"LOST!"
LIFE at the run proved pleasant to Jean and full of interesting
happenings. She missed her father and Fergus, but she and Sandy soon
grew to be great friends, and many were the thrilling bits of mischief
into which he dragged her, sure that he would escape punishment if Jean
were only to say, "Don't punish Sandy, Uncle Angus, I did it too."
The little girl loved her Aunt Mildred, but more than any one at the
station her uncle had won her heart. She grew to be his little shadow,
driving and riding with him, sun-tanned and rosy, growing strong and
healthy in the free Australian life.
"You are getting as fat as a Chinaman's horse, lassie," said her uncle
as they rode to the river one day.
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
"The Chinese are always very kind to their horses and keep them fat and
slick, so that has grown to be a proverb, though some people say as 'fat
as a larrikin's dog,' instead."
"What is a larrikin?" Jean was growing as full of questions as Fergus.
"Larrikin is a slang term applied to the idlers who lounge about the
cities, a dog at their heels, like the 'Enery 'Awkins of London or
Glasgow. There are many of them in Australia and they have formed a kind
of secret society among themselves, which is not a very good thing. Here
is a fine bit for a canter, Jeanie. I'll beat you to the big
eucalyptus."
"No, you won't." Jean chirruped to her pony and was off like a shot
through the open paddock, jumping a fence as if on wings. She loved to
gallop when the air was filled with the fragrance of the wattle and the
gum, and she had grown to ride like a little centaur.
"Well done," cried her uncle as she drew up at the gate, laughing and
breathless, her horse half a head in advance of his. "We are so near to
'Mason's run,' I think we'll have time to stop there. I want to see him
about several things, so we'll ride on."
"Very well, Uncle. Is it a sheep run?"
"No, cattle. You have not seen one yet, so keep your eyes open and learn
all you can. Mason breeds the long horns, sullen beasts, but good
stock."
"I shall be glad to see them," she said, and they cantered up to the
homestead, which was very unlike her uncle's station.
Built of wood, with a galvanized-iron roof, the house stood on piles,
but between each pile and the house was a tin plate to keep the white
ants from climbing into the rooms. Several gins[7] came out to see who
the strangers were, the first that Jean had seen, and she looked at
them curiously. Not more so, however, than they looked at her, for they
stared at her and whispered together.
"They don't know what to make of you, 'Lassie with the lint white
locks,'" her uncle laughed. "The young gin wants to know if you are
Great Baiame's golden child. It's your fair hair, I suppose."
Jean's hair was light golden and floated all about her face like a halo.
"Great Baiame is their god, good spirit, and they think you are a
goddess. That gin wants to touch your hair. Better let her, she won't
hurt you."
Jean smilingly bent her head and let the black woman run her fingers
over her shining tresses. The gin smiled and, seized by a sudden
impulse, Jean said,
"She may have a curl if she wants it, Uncle. I have plenty and mother
won't care." He handed her his knife and she snipped off a silken
strand, which the gin took with many expressions of delight.
"You have certainly made a hit among the Blacks," said her uncle
teasingly. "She will wear that as a charm and be the envy of all the
tribe. Your hair is pretty.
"'The world to me knows no fairer sight
Than your long hair veiling your shoulders white,
As I tangle my hand in your hair my pet.'"
he quoted as he stroked the shining mane.
"Uncle, I don't think cattle runs are as nice as sheep runs. There
aren't any wool sheds, but just open yards."
"These are the stock and branding yards. You see the cattle roam the
hills, some of the runs being as large as five thousand square miles, on
which the cattle find their own food and water."
"If they wander over all that distance, how do the owners ever tell
their own cattle?" asked Jean.
"Every beast is branded, that is, he has his owner's mark burnt into his
hide," said her uncle. "So it is easy to draft out of the mobs the
cattle which belong to other ranchmen. The young oxen are sent to the
coast to be fattened for market, while the old cattle are sent to the
rendering works, where they are made into tallow and beef extract. The
stockman's life is harder than that of the shepherd, and dangerous
because of the bullocks' stampedes, when they break loose and often run
down horses and men in their frantic rush for freedom."
"I like the sheep run much better," said Jean. "See that flying
squirrel, Uncle! I think they are the cunningest little things. Who do
you suppose is hiding behind that tree? I heard some one laughing."
"Look and see," her uncle smiled. Jean jumped down from her horse and
peered behind the tree. There she saw a little bird perched on one leg
which sang a pretty little song, always breaking off with "H-ah-ha!
Hoo-hoo-hoo!"
"That's a laughing jackass, Jeanie," said her uncle. "He's a funny
little fellow, isn't he?"
"He isn't a bit pretty," said Jean.
[Illustration: "'THAT WAS A PLATYPUS, OR WATER MOLE,' SAID MR.
McDONALD."]
"No, but he's very useful, for he eats snakes and lizards and all kinds
of things, and there is a law forbidding any one to kill him."
"You have so many queer things in Australia," said Jean. "Down by the
river Sandy and I found the queerest thing. It looked part animal and
part bird. It had a big flat bill like a duck and fur on its body like a
rat, and it had webbed feet and a long bushy tail. Sandy said it was a
beastie and was called a water mole, but we found its nest in a kind of
tunnel running from the water's edge under ground, and in the nest were
eggs."
"That was a platypus, or water mole," said Mr. McDonald. "He is an
animal but lays eggs like the birds. There is another animal in
Australia which does too, the spiny ant-eater. He looks like a hedgehog
but has a queer, long bill with a long tongue covered with sticky stuff
with which he licks up the ants off the ground. He hasn't a nest, but
carries his eggs around in a kind of a pocket until they are hatched."
"It certainly is a queer place, with trees that shed their bark every
year, pears that have hard wooden rinds, cherries with the stones
outside, trees with flowers and seeds growing in the leaves and animals
that lay eggs," said Jean.
"And little girls that chatter and ride like monkeys," cried Sandy's
teasing voice, as he rode up behind them. "I can pass you!"
"No, you can't!" cried Jean, and she galloped off, her cousin after her,
though he did not catch up with her till she rode up to the veranda and
jumped off her pony, laughing heartily.
Some weeks later all was hurry and bustle at the station. Shearing was
to begin the next day and there was a great deal to be done to make
ready for the great event. Shearers were coming in, some riding, some
trudging along on foot, carrying their swags. There were huts for them
to sleep in, and tents were being spread in the open. Mr. McDonald left
all the details of this work to his manager, a young Australian who had
been born and raised on a sheep run.
At first Jean was much interested in seeing the shearing and stood in
the shed watching, as the engine whistled to begin. The pens were full
of sheep who did not at all know what they were there for, but who did
know that they did not like it. They baa-ed and bawled, and with the
noise of the machinery it was deafening in the sheds. As the machine
starts every shearer grabs a sheep from the pen, choosing the one that
looks the easiest to shear, he throws it with his knee and rapidly
guides the little knife-like cutters of the machine over the fleece,
which falls from the animal in one huge piece. The sheep is then
released to run, pink and shivering, to the yard again. The "picker up"
catches up the fleece and takes it to the wool bin, while the shearer
turns to the pen to catch another victim. He has to be quick because the
sharp eye of the overseer is upon him. He walks up and down, watching
every one. The "penners-up" must not let a single pen be empty, "the
pickers-up" must keep the floor clean, the shearers must shear evenly as
well as closely. If they cut a ragged fleece the wool will grow badly
the next year and some of it will be wasted.
The shearers are paid by the number of sheep they shear, and they work
very fast, every man trying to see if he cannot be the "ringer," as they
call the man who has sheared the greatest number of sheep at the close
of the shearing.
The shearers earn five dollars for every hundred sheep sheared, and an
ordinarily good workman will shear a hundred sheep in a day, while
extra good ones have sheared three hundred in a day. As the shearers
have no expenses, their food and lodging being given them, they can make
a good deal of money during the season.
The picker-up takes the fleece to the wool roller, who trims it and
rolls it up to be inspected by the classer. He decides as to its quality
and puts it in the proper bin. It is then baled, marked with the quality
and the owner's brand, and taken by wagon to the nearest shipping
station.
The sheep are counted, branded and dipped to prevent their being covered
with wood ticks, which bite so fiercely, and then are returned to their
paddocks. There is no more attractive sight in the world than an immense
flock of the long-wooled Australian sheep, and none more forlorn than
the shivering droves of freshly-sheared animals.
Jean watched until she was tired. The smell of the wool, the noise, the
heat, the cries of the tormented sheep, all turned her sick, and she
fled to the house. There things were little better. Everybody was busy.
Aunt Mildred had no time to notice a little girl. Sandy was away, no one
knew where, and, worst of all, her mother was laid low with one of her
terrible headaches. Jean knew these of old, and that it was no use to
expect to even speak to her mother before night. She felt forlorn and
lonely and decided to take a ride.
No one was at the stable to saddle Dandy, but she had learned to ride as
well without a saddle as with, so she got on the pony's back and rode
toward the river.
Away from the noise of the shearing shed, how quiet and lovely it all
seemed. The wind swayed gently the branches of the great she-oaks as a
mopoke's mournful note came from the gum trees. Flying foxes flapped
their wings and she came upon the playground of a satin-bower[8] bird,
the first she had ever seen, although her uncle had told her about them.
She rode farther into the wood than she intended and, feeling tired, she
got off Dandy and, throwing the reins over a bush, sat down under a tree
to rest.
"I'm so tired," she said to herself, "I think I will take a little nap.
This looks just the place for a fairy ring and perhaps the elves will
come to dance while I am asleep."
She lay down under the huge tree about which ferns grew so thickly as to
form a green curtain. Dandy browsed in the grass near by, every now and
then pricking up his dainty ears and working his velvety nose as if
something he did not like was near. Then his reins pulled loose from the
bush and he wandered away to nibble at a tempting bit of turf a little
distance away. Another tempted him and he was soon out of sight, hidden
by the great ferns which grew up above his pretty head.
As he disappeared there was a little rustle in the bushes and two eyes
peered at the sleeping child. Then a hand reached out and warily touched
a fold of her little blue gingham frock. Jean stirred in her sleep and
smiled. She was dreaming that her father had come back and that he took
her in his strong arms and carried her away, away, and she never wanted
him to put her down. The scent of the wild blooms was in her nostrils,
and she did not wake when two arms cautiously raised her from the ground
and holding her lightly yet carefully, so that no branch might brush
against her, carried her far into the deep and lonely wood. It was
perhaps an hour that the man carried her and she did not wake. Then she
opened her eyes to find herself in the arms of a big Black. She screamed
in fright, but he spoke gently to her.
"Missa not 'fraid. Me not bad Black. Take Missa home."
"Where is my pony. I would rather ride him," she cried, struggling, and
the Black put her down.
"Pony all gone," he said. "Missa very tired, me show Missa my gin. She
very sick, want to see white baby, with gold for hair. Hear all about
her from other gin. Then carry home. Black very much like Missa." He
smiled again and his face looked kind. "Let me carry Missa or we not get
there soon," he said coaxingly, and not knowing what else to do Jean
allowed him to pick her up and carry her again. He walked fast, but she
did not see the river or the house and she began to grow frightened. It
grew dark and the air was full of flying things, so large as to seem
like birds and so small as to seem like baby mice with wings. The bird
songs were stilled; only the soft chirping of the tree insects were
heard. Then those ceased and all was still and dark, and the silent
forest so terrified the child that she began to cry.
"No good for Missa to cry, Missa must go see gin," said the Black, and
as he spoke they came in sight of a little group of native huts,
bark-thatched and dimly seen through the darkness. Into the smallest of
these the Black stumbled and set his burden before a couch on which lay
a black woman wasted with fever.
"Brought you white child," he said. The hut was full of Blacks, but Jean
was too frightened and tired to think of any of them, and she covered
her face with her hands and sobbed as if her heart would break.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Black women.
[8] This bird makes a play-ground before the tree in which it builds its
nest. It has a floor of sticks, and over this is built a little bower
into which are woven bright feathers, white shells, etc.