lies with his head resting on his paws, and watches the wall. He is not
a very beautiful dog, and the light shows numerous old wounds where the
hair will not grow. He is afraid of nothing on the face of the earth or
under it. He will tackle a bullock as readily as he will tackle a flea.
He hates all other dogs--except kangaroo-dogs--and has a marked dislike
to friends or relations of the family. They seldom call, however. He
sometimes makes friends with strangers. He hates snakes and has killed
many, but he will be bitten some day and die; most snake-dogs end that
way.
Now and then the bushwoman lays down her work and watches, and listens,
and thinks. She thinks of things in her own life, for there is little
else to think about.
The rain will make the grass grow, and this reminds her how she fought a
bush-fire once while her husband was away. The grass was long, and very
dry, and the fire threatened to burn her out. She put on an old pair of
her husband's trousers and beat out the flames with a green bough, till
great drops of sooty perspiration stood out on her forehead and ran in
streaks down her blackened arms. The sight of his mother in trousers
greatly amused Tommy, who worked like a little hero by her side, but
the terrified baby howled lustily for his “mummy.” The fire would have
mastered her but for four excited bushmen who arrived in the nick of
time. It was a mixed-up affair all round; when she went to take up
the baby he screamed and struggled convulsively, thinking it was a
“blackman;” and Alligator, trusting more to the child's sense than his
own instinct, charged furiously, and (being old and slightly deaf)
did not in his excitement at first recognize his mistress's voice, but
continued to hang on to the moleskins until choked off by Tommy with a
saddle-strap. The dog's sorrow for his blunder, and his anxiety to let
it be known that it was all a mistake, was as evident as his ragged tail
and a twelve-inch grin could make it. It was a glorious time for the
boys; a day to look back to, and talk about, and laugh over for many
years.
She thinks how she fought a flood during her husband's absence. She
stood for hours in the drenching downpour, and dug an overflow gutter
to save the dam across the creek. But she could not save it. There are
things that a bushwoman can not do. Next morning the dam was broken, and
her heart was nearly broken too, for she thought how her husband would
feel when he came home and saw the result of years of labour swept away.
She cried then.
She also fought the pleuro-pneumonia--dosed and bled the few remaining
cattle, and wept again when her two best cows died.
Again, she fought a mad bullock that besieged the house for a day. She
made bullets and fired at him through cracks in the slabs with an
old shot-gun. He was dead in the morning. She skinned him and got
seventeen-and-sixpence for the hide.
She also fights the crows and eagles that have designs on her chickens.
Her plan of campaign is very original. The children cry “Crows, mother!”
and she rushes out and aims a broomstick at the birds as though it were
a gun, and says “Bung!” The crows leave in a hurry; they are cunning,
but a woman's cunning is greater.
Occasionally a bushman in the horrors, or a villainous-looking
sundowner, comes and nearly scares the life out of her. She generally
tells the suspicious-looking stranger that her husband and two sons
are at work below the dam, or over at the yard, for he always cunningly
inquires for the boss.
Only last week a gallows-faced swagman--having satisfied himself that
there were no men on the place--threw his swag down on the veranda, and
demanded tucker. She gave him something to eat; then he expressed his
intention of staying for the night. It was sundown then. She got a
batten from the sofa, loosened the dog, and confronted the stranger,
holding the batten in one hand and the dog's collar with the other. “Now
you go!” she said. He looked at her and at the dog, said “All right,
mum,” in a cringing tone, and left. She was a determined-looking woman,
and Alligator's yellow eyes glared unpleasantly--besides, the dog's
chawing-up apparatus greatly resembled that of the reptile he was named
after.
She has few pleasures to think of as she sits here alone by the fire, on
guard against a snake. All days are much the same to her; but on Sunday
afternoon she dresses herself, tidies the children, smartens up
baby, and goes for a lonely walk along the bush-track, pushing an old
perambulator in front of her. She does this every Sunday. She takes as
much care to make herself and the children look smart as she would if
she were going to do the block in the city. There is nothing to see,
however, and not a soul to meet. You might walk for twenty miles along
this track without being able to fix a point in your mind, unless you
are a bushman. This is because of the everlasting, maddening sameness
of the stunted trees--that monotony which makes a man long to break
away and travel as far as trains can go, and sail as far as ship can
sail--and farther.
But this bushwoman is used to the loneliness of it. As a girl-wife she
hated it, but now she would feel strange away from it.
She is glad when her husband returns, but she does not gush or make a
fuss about it. She gets him something good to eat, and tidies up the
children.
She seems contented with her lot. She loves her children, but has no
time to show it. She seems harsh to them. Her surroundings are not
favourable to the development of the “womanly” or sentimental side of
nature.
It must be near morning now; but the clock is in the dwellinghouse. Her
candle is nearly done; she forgot that she was out of candles. Some more
wood must be got to keep the fire up, and so she shuts the dog inside
and hurries round to the woodheap. The rain has cleared off. She seizes
a stick, pulls it out, and--crash! the whole pile collapses.
Yesterday she bargained with a stray blackfellow to bring her some wood,
and while he was at work she went in search of a missing cow. She was
absent an hour or so, and the native black made good use of his time.
On her return she was so astonished to see a good heap of wood by the
chimney, that she gave him an extra fig of tobacco, and praised him for
not being lazy. He thanked her, and left with head erect and chest well
out. He was the last of his tribe and a King; but he had built that
wood-heap hollow.
She is hurt now, and tears spring to her eyes as she sits down again by
the table. She takes up a handkerchief to wipe the tears away, but pokes
her eyes with her bare fingers instead. The handkerchief is full of
holes, and she finds that she has put her thumb through one, and her
forefinger through another.
This makes her laugh, to the surprise of the dog. She has a keen, very
keen, sense of the ridiculous; and some time or other she will amuse
bushmen with the story.
She had been amused before like that. One day she sat down “to have a
good cry,” as she said--and the old cat rubbed against her dress and
“cried too.” Then she had to laugh.
It must be near daylight now. The room is very close and hot because of
the fire. Alligator still watches the wall from time to time. Suddenly
he becomes greatly interested; he draws himself a few inches nearer the
partition, and a thrill runs through his body. The hair on the back of
his neck begins to bristle, and the battle-light is in his yellow eyes.
She knows what this means, and lays her hand on the stick. The lower end
of one of the partition slabs has a large crack on both sides. An evil
pair of small, bright bead-like eyes glisten at one of these holes. The
snake--a black one--comes slowly out, about a foot, and moves its head
up and down. The dog lies still, and the woman sits as one fascinated.
The snake comes out a foot farther. She lifts her stick, and the
reptile, as though suddenly aware of danger, sticks his head in through
the crack on the other side of the slab, and hurries to get his tail
round after him. Alligator springs, and his jaws come together with a
snap. He misses, for his nose is large, and the snake's body close down
in the angle formed by the slabs and the floor. He snaps again as the
tail comes round. He has the snake now, and tugs it out eighteen inches.
Thud, thud comes the woman's club on the ground. Alligator pulls again.
Thud, thud. Alligator gives another pull and he has the snake out--a
black brute, five feet long. The head rises to dart about, but the dog
has the enemy close to the neck. He is a big, heavy dog, but quick as
a terrier. He shakes the snake as though he felt the original curse
in common with mankind. The eldest boy wakes up, seizes his stick, and
tries to get out of bed, but his mother forces him back with a grip of
iron. Thud, thud--the snake's back is broken in several places. Thud,
thud--its head is crushed, and Alligator's nose skinned again.
She lifts the mangled reptile on the point of her stick, carries it to
the fire, and throws it in; then piles on the wood and watches the snake
burn. The boy and dog watch too. She lays her hand on the dog's head,
and all the fierce, angry light dies out of his yellow eyes. The younger
children are quieted, and presently go to sleep. The dirty-legged boy
stands for a moment in his shirt, watching the fire. Presently he looks
up at her, sees the tears in her eyes, and, throwing his arms round her
neck exclaims:
“Mother, I won't never go drovin'; blarst me if I do!” And she hugs him
to her worn-out breast and kisses him; and they sit thus together while
the sickly daylight breaks over the bush.
STEELMAN'S PUPIL
Steelman was a hard case, but some said that Smith was harder. Steelman
was big and good-looking, and good-natured in his way; he was a spieler,
pure and simple, but did things in humorous style. Smith was small
and weedy, of the sneak variety; he had a whining tone and a cringing
manner. He seemed to be always so afraid you were going to hit him that
he would make you want to hit him on that account alone.
Steelman “had” you in a fashion that would make your friends laugh.
Smith would “have” you in a way which made you feel mad at the bare
recollection of having been taken in by so contemptible a little sneak.
They battled round together in the North Island of Maoriland for a
couple of years.
One day Steelman said to Smith:
“Look here, Smithy, you don't know you're born yet. I'm going to take
you in hand and teach you.”
And he did. If Smith wouldn't do as Steelman told him, or wasn't
successful in cadging, or mugged any game they had in hand, Steelman
would threaten to stoush him; and, if the warning proved ineffectual
after the second or third time, he would stoush him.
One day, on the track, they came to a place where an old Scottish couple
kept a general store and shanty. They camped alongside the road, and
Smith was just starting up to the house to beg supplies when Steelman
cried:
“Here!--hold on. Now where do you think you're going to?”
“Why, I'm going to try and chew the old party's lug, of course. We'll be
out of tucker in a couple of days,” said Smith.
Steelman sat down on a stump in a hopeless, discouraged sort of way.
“It's no use,” he said, regarding Smith with mingled reproach and
disgust. “It's no use. I might as well give it best. I can see that it's
only waste of time trying to learn you anything. Will I ever be able
to knock some gumption into your thick skull? After all the time and
trouble and pains I've took with your education, you hain't got any
more sense than to go and mug a business like that! When will you learn
sense? Hey? After all, I--Smith, you're a born mug!”
He always called Smith a “mug” when he was particularly wild at him, for
it hurt Smith more than anything else. “There's only two classes in the
world, spielers and mugs--and you're a mug, Smith.”
“What have I done, anyway?” asked Smith helplessly. “That's all I want
to know.”
Steelman wearily rested his brow on his hand.
“That will do, Smith,” he said listlessly; “don't say another word, old
man; it'll only make my head worse; don't talk. You might, at the very
least, have a little consideration for my feelings--even if you haven't
for your own interests.” He paused and regarded Smith sadly. “Well, I'll
give you another show. I'll stage the business for you.”
He made Smith doff his coat and get into his worst pair of trousers--and
they were bad enough; they were hopelessly “gone” beyond the extreme
limit of bush decency. He made Smith put on a rag of a felt hat and a
pair of “'lastic-sides” which had fallen off a tramp and lain baking and
rotting by turns on a rubbish heap; they had to be tied on Smith with
bits of rag and string. He drew dark shadows round Smith's eyes, and
burning spots on his cheek-bones with some greasepaints he used when
they travelled as “The Great Steelman and Smith Combination Star
Dramatic Co.” He damped Smith's hair to make it dark and lank, and his
face more corpse-like by comparison--in short, he made him up to look
like a man who had long passed the very last stage of consumption, and
had been artificially kept alive in the interests of science.
“Now you're ready,” said Steelman to Smith. “You left your whare the day
before yesterday and started to walk to the hospital at Palmerston. An
old mate picked you up dying on the road, brought you round, and carried
you on his back most of the way here. You firmly believe that Providence
had something to do with the sending of that old mate along at that time
and place above all others. Your mate also was hard up; he was going to
a job--the first show for work he'd had in nine months--but he gave it
up to see you through; he'd give up his life rather than desert a mate
in trouble. You only want a couple of shillings or a bit of tucker to
help you on to Palmerston. You know you've got to die, and you only want
to live long enough to get word to your poor old mother, and die on a
bed.
“Remember, they're Scotch up at that house. You understand the Scotch
barrack pretty well by now--if you don't it ain't my fault. You were
born in Aberdeen, but came out too young to remember much about the
town. Your father's dead. You ran away to sea and came out in the
_Bobbie Burns_ to Sydney. Your poor old mother's in Aberdeen now--Bruce
or Wallace Wynd will do. Your mother might be dead now--poor old
soul!--any way, you'll never see her again. You wish you'd never run
away from home. You wish you'd been a better son to your poor old
mother; you wish you'd written to her and answered her last letter. You
only want to live long enough to write home and ask for forgiveness and
a blessing before you die. If you had a drop of spirits of some sort to
brace you up you might get along the road better. (Put this delicately.)
Get the whine out of your voice and breathe with a wheeze--like this;
get up the nearest approach to a deathrattle that you can. Move as
if you were badly hurt in your wind--like this. (If you don't do it
better'n that, I'll stoush you.) Make your face a bit longer and keep
your lips dry--don't lick them, you damned fool!-_breathe_ on them; make
'em dry as chips. That's the only decent pair of breeks you've got, and
the only shoon. You're a Presbyterian--not a U.P., the Auld Kirk. Your
mate would have come up to the house only--well, you'll have to use the
stuffing in your head a bit; you can't expect me to do all the brain
work. Remember it's consumption you've got--galloping consumption; you
know all the symptoms--pain on top of your right lung, bad cough, and
night sweats. Something tells you that you won't see the new year--it's
a week off Christmas now. And if you come back without anything, I'll
blessed soon put you out of your misery.”
Smith came back with about four pounds of shortbread and as much various
tucker as they could conveniently carry; a pretty good suit of cast-off
tweeds; a new pair of 'lastic-sides from the store stock; two bottles
of patent medicine and a black bottle half-full of home-made
consumption-cure; also a letter to a hospital-committee man, and three
shillings to help him on his way to Palmerston. He also got about half
a mile of sympathy, religious consolation, and medical advice which he
didn't remember.
“_Now_,” he said, triumphantly, “am I a mug or not?”
Steelman kindly ignored the question. “I _did_ have a better opinion of
the Scotch,” he said, contemptuously.
Steelman got on at an hotel as billiard-marker and decoy, and in six
months he managed that pub. Smith, who'd been away on his own account,
turned up in the town one day clean broke, and in a deplorable state. He
heard of Steelman's luck, and thought he was “all right,” so went to his
old friend.
Cold type--or any other kind of type--couldn't do justice to Steelman's
disgust. To think that this was the reward of all the time and trouble
he'd spent on Smith's education! However, when he cooled down, he said:
“Smith, you're a young man yet, and it's never too late to mend. There
is still time for reformation. I can't help you now; it would only
demoralize you altogether. To think, after the way I trained you, you
can't battle round any better'n this! I always thought you were an
irreclaimable mug, but I expected better things of you towards the end.
I thought I'd make _something_ of you. It's enough to dishearten any man
and disgust him with the world. Why! you ought to be a rich man now with
the chances and training you had! To think--but I won't talk of that; it
has made me ill. I suppose I'll have to give you something, if it's only
to get rid of the sight of you. Here's a quid, and I'm a mug for giving
it to you. It'll do you more harm than good; and it ain't a friendly
thing nor the right thing for me--who always had your welfare at
heart--to give it to you under the circumstances. Now, get away out of
my sight, and don't come near me till you've reformed. If you do, I'll
have to stoush you out of regard for my own health and feelings.”
But Steelman came down in the world again and picked up Smith on the
road, and they battled round together for another year or so; and at
last they were in Wellington--Steelman “flush” and stopping at an hotel,
and Smith stumped, as usual, and staying with a friend. One night they
were drinking together at the hotel, at the expense of some mugs whom
Steelman was “educating.” It was raining hard. When Smith was going
home, he said:
“Look here, Steely, old man. Listen to the rain! I'll get wringing wet
going home. You might as well lend me your overcoat to-night. You won't
want it, and I won't hurt it.”
And, Steelman's heart being warmed by his successes, he lent the
overcoat.
Smith went and pawned it, got glorious on the proceeds, and took the
pawn-ticket to Steelman next day.
Smith had reformed.
AN UNFINISHED LOVE STORY
Brook let down the heavy, awkward sliprails, and the gaunt cattle
stumbled through, with aggravating deliberation, and scattered slowly
among the native apple-trees along the sidling. First there came an
old easygoing red poley cow, then a dusty white cow; then two shaggy,
half-grown calves--who seemed already to have lost all interest in
existence--and after them a couple of “babies,” sleek, glossy, and
cheerful; then three more tired-looking cows, with ragged udders
and hollow sides; then a lanky barren heifer--red, of course--with
half-blind eyes and one crooked horn--she was noted for her great
agility in jumping two-rail fences, and she was known to the selector as
“Queen Elizabeth;” and behind her came a young cream-coloured milker--a
mighty proud and contented young mother--painfully and patiently
dragging her first calf, which was hanging obstinately to a teat, with
its head beneath her hind legs. Last of all there came the inevitable
red steer, who scratched the dust and let a stupid “bwoo-ur-r-rr” out of
him as he snuffed at the rails.
Brook had shifted the rails there often before--fifteen years
ago--perhaps the selfsame rails, for stringy-bark lasts long; and the
action brought the past near to him--nearer than he wished. He did not
like to think of that hungry, wretched selection existence; he felt more
contempt than pity for the old-fashioned, unhappy boy, who used to let
down the rails there, and drive the cattle through.
He had spent those fifteen years in cities, and had come here, prompted
more by curiosity than anything else, to have a quiet holiday. His
father was dead; his other relations had moved away, leaving a tenant on
the old selection.
Brook rested his elbow on the top rail of an adjacent panel and watched
the cattle pass, and thought until Lizzie--the tenant's niece--shoved
the red steer through and stood gravely regarding him (Brook, and not
the steer); then he shifted his back to the fence and looked at her.
He had not much to look at: a short, plain, thin girl of nineteen,
with rather vacant grey eyes, dark ringlets, and freckles; she had no
complexion to speak of; she wore an ill-fitting print frock, and a
pair of men's 'lastic-sides several sizes too large for her. She was
“studying for a school-teacher;” that was the height of the ambition of
local youth. Brook was studying her.
He turned away to put up the rails. The lower rail went into its place
all right, but the top one had got jammed, and it stuck as though it was
spiked. He worked the rail up and down and to and fro, took it under his
arm and tugged it; but he might as well have pulled at one of the
posts. Then he lifted the loose end as high as he could, and let it
fall--jumping back out of the way at the same time; this loosened it,
but when he lifted it again it slid so easily and far into its socket
that the other end came out and fell, barking Brook's knee. He swore a
little, then tackled the rail again; he had the same trouble as before
with the other end, but succeeded at last. Then he turned away, rubbing
his knee.
Lizzie hadn't smiled, not once; she watched him gravely all the while.
“Did you hurt your knee?” she asked, without emotion.
“No. The rail did.”
She reflected solemnly for a while, and then asked him if it felt sore.
He replied rather briefly in the negative.
“They were always nasty, awkward rails to put up,” she remarked, after
some more reflection.
Brook agreed, and then they turned their faces towards the homestead.
Half-way down the sidling was a clump of saplings, with a big log lying
amongst them. Here Brook paused. “We'll sit down for a while and have a
rest,” said he. “Sit down, Lizzie.”
She obeyed with the greatest of gravity. Nothing was said for awhile.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, gazing thoughtfully at the
ridge, which was growing dim. It looked better when it was dim, and so
did the rest of the scenery. There was no beauty lost when darkness hid
the scenery altogether. Brook wondered what the girl was thinking about.
The silence between them did not seem awkward, somehow; but it didn't
suit him just then, and so presently he broke it.
“Well, I must go to-morrow.”
“Must you?”
“Yes.”
She thought awhile, and then she asked him if he was glad to go.
“Well, I don't know. Are you sorry, Lizzie?”
She thought a good long while, and then she said she was.
He moved closer to the girl, and suddenly slipped his arm round her
waist. She did not seem agitated; she still gazed dreamily at the line
of ridges, but her head inclined slightly towards him.
“Lizzie, did you ever love anyone?”--then anticipating the usual
reply--“except, of course, your father and mother, and all that sort of
thing.” Then, abruptly: “I mean did you ever have a sweetheart?”
She reflected, so as to be sure; then she said she hadn't. Long pause,
and he, the city man, breathed hard--not the girl. Suddenly he moved
nervously, and said:
“Lizzie--Lizzie! Do you know what love means?”
She pondered over this for some minutes, as a result of which she said
she thought that she did.
“Lizzie! Do you think you can love me?”
She didn't seem able to find an answer to that. So he caught her to
him in both arms, and kissed her hard and long on the mouth. She was
agitated now--he had some complexion now; she struggled to her feet,
trembling.
“We must go now,” she said quickly. “They will be waiting for tea.”
He stood up before her, and held her there by both hands.
“There is plenty of time. Lizzie--”
“Mis-ter Br-o-o-k-er! Li-i-z-zee-e-e! Come ter yer tea-e-e!” yelled a
boy from the house.
“We must really go now.”
“Oh, they can wait a minute. Lizzie, don't be frightened”--bending his
head--“Lizzie, put your arms round my neck and kiss me--now. Do as I
tell you, Lizzie--they cannot see us,” and he drew her behind a bush.
“Now, Lizzie.”
She obeyed just as a frightened child might.
“We must go now,” she panted, breathless from such an embrace.
“Lizzie, you will come for a walk with me after tea?”
“I don't know--I can't promise. I don't think it would be right. Aunt
mightn't like me to.”
“Never mind aunt. I'll fix her. We'll go for a walk over to the
school-teacher's place. It will be bright moonlight.”