an acre of garden ground was fenced in with the hut, and it was
part of the farm of a man from Hampshire, England, who lived with his
wife near the main road. A man from Hampshire is an Englishman, and
should speak English; but, when Philip tried to make a bargain about
the hut, he could not understand the Hampshire language, and the
farmer's wife had to interpret. And that farmer lived to the age of
eighty years, and never learned to speak English. He was not a fool
by any means; knew all about farming; worked twelve or fourteen hours
a day all the year round, having never heard of the eight hours
system; but he talked, and prayed, and swore all his life in the
Hampshire dialect. Whenever he spoke to the neighbours a look of
pain and misery came over them. Sometimes he went to meetings, and
made a speech, but he was told to go and fetch a Chinaman to
interpret.
Philip entered into possession of the hut. It had two rooms, and the
furniture did not cost much. At Adams' store he bought a camp oven,
an earthenware stew-pot, a milk pan, a billy, two pannikins, two
spoons, a whittle, and a fork. The extra pannikin and spoon were for
the use of visitors, for Philip's idea was that a hermit, if not
holy, should be at least hospitable. With an axe and saw he made his
own furniture--viz., two hardwood stools, one of which would seat
two men; for a table he sawed off the butt end of a messmate, rolled
it inside the hut, and nailed on the top of it a piece of a pine
packing case. His bedstead was a frame of saplings, with strong
canvas nailed over it, and his mattress was a sheet of stringy bark,
which soon curled up at the sides and fitted him like a coffin. His
pillow was a linen bag filled with spare shirts and socks, and under
it he placed his revolver, in case he might want it for unwelcome
visitors.
Patrick Duggan's wife did the laundry work, and refused to take
payment in cash. But she made a curious bargain about it. A priest
visited Nyalong only once a month; he lived fifty miles away; when
Mrs. Duggan was in her last sickness he might be unable to administer
to her the rites of the church. So her bargain was, that in case the
priest should be absent, the schoolmaster, as next best man, was to
read prayers over her grave. Philip thought there was something
strange, perhaps simoniacal, about the bargain. Twice Mrs. Duggan,
thinking she was on the point of death, sent a messenger to remind
him of his duty; and when at last she did die, he was present at the
funeral, and read the prayers for the dead over her grave.
Avarice is a vice so base that I never heard of any man who would
confess that he had ever been guilty of it. Philip was my best
friend, and I was always loath to think unkindly of him, but at this
time I really think he began to be rather penurious--not
avaricious, certainly not. But he was not a hermit of the holiest
kind. He began to save money and acquire stock. He had not been
long on the hill before he owned a horse, two dogs, a cat, a native
bear, a magpie, and a parrot, and he paid nothing for any of them
except the horse. One day he met Mr. McCarthy talking to Bob Atkins,
a station hand, who had a horse to sell--a filly, rising three.
McCarthy was a good judge of horses, and after inspecting the filly,
he said: "She will just suit you, Mr. Philip, you ought to buy her."
So the bargain was made; the price was ten pounds, Bob giving in the
saddle, bridle, a pair of hobbles, and a tether rope. He was proud
of his deal.
Two years afterwards, when Philip was riding through the bush, Bob
rode up alongside, and after a while said:
"Well, Mister, how do you like that filly I sold you?"
"Very well indeed. She is a capital roadster and stockhorse."
"Does she ever throw you?"
"Never. What makes you ask?"
"Well, that's queer. The fact is I sold her to you because I could
not ride her. Every time I mounted, she slung me a buster."
"I see, Bob, you meant well, didn't you? But she never yet slung me
a buster; she is quieter than a lamb, and she will come to me
whenever I whistle, and follow me like a dog."
Philip's first dog was named Sam. He was half collie and half bull
dog, and was therefore both brave and full of sagacity. He guarded
the hut and the other domestics during school hours, and when he saw
Philip coming up the hill, he ran to meet him, smiling and wagging
his tail, and reported all well. The other dog was only a small pup,
a Skye terrier, like a bunch of tow, a present from Tommy Traddles.
Pup's early days were made very miserable by Maggie, the magpie.
That wicked bird used to strut around Philip while he was digging in
the garden, and after filling her crop with worms and grubs, she
flapped away on one wing and went round the hut looking for
amusement. She jumped on Pup's back, scratched him with her claws,
pecked at his skull, and pulled locks of wool out of it, the poor
innocent all the while yelping and howling for mercy. Sam never
helped Pup, or drove Maggie away; he was actually afraid of her, and
believed she was a dangerous witch. Sometimes she pecked at his
tail, and he dared not say a word, but sneaked away, looking sideways
at her, hanging down his ears, and afraid to say his tail was his
own. Joey, the parrot, watched all that was going on from his cage,
which was hung on a hook outside the hut door. Philip tried to teach
Joey to whistle a tune: "There is na luck aboot the hoose, There is
na luck at a'," but the parrot had so many things to attend to that
he never had time to finish the tune. He was, indeed, very vain and
flighty, sidling along his perch and saying: "Sweet pretty Joey, who
are you, who are you? Ha! Ha! Ha!" wanting everybody to take
notice and admire him. When Maggie first attacked poor Pup,
scratched his back, pecked at his head, and tore locks of wool out
of him, and Pup screamed pitifully to all the world for
help, Joey poked his head between the wires of his cage, turned one
eye downwards, listened to the language, and watched the new
performance with silent ecstacy. He had never heard or seen anything
like it in the whole course of his life. Philip used to drive Maggie
away, take up poor Pup and stroke him, while Maggie, the villain,
hopped around, flapping her wings and giving the greatest impudence.
It really gave Philip a great deal of trouble to keep order among his
domestics. One day, while hoeing in the garden, he heard the Pup
screaming miserably. He said, "There's that villain, Maggie, at him
again," and he ran up to the hut to drive her away. But when he reached
it there was neither Pup nor Maggie to be seen, only Joey in his cage,
and he was bobbing his head up and down, yelping exactly like the
Pup, and then he began laughing at Philip ready to burst, "Ha! Ha!
Ha! Who are you? Who are you? There is no luck aboot the hoose,
There is na luck at a'."
The native bear resided in a packing case, nailed on the top of a
stump nearly opposite the hut door. He had a strap round his waist,
and was fastened to the stump by a piece of clothes line. The boys
called him a monkey-bear, but though his face was like that of a bear
he was neither a monkey nor a bear. He was in fact a sloth; his legs
were not made for walking, but for climbing, and although he had
strong claws and a very muscular forearm, he was always slow in his
movements. He was very silent and unsociable, never joined in the
amusements of the other domestics, and when Philip brought him a
bunch of tender young gum-tree shoots for his breakfast in the
morning, he did not even say "thanks" or smile, or show the least
gratitude. He never spoke except at dead of night, when he was
exchanging compliments with some other bear up a gum tree in the
forty-acre paddock. And such compliments! Their voices were
frightful, something between a roar and a groan, and although Philip
was a great linguist he was never quite sure what they were saying.
But the bear was always scheming to get away; he was like the Boers,
and could not abide British rule. Philip would not have kept him at
all, but as he had taken him into the family circle when a cub he did
not like to be cruel and turn him out along in a heartless world.
Twice Bruin managed to untie the clothes line and started for the
forty-acre. He crawled along very slowly, and when he saw Philip
coming after him, he stopped, looked behind him, and said, "Hoo,"
showing his disgust. Then Philip took hold of the end of the clothes
line and brought him back, scolding all the time.
"You miserable Bruin, you don't know what's good for you; you can't
tell a light-wood from a gum-tree, and you'll die of starvation, or
else the boys will find you, and they will kill you, thinking you are
a wild bush bear, for you don't show any signs of good education,
after all the trouble I have taken to teach you manners. I am afraid
you will come to a bad end."
And so he did. The third time Bruin loosed the clothes line he had a
six hours' start before he was missed, and sure enough he hid himself
in a lightwood for want of sense, and that very night the boys saw
him by the light of the moon, and Hugh Boyle climbed up the tree and
knocked him down with a waddy.
Pussy, Philip's sixth domestic, had attained her majority; she had
never gone after snakes in her youth, and had always avoided bad
company. She did her duty in the house as a good mouser, and when
mice grew scarce she went hunting for game; she had a hole under the
eaves near the chimney, through which she could enter the hut at any
time of the night or day. While Philip was musing after tea on the
"Pons Asinorum" by the light of a tallow candle, Pussy was out
poaching for quail, and as soon as she caught one she brought it
home, dropped it on the floor, rubbed her side against Philip's
boot, and said, "I have brought a little game for breakfast." Then
Philip stroked her along the back, after which she lay down before
the fire, tucked in her paws and fell asleep, with a good conscience.
But many bush cats come to an unhappy and untimely end by giving way
to the vice of curiosity. When Dinah, the vain kitten, takes her
first walk abroad in spring time, she observes something smooth and
shiny gliding gently along. She pricks up her ears, and gazes at the
interesting stranger; then she goes a little nearer, softly lifting
first one paw and then another.
The stranger is more intelligent than Dinah. He says to himself, "I
know her sort well, the silly thing. Saw her ages ago in the Garden.
She wants mice and frogs and such things--takes the bread out of my
mouth. Native industry must be protected." so the stranger brings
his head round under the grass and waits for Dinah, who is watching
his tail. The tail moves a little and then a little more. Dinah
says, "It will be gone if I don't mind," and she jumps for it. At
that instant the snake strikes her on the nose with his fangs.
Dinah's fur rises on end with sudden fright, she shakes her head, and
the snake drops off. She turns away, and says, "This is frightful;
what a deceitful world! Life is not worth living." Her head feels
queer, and being sleepy she lies down, and is soon a dead cat.
That summer was very hot at Nyalong, one hundred and ten degrees in
the shade. Philip began to find his bed of stringy bark very hard,
and as it grew older it curled together so much that he could
scarcely turn in it from one side to the other. So he made a
mattress which he stuffed with straw, and he found it much softer
than the stringy bark. But after a while the mattress grew flat, and
the stuffing lumpy. Sometimes on hot days he took out his bed, and
after shaking it, he laid it down on the grass; his blankets he hung
on the fence for many reasons which he wanted to get rid of.
The water in the forty-acre to the south was all dried up. An old
black snake with a streak of orange along his ribs grew thirsty. His
last meal was a mouse, and he said, "That was a dry mouthful, and
wants something to wash it down." He knew his way to the water-hole
at the end of the garden, but he had to pass the hut, which when he
travelled that way the summer before was unoccupied. After creeping
under the bottom rail of the fence, he raised his head a little, and
looked round. He said, "I see there's another tenant here"--Bruin
was then alive and was sitting on the top of his stump eating gum
leaves--"I never saw that fellow so low down in the world before; I
wonder what he is doing here; been lagged, I suppose for something or
other. He is a stupid, anyway, and won't take any notice even if he
sees me."
Sam and Puss were both blinking their eyes in the shade of the
lightwood, and whisking the flies from their ears. Maggie was
walking about with beak open, showing her parched tongue; the heat
made her low-spirited.