One Christmas.
Three days to Christmas; and how pleased we were! For months we had
looked forward to it. Kate and Sandy, whom we had only seen once since
they went on their selection, were to be home. Dave, who was away
shearing for the first time, was coming home too. Norah, who had been
away for a year teaching school, was home already. Mother said she
looked quite the lady, and Sal envied the fashionable cut of her
dresses.
Things were in a fair way at Shingle Hut; rain had fallen and
everything looked its best. The grass along the headlands was almost
as tall as the corn; the Bathurst-burr, the Scotch-thistles, and the
"stinking Roger" were taller. Grow! Dad never saw the like. Why, the
cultivation was n't large enough to hold the melon and pumpkin
vines--they travelled into the horse-paddock and climbed up trees and
over logs and stumps, and they would have fastened on the horses only
the horses were fat and fresh and often galloped about. And the stock!
Blest if the old cows did n't carry udders like camp-ovens, and had so
much milk that one could track them everywhere they went--they leaked
so. The old plough-horses, too--only a few months before dug out of
the dam with a spade, and slung up between heaven and earth for a week,
and fed and prayed for regularly by Dad--actually bolted one day with
the dray because Joe rattled a dish of corn behind them. Even the pet
kangaroo was nearly jumping out of its skin; and it took the big black
"goanna" that used to come after eggs all its time to beat Dad from the
barn to the nearest tree, so fat was it. And such a season for
butterflies and grasshoppers, and grubs and snakes, and native bears!
Given an ass, an elephant, and an empty wine-bottle or two, and one
might have thought Noah's ark had been emptied at our selection.
Two days to Christmas. The sun getting low. An old cow and a heifer
in the stock-yard. Dad in, admiring them; Mother and Sal squinting
through the rails; little Bill perched on one of the round posts,
nursing the steel and a long knife; Joe running hard from the barn with
a plough-rein.
Dad was wondering which beast to kill, and expressed a preference for
the heifer. Mother said, "No, kill the cow." Dad inspected the cow
again, and shook his head.
"Well, if you don't she'll only die, if the winter's a hard one; then
you'll have neither." That settled it. Dad took the rope from Joe,
who arrived aglow with heat and excitement, and fixed a running noose
on one end of it. Then--
"Hunt 'em round!" he cried.
Joe threw his hat at them, and chased them round and round the yard.
Dad turned slowly in the centre, like a ring-master, his eye on the
cow; a coil of rope was in this left hand, and with the right he
measuredly swung the loop over and over his head for some time. At
last the cow gave him a chance at her horns, and he let fly. The rope
whizzed across the yard, caught little Bill round the neck, and brought
him down off the post. Dad could hardly believe it. He first stared at
Bill as he rolled in the yard, then at the cow. Mother wished to know
if he wanted to kill the boy, and Joe giggled and, with a deal of
courage, assured Dad it was "a fine shot." The cow and the heifer ran
into a corner, and switched their tails, and raked skin and hair off
each other with their horns.
"What do you want to be always stuck in the road for?" Dad growled,
taking the rope off little Bill's neck. "Go away from here
altogether!" Little Bill went away; so did Mother and Sal--until Dad
had roped the cow, which was n't before he twice lassoed the
heifer--once by the fore-leg and once round the flanks. The cow
thereupon carried a panel of the yard away, and got out and careered
down the lane, bucking and bellowing till all the cattle of the country
gathered about her.
Dad's blood was up. He was hanging on to the rope, his heels ploughing
the dust, and the cow pulling him about as she liked. The sun was
setting; a beautiful sunset, too, and Mother and Sal were admiring it.
"Did y' never see th' blasted sun go--go down be----" Dad did n't
finish. He feet slid under a rail, causing him to relax his grip of the
rope and sprawl in the dust. But when he rose!
"Are y' going t' stand staring there all night?" They were beside the
rails in an instant, took the end of the rope which he passed to them,
put it once round the gallows-post, and pulled-pulled like sailors.
Dad hung on close to the cow's head, while Joe kicked her with his bare
foot and screwed her tail.
"Steady!" said Dad, "that'll about do." Then, turning to the women as
he mounted a rail and held the axe above the cow's head: "Hang on
there now!" They closed their eyes and sat back. The cow was very
patient. Dad extended himself for a great effort, but hesitated. Joe
called out: "L-l-ook out th' axe dud-dud-don't fly and gug-gug-get me,
Dad!" Dad glanced quickly at it, and took aim again. Down it came,
whish! But the cow moved, and he only grazed her cheek. She bellowed
and pulled back, and Mother and Sal groaned and let the rope go. The
cow swung round and charged Joe, who was standing with his mouth open.
But only a charge of shot could catch Joe; he mounted the rails like a
cat and shook his hat at the beast below.
After Dad had nearly brained her with a rail the cow was dragged to the
post again; and this time Dad made no mistake. Down she dropped, and,
before she could give her last kick, all of us entered the yard and
approached her boldly. Dad danced about excitedly, asking for the long
knife. Nobody knew where it was. "DAMN it, where is it?" he cried,
impatiently. Everyone flew round in search of it but Joe. HE was
curious to know if the cow was in milk. Dad noticed him; sprang upon
him; seized him by the shirt collar and swung him round and trailed him
through the yard, saying: "Find me th' knife; d' y' HEAR?" It seemed
to sharpen Joe's memory, for he suddenly remembered having stuck it in
one of the rails.
Dad bled the beast, but it was late before he had it skinned and
dressed. When the carcase was hoisted to the gallows--and it seemed
gruesome enough as it hung there in the pallid light of the moon, with
the night birds dismally wailing like mourners from the lonely
trees--we went home and had supper.
Christmas Eve. Mother and Sal had just finished papering the walls,
and we were busy decorating the place with green boughs, when Sandy and
Kate, in their best clothes--Kate seated behind a well-filled
pillow-slip strapped on the front of her saddle; Sandy with the baby in
front of him--came jogging along the lane. There was commotion!
Everything was thrown aside to receive them. They were surrounded at
the slip-rails, and when they got down--talk about kissing! Dad was
the only one who escaped. When the hugging commenced he poked his head
under the flap of Kate's saddle and commenced unbuckling the girth.
Dad had been at such receptions before. But Sandy took it all meekly.
And the baby! (the dear little thing) they scrimmaged about it, and
mugged it, and fought for possession of it until Sandy became alarmed
and asked them to "Mind!"
Inside they sat and drank tea and talked about things that had happened
and things that had n't happened. Then they got back to the baby and
disagreed on the question of family likeness. Kate thought the
youngster was the dead image of Sandy about the mouth and eyes. Sal
said it had Dad's nose; while Mother was reminded of her dear old
grandmother every time the infant smiled. Joe ventured to think it
resembled Paddy Maloney far more than it did Sandy, and was told to run
away and put the calves in. The child was n't yet christened, and the
rest of the evening was spent selecting a name for it. Almost every
appellation under the sun was suggested and promptly rejected. They
could n't hit on a suitable one, and Kate would n't have anything that
was n't nice, till at last Dad thought of one that pleased
everybody--"Jim!"
After supper, Kate started playing the concertina, and the Andersons
and Maloneys and several others dropped in. Dad was pleased to see
them; he wished them all a merry Christmas, and they wished him the
same and many of them. Then the table was put outside, and the room
cleared for a dance. The young people took the floor and waltzed, I
dare say, for miles--their heads as they whirled around tossing the
green bushes that dangled from the rafters; while the old people, with
beaming faces, sat admiring them, and swaying their heads about and
beating time to the music by patting the floor with their feet.
Someone called out "Faster!" Kate gave it faster. Then to see them and
to hear the rattle of the boots upon the floor! You'd think they were
being carried away in a whirlwind. All but Sal and Paddy Maloney gave
up and leant against the wall, and puffed and mopped their faces and
their necks with their pocket-handkerchiefs.
Faster still went the music; faster whirled Sal and Paddy Maloney. And
Paddy was on his mettle. He was lifting Sal off her feet. But Kate
was showing signs of distress. She leaned forward, jerked her head
about, and tugged desperately at the concertina till both handles left
it. That ended the tussle; and Paddy spread himself on the floor, his
back to the wall, his legs extending to the centre of the room, his
chin on his chest, and rested.
Then enjoyment at high tide; another dance proposed; Sal trying hard to
persuade Dad to take Mother or Mrs. Maloney up; Dad saying "Tut, tut,
tut!"--when in popped Dave, and stood near the door. He had n't
changed his clothes, and was grease from top to toe. A saddle-strap
was in one hand, his Sunday clothes, tied up in a handkerchief, in the
other, and his presence made the room smell just like a woolshed.
"Hello, Dave!" shouted everyone. He said "Well!" and dropped his hat
in a corner. No fuss, no kissing, no nothing about Dave. Mother asked
if he did n't see Kate and Sandy (both were smiling across the room at
him), and he said "Yairs"; then went out to have a wash.
All night they danced--until the cocks crew--until the darkness gave
way to the dawn--until the fowls left the roost and came round the
door--until it was Christmas Day!