Doss sat among the karoo bushes, one yellow ear drawn over his wicked
little eye, ready to flap away any adventurous fly that might settle on
his nose. Around him in the morning sunlight fed the sheep; behind him
lay his master polishing his machine. He found much comfort in handling
it that morning. A dozen philosophical essays, or angelically atuned
songs for the consolation of the bereaved, could never have been to him
what that little sheep-shearing machine was that day.
After struggling to see the unseeable, growing drunk with the endeavour
to span the infinite, and writhing before the inscrutable mystery, it
is a renovating relief to turn to some simple, feelable, weighable
substance; to something which has a smell and a colour, which may be
handled and turned over this way and that. Whether there be or be not
a hereafter, whether there be any use in calling aloud to the Unseen
power, whether there be an Unseen power to call to, whatever be the true
nature of the “I” who call and of the objects around me, whatever be
our meaning, our internal essence, our cause (and in a certain order of
minds death and the agony of loss inevitably awaken the wild desire,
at other times smothered, to look into these things), whatever be the
nature of that which lies beyond the unbroken wall which the limits of
the human intellect build up on every hand, this thing is certain--a
knife will cut wood, and one cogged wheel will turn another. This is
sure.
Waldo found an immeasurable satisfaction in the handling of his machine;
but Doss winked and blinked, and thought it all frightfully monotonous
out there on the flat, and presently dropped asleep, sitting bolt
upright. Suddenly his eyes opened wide; something was coming from the
direction of the homestead. Winking his eyes and looking intently, he
perceived it was the grey mare. Now Doss had wondered much of late what
had become of her master. Seeing she carried some one on her back, he
now came to his own conclusion, and began to move his tail violently up
and down. Presently he pricked up one ear and let the other hang; his
tail became motionless, and the expression of his mouth was one of
decided disapproval bordering on scorn. He wrinkled his lips up on each
side into little lines.
The sand was soft, and the grey mare came on so noiselessly that the boy
heard nothing till Bonaparte dismounted. Then Doss got up and moved back
a step. He did not approve of Bonaparte’s appearance. His costume,
in truth, was of a unique kind. It was a combination of the town and
country. The tails of his black cloth coat were pinned up behind to keep
them from rubbing; he had on a pair of moleskin trousers and leather
gaiters, and in his hand he carried a little whip of rhinoceros hide.
Waldo started and looked up. Had there been a moment’s time he would
have dug a hole in the sand with his hands and buried his treasure. It
was only a toy of wood, but he loved it, as one of necessity loves what
has been born of him, whether of the flesh or spirit. When cold eyes
have looked at it, the feathers are rubbed off our butterfly’s wing
forever.
“What have you here, my lad?” said Bonaparte, standing by him, and
pointing with the end of his whip to the medley of wheels and hinges.
The boy muttered something inaudible, and half spread over the thing.
“But this seems to be a very ingenious little machine,” said Bonaparte,
seating himself on the antheap, and bending down over it with deep
interest. “What is it for, my lad?”
“Shearing sheep.”
“It is a very nice little machine,” said Bonaparte. “How does it work,
now? I have never seen anything so ingenious!”
There was never a parent who heard deception in the voice that praised
his child--his first-born. Here was one who liked the thing that had
been created in him. He forgot everything. He showed how the shears
would work with a little guidance, how the sheep would be held, and the
wool fall into the trough. A flush burst over his face as he spoke.
“I tell you what, my lad,” said Bonaparte emphatically, when the
explanation was finished, “we must get you a patent. Your fortune is
made. In three years’ time there’ll not be a farm in this colony where
it isn’t working. You’re a genius, that’s what you are!” said Bonaparte,
rising.
“If it were made larger,” said the boy, raising his eyes, “it would work
more smoothly. Do you think there would be any one in this colony would
be able to make it?”
“I’m sure they could,” said Bonaparte; “and if not, why I’ll do my best
for you. I’ll send it to England. It must be done somehow. How long have
you worked at it?”
“Nine months,” said the boy.
“Oh, it is such a nice little machine,” said Bonaparte, “one can’t help
feeling an interest in it. There is only one little improvement, one
very little improvement, I should like to make.”
Bonaparte put his foot on the machine and crushed it into the sand. The
boy looked up into his face.
“Looks better now,” said Bonaparte, “doesn’t it? If we can’t have it
made in England we’ll send it to America. Good-bye; ta-ta,” he added.
“You’re a great genius, a born genius, my dear boy, there’s no doubt
about it.”
He mounted the grey mare and rode off. The dog watched his retreat with
cynical satisfaction; but his master lay on the ground with his head on
his arms in the sand, and the little wheels and chips of wood lay on
the ground around him. The dog jumped on to his back and snapped at the
black curls, till, finding that no notice was taken, he walked off to
play with a black beetle. The beetle was hard at work trying to roll
home a great ball of dung it had been collecting all the morning: but
Doss broke the ball, and ate the beetle’s hind legs, and then bit off
its head. And it was all play, and no one could tell what it had lived
and worked for. A striving, and a striving, and an ending in nothing.