Chapter II

Next morning the minister was sitting in the rocking chair on the verandah of the grazier’s house. He had a prayer book in one hand and a handkerchief in the other, with which he lazily disputed the right of the flies to roost on his veil. This gave an undulating motion to the chair which was very soothing after old Rosey’s bumping. He saw a pair of brown hands part the awning enclosing the verandah. Then a black head, held in the position of a butting animal, came in view. Free of the screen, the head craned upwards. He saw a flat, shrewd face, with black beady eyes set either side of a bridgeless nose. A wisp of dried grass hung from the wide mouth.

“Sis wants er ride in thet ther cock ’orse yer in,” said the mouth, ejecting the grass with considerable force in his direction.

Sis’ had worked her head in by this. She was fair, with nondescript hair and eyes, and she was “chawrin’”.

“Wer’s ther cock ’orse, Jinny?” she asked, for the chair was not rocking.

“Ridey it an’ let ’er see it; an’ undo this,” commanded Jinny.

“Come round to the front,” said the minister mildly, and pointing to the opening opposite the door.

They came in and walked up to him, with hoods hanging by the strings down their backs.

“Have you come alone?”

“The ether uns er comin’. Me an’ Sis giv’ ’em ther slip; we didn’ wanter ’ump ther dash kid.”

“How far have you walked?”

“Yer parst our place yesserday mornin’. Didn’ yer see me an’ ther billy? Gosh, we nigh bust oursels at ther way yer legs stuck out. Fust I thort yer wus ole Keogh. Yer rides jes’ like er Chinymun.” The dark one did all the talking.

“Our Sis wants er ride in this,” she continued. She gave the chair a lurch that sent the parson’s feet in the air. To avoid the threatened repetition he gripped both sides and planted his feet firmly on the boards.

The younger one poked a stem of dried grass from her mouth through the mesh of the veil in a line with his left ear. Thoroughly routed, he sprang up, and the elder child leapt in.

“’Ere they cum, Jinny,” warned Sis.

Jinny peeped through the awning. “So they is. You gammon ter them we aint cum, w’en they arsts yer,” she said to the parson, “an’ we’ll sneak roun’ ther back. Eh, Sis?”

Mammy and Daddy--commonly called “Jyne” and “Alick” even by their offspring--came in with four children, all younger than Jinny and Sis. Jyne carried the youngest “straddled” across her hip.

The most pronounced feature of Jyne’s face was her mouth, and it seemed proud of its teeth, especially of the top row. Without any apparent effort, the last tooth there was always visible. She was a great power in the bush, being styled by the folk themselves “Rabbit Ketcher,” which, translated, means mid-wife. And the airs Jyne gave herself were justifiable, for she was the only “Rabbit Ketcher” this side of the township. To bring a qualified mid-wife from civilization would have represented a crippling expenditure to these cockies. Jyne’s moderate fees were usually four-legged.

“D’y ter yous,” said Alick, blinking his bungy eyes, and smiling good-naturedly at the parson and at the grazier and his wife. He sat down without removing his hat. Jyne’s teeth saluted them but without any good nature. Jinny and Sis sneaked in behind their mother.

“You young tinkers,” cried Jyne, “tyke this chile this minute.” Her voice, despite the size of her mouth, came through her nose. She put the baby on the floor, and, taking off her hood, mopped her face with the inside of her print dress.

“We wus lookin’ fer you an’ Alick,” said Jinny to her mother, and winking at the parson.

“Yes, you wus,--with ther ’ook,” answered Jyne.

Without further introduction she slewed her head to one side, shut one eye knowingly, and said to the staring minister, “Ther ain’t a wink about Jinny.”

The unblinking daughter instantly offered an illustration of her wakefulness. “Yer orter seen me an’ gran’dad th’ ether mornin’. ’E wus milkin’ ther nannies, an’ ther billy you seen ’e wus jes close agen ’im. I sneaks up to ther billy an’ gives ’im er jab. Lawr ter see ’im rush et ole Alex an’ bunt ’im! ’E’d er killed th’ ole feller on’y fer me. Wou’dn’ ’e, mum?”

“Yer a bol’ gal,” said mum in a proud voice.

The bewildered minister, to turn the conversation, took a vase of wild flowers.

“They belong to the lily tribe, I think,” said the hostess. “They are bulbous.”

“Wile hunyions,” sniffed Jyne, making no attempt to conceal her contempt for this cur of a woman, who thought so much of herself that she always brought a nurse from town.

Then came Alick’s brother, “Flash” Ned; they were as unlike as brothers sometimes are. Ned greeted the parson with bush familiarity. He had his hat on one side, and was wearing a silk Sydney coat that reached to his heels. He was followed by Liz with their family of five. Joey stayed outside, and from time to time dexterously located his step-father. He was Liz’s child by an early marriage--at least, she always said she had been married.

Perched on Liz’s head was a draggled hat that a month ago had been snow white. This also was one of Ned’s Sydney purchases. It was the first time Liz had worn it, but she and the children had overhauled it many times and tried it on. This privilege had been extended to all the women whose curiosity and envy had brought them to Liz’s place. Jinny had called on her way to church, and the missing end of the white feather, after being licked of its ticklesomeness, was now in her safe keeping.

Jyne, catching sight of Joey, invited him inside. But the boy, at a warning glance from his mother, slunk further back. He had run in the wrong horse for his step-father that morning, and was evading a threatened hiding that was to remove both skin and hair. Liz would gladly have taken the hiding herself in place of Joey, but her interference, as she knew to her cost, would mean one for herself without saving the boy.

But for all this Liz thought she was fairly happy. For it was not every day that Ned tried to sign a cheque or that the sheep got boxed, or that his horse refused to be caught. Nor did it always rain when he wanted it fine. Things did not go wrong every day, and he did not beat her or Joey unless they did. A pound of lollies for her and the kids from a dealer’s cart when one came round, would make her think him the best husband in the world.

There was between Jyne and Ned the opposition that is instinctive between commanding spirits. Liz yielded obedience first to Ned then to Jyne.

“Ow’s Polly?” enquired Liz, her countenance showing the gravity of the question.

“Arst ’im,” snarled Jyne, baring her fangs and looking at uneasy shuffling Alick. “Makin’ ’er dror three casts er worter ten mile, an’ er thet way. Wil’ pigs eatin’ ’er as I cum along.”

“No!” said Liz, though she had known it all yesterday. News of such catastrophes soon spread in the bush.

“Better corl me a liar at onct,” snapped Jyne.

Next to arrive were Jyne’s mother and Alick’s father, both of whom lived with Jyne. The old woman rode on a horse astride a man’s saddle. The old man led it. She had Jyne’s mouth, or rather Jyne had hers, but the teeth were gone. The old man greeted the parson reverently, blew with his breath on the seat, and wiped it carefully with the handkerchief he had taken from his hat. Even then before sitting he raised the tails of the coat he had been married in so long ago. Until Ned’s Sydney purchase his had been the only decorative coat in the district.

Tilly and Jim Lumber, with their ten-days-old baby, followed. Jim was the champion concertina player and bullock driver in the district. He came as the representative of the several families across the creek, whom energetic Ned had rounded up the day before. He had been chosen by them for his size and strength to do battle on their behalf. Ned’s effort to frighten those women whose husbands were away shearing into the necessity of attending service had over-reached itself, and they had been afraid to come. But they had entrusted their precious documents to Jim’s powerful keeping. He had his own registered brand tied up in a spotted handkerchief. This he dropped with a clank beside him as he sat sheepishly and gingerly on the edge of a chair. He was over six feet, but he sat with his head almost between his knees, till he resembled a quadruped. His shirt front bulged like a wallet with his clients’ papers. He slyly took stock of those assembled. Spry little Tilly got the credit of having done all the courting. Even after marriage she had always done his share of the talking.

“Ow’s ther kiddy maroo?” said Alick to Jim, lisping from the size of the plug he had just bitten. He had a fatherly interest in all Jyne’s “rabbit ketchin’.”

Jim, who never used his voice except to drive his bullocks, answered with a subterranean laugh.

“Noo bit er flesh,” said Ned, nodding at the baby.

“Ow’s Polly this mornin’?” gravely enquired Tilly, as she took a seat near Jyne.

“Ah, poor Polly,” quavered Jyne’s mother, and sparing Jyne by telling of Polly’s untimely end.

“Well, I’m blest; what a lorse!” said the sympathetic Tilly. She repeated a well-known story of the bu’stin’ of a poley cow last year.

Jyne took the baby, and began to rate the mother mildly for “walkin’ seven mile ser soon,” but Jyne’s mother interposed with a recital of “wot I dun w’en Jun (John) wur two days old.” John was present, fully six feet of him, grinning with a mouth bigger than Jyne’s, but mercifully hidden by a straggled moustache.

However, Jyne was not to be outdone even by her own mother, and the narrative of her last, assisted in many minor details by Jinney, aged eleven, left little to be desired in the way of hardihood.

Liz kept her teething baby respectfully silent by industriously rubbing its lower gum with a dirty thumb. She expressed her surprise at Jyne’s phenomenal endurance by little clicks of the tongue, shakes of the head, and other signs indicative of admiration and astonishment. When Jyne finished, she began eagerly on an experience of her own. “Well, w’en I wus took with Drary (short for Adrarian), think I could fin’ ther sissers?”

Jyne, who knew that the recital of a daring feat was coming, enquired, “W’en yer wus took with Joey?”

“No,” said Liz, stopping short with a nervous click in her voice, and looking at Ned.

The next item was ventriloquising by Jyne per medium of Tilly’s uneasy baby. “My mammy, she sez, yer dot me all o’a hoo, she sez. No wunny, she sez, me can’t keep goody, she sez, ’ith me cosey all o’a hoo, she sez.” She had been examining the baby’s undergear, and at this stage her tone of baby banter suddenly changed to one of professional horror. “My Gawd, Tilly!” she cried, the drooping corners of her mouth nearly covering her upper teeth. “Look w’er er little belly-bands is--nearly un’er ’er arms,” she explained, probably to the company, but looking directly at the clergyman. And, with true professional acumen, she intimated that had she not been on the spot, an intricate part of the little one’s anatomy in another minute would “’a bust out a bleedin’ an’ not all ther doctors in ther worl’ couldn’ astoppt it.”

The minister was very busy, meanwhile, blushing and getting his books in order, and with this congregation of ten adults and eighteen children he began, “Dearly beloved brethren----”

Jim Lumber gripped his bullock brand, took a swift look at him and turned to Tilly. It had been settled between them that she was to do the talking. Alick, who, despite his father’s efforts to enlighten him as to the nature of a church service, and encouraged by Jyne’s remark that “they’d eat nothin’,” had also brought his valuable documents in his shirt front, thrust in a groping hand.

For a few minutes the adults listened and watched intently, but the gentle voice of the parson, and his nervous manner, soon convinced them that they had nothing to fear from him. Ned had been ’pokin’ borak’ at them again; they added it to the long score they owed him.

The children wandered about the room. Jinny and Sis invited their little sister to “Cum an’ see ther pooty picters in the man’s book,” and they assisted the minister to turn over the leaves of his Bible.

Alick’s father, who was from the North of Ireland, and, for all his forty years in the bush, had not lost his reverence for the cloth, bade his grand-daughters beseechingly to “quet,” whereupon Jinny showed him quite two inches of inky tongue. Ink was a commodity unknown in Jinny’s home, and all the unknown is edible to the bush child.

“Woman!” he said, appealing to Jinny’s mother, “whybut you bid ’er to quet?”

“You orter be in er glars’ ban’ box w’er ther ain’t no children; thet’s w’er you orter be,” answered Jyne.

He beckoned to one straggler, a girl of six, with Alick’s face, who came to him promptly and sat on his knee.

Presently her brown hand stroked his old cheek. “Gran’ dad,” she said.

“Choot, darlin’,” he whispered, reverently.

The child looked at him wonderingly. “I says you’s gran’ dad,” she repeated, “not ole Alick.”

He laid his white head on hers.

“Gran’ dad, ole Tommy Tolbit’s dead.”

Turning his glistening face to Liz in momentary forgetfulness, he said solemnly, “The knowledge of this chile!”

“Ole Talbert” had been dead for two years, and the knowledgable child had been surprising him so, at least twice a week.

“We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep,” murmured the minister.

The smaller children wandered in and out of the bedrooms, carrying their spoils with them. But Jinny and Sis had drawn the now disabled rocking chair up to the window, and were busy poking faces at two of Liz’s children, who were standing on the couch inside. One of these made a vicious smack with a hair-brush at Jinny’s tongue, flattened against the glass. The ensuing crash stopped even the parson for a moment.

Bravely he began again. He paused occasionally for a sudden subterranean laugh to cease or to put one book after another on the shelf behind him out of the children’s reach. Just as he read the last line of the Te Deum, “Oh Lord in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded,” one of Liz’s children tugged at his trousers, with a muzzled request that his teeth might be freed from a square of pink soap. Another offered to the baby Liz was nursing a pincushion she brought from the bedroom.

“Jyne,” called Jinny from the verandah, “’Ere cums young Tommy Tolbit by ’isself. You wus right, Jyne; she ain’t cummin’!”

Even Jyne’s gums gleamed; she looked triumphantly at Alick her husband, at Liz, then at all but Ned.

In shambled Tommy, moist and panting. He had been a drover, and had recently taken up a selection on the run. He was a bridegroom of a month’s standing. His missus had been a servant at one of the hotels in the township.

“Made a start!” he remarked. His voice gave the impression that he did not mind their not waiting for him.

“Missus ain’t comin’?” enquired Alick, trying to atone to Jyne for overloading Polly.

“Not ter day,” said the bridegroom, but his voice intimated that in all probability she would have been able to come to-morrow.

“No!” said Jyne, putting him under fire, and trying to keep the crow out of her voice.

“Ain’t very well, is she? Didn’ eat a very ’earty breakfuss this mornin’?” And a further remark suggested that even if the meal had been hearty, the usual process of assimilation had not taken place.

“Ow’s Polly?” he enquired.

“Cooked,” said Jyne, instantly diverted.

“Go on!” said the bridegroom, with well feigned astonishment. His breathless and perspiring state had been caused by his “going on” to capture one of the wild suckers that had been eating Polly.

“Let us pray,” said the minister. His host, hostess, and Alick’s father knelt, but the rest sat as usual.

The knowledgable child, considering the grandfather’s position an invitation to mount, climbed on his back. Making a bridle of the handkerchief round the old fellow’s neck, and digging two heels into his sides, she talked horse to him. The protesting old man bucked vigorously, but it was no easy task to throw her.

The clergyman gave out his text, and the sermon began.

Jyne’s children commenced to complain of being “’ungery” and a fair-sized damper was taken from a pillow-slip. This, together with two tin tots and a bottle of goat’s milk, was given to Jinny and she was told to do “ther sharin’.”

The hostess asked Jyne in a whisper to send them to the verandah, and for a time there was comparative quiet. Such interruptions as “Jinny won’t gimme nun, Arnie” (Auntie) from Liz’s children being checked by Jyne with “Go an’ play an’ doan’ ’ave ser much gab, like yer father.”

“Thet greedy wretch uv er Jinny is guzzlin’ all ther milk inter ’er, Jyne,” from her own children, was appeased by her promise to “break ther young faggit’s back w’en I get ’ome.”

There was a wail of anguished hunger from Liz’s empty children that aroused paternal sympathy in Ned. “Sep me Gord,” he said, “some wimmen is like cows. They’ll give ther own calf a suck, but if anyone else’s calf cums anigh ’em they lif’ their leg an’ kick it ter blazes.”

Jyne tossed her head and, with a derisive laugh, expressed the opinion that “It ’ed fit sum people better if ther munny wasted in buyin’ flash coats an’ rediclus ’ats wus spent in flour bags.”

For a short space only the voice of the preacher sounded, as, in studied stoicism, he pursued his thankless task. Occasionally they looked at him to see “’Oo ’e wus speakin’ ter,” but finding nothing directly personal, even this attention ceased.

Liz leant across to Tilly Lumber and asked, “Fowl layin’?”

“Ketch ’em er layin’ et Chrissermus.”

Ned told how he had brought home a number of law books from Sydney, and that he and an old man he had picked up “wus readin’ ’em.” It was his intention to absorb such an amount of knowledge that all he would have to do with the lessee of the run--an ex-barrister--would be to put him in a bail. What would follow was graphically illustrated by Ned’s dropping his head, gripping an imaginary bucket between his knees, and opening and shutting his hands in rhythmic up and down movements. Some of his audience, remembering his threats and warning against the parson, thought this pantomime must have an ominous meaning for the preacher.

But sceptical Jyne was not impressed. “Upon me soul,” she said, “sum people is the biggest lyin’ blowers that ever cockt er lip.”

Alick, always for peace, stepped into the breach. “Comin’ along jes’ now,” he said, shifting his plug of tobacco from one side to the other, and aiming at the flies in the fireplace with the juice, “we ’as a yarn with Mick Byrnes. ’E ’as ther luck of er lousy calf. ’E sez ’e got eightpence orl roun’ fer ’ees kangaroo skins. Damned if I can.”

“Now a good plan ’ed be,” said Ned, “ter get a good lot, sen’ ’em down ter them Sydney blokes. Slip down yerself, go ter ther sale, don’ let on ’oo yer are, an’ run ’em up like blazes. Thet’s wot I’ll do with my wool nex’ year.”

This plan seemed commendable to Alick. “By Goey,” he said, his mild eyes blinking.

Jyne never, on any occasion, showed the slightest interest or attention when Ned was speaking, unless to sniff and lay bare her bottom teeth, but here she remarked, “Sum people ’ud keep runnin’ ter Sydney till ’e ’asen’ er penny ter fly with.”

“If sum people with ser much jawr, an’ ’er mouth ’es big ’es ’er torn pocket, belonged ter me,” said Ned, “I’d smash er ugly jawr.”

Jyne slewed hers to an awful angle in his direction, “I’d like ter see yer try it.”

A look of agony came into the eyes of the grazier’s wife as she heard the door of the dining-room open. The children were so quiet, that she knew they were up to mischief.

She heard Jinny’s hoarse whisper. “Orl of yez wait an’ I’ll bring yer sumsin’.” On the dining-room table was the cold food prepared for the clergyman’s dinner. She looked across at her husband with dumb entreaty. He, with eyes devoutly on the carpet, was listening intently to Ned’s account of how he nearly made the squatter take a “sugar doodle” (back somersault) when he heard that he had been to Sydney.

“’Day Keogh,” sez I.

“’Oo ’ave I ther ’oner of speakin’ ter?” sez ’e.

“Mr. Stennard,” I sez.

“Oh indeed,” ’e sez, “very ’appy ter make yer acquaintance, Mr. Stennard, Esquire,” ’e sez.

“Never mind no blarsted acquaintance,” I sez, “w’en are yer goin’ ter take yer flamin’ jumbucks orf my lan’?” I sez.

“Your lan’,” ’e sez, “I didn’ know you ’ad any lan’ about ’ere,” ’e sez.

“Oh, didn’ yer,” I sez, “you ner ther Lan’ Agent won’ frighten me orf,” I sez, “gammonin’ I’m on er reserve,” sez I, “I’ve paid me deposit, an’ I’ve been ter Sydney,” I sez, “I put me name ter a cheque,” sez I, “an’ ----”

Jyne ceased sniffing, to laugh long and loudly. “Gawd, eh!” she said, with her eyes on the ceiling and apparently appealing to the flies. “Wot ’erbout sech game cocks plantin’ under ther dray w’en old Keogh kem bullyin’ w’en we fust kem out ’ere?”

Ned went hastily out at the front door “ter squint at ther jumbucks,” three miles away. Joey, who had been peering round that door, now appeared at the back.

“Come in, Joey,” snorted Jyne. “No one ain’t game ter ’it yer w’en I’m ’ere.”

The minister still preached, but he had only old Alick for a listener.

The hostess’ mental picture of Jinny “sharin’” her dinner for three among that voracious brood was distracting. Only the fear of suffering in the clergyman’s mind as one of “them” kept her to her seat. She could give the sermon no attention, but listened to Sis licking her fingers, and wondered if it was the vinegar or the wine that caused Jinny’s cough. Presently Jinny set that doubt at rest by coming in odorous, and with the front of her dress wine-stained.

“Little ’un snoozin’!” Jinny remarked, lurching giddily towards her to merrily twirl her fist in the snoozer. The snoozer’s mother wondered if they had shut the dining-room door. Soon the noise of the fowls scattering the crockery told her they had not.

“Thum busted fowls is eatin’ orl yer dinner,” said Jinny dreamily.

“’Unt ’em out an’ shet ther door,” said sympathetic Jyne.

“You go, Sis, I’m tired.” Jinny laid her giddy head on the floor, and went to sleep.

“Liz,” said Jyne, maliciously, for she immediately grudged Sis’ efforts to chase the fowls out of the dining-room. “Wot’s thet there flower?” pointing to the vase.

“Wile huniyon,” said Liz, promptly.

“Er, is it? Thet’s orl yer know. Thet’s a bulbers, thet is. Thet’s ther noo name fer it.” She looked at the grazier’s wife and laughed ironically.

“Bulbers! yer goat,” said Liz, laughing dutifully.

The sermon was over, and the worried minister began the christening.

The naming of the hostess’ baby was plain sailing. He then drew towards him a child of about two years, and asked, “What is this child’s name?”

“Adrarian,” said Liz. An old shepherd reading to her a love story had so pronounced the hero’s name. It staggered the minister, until his hostess spelt “Adrian.”

“What is its age?”

“About two year.”

This was too vague for him, and he pressed for dates. But for these dwellers in the bush the calendar had no significance. The mother thought it might be in November. “Cos it wus shearin’, an’ I’d ter keep Teddy at ’ome ter do ther work.” Teddy was “about ten.” From these uncertainties the clergyman had to supply the dates for his official returns to the Government.

“But Lawd,” as Jyne remarked to ease his perplexity, “wot did it matter fer a brat of er boy.” She had a family of six, and all were girls.

There was much the same difficulty with all the others, an exception being Tilly Lumber’s baby of under a fortnight. A cowardly look came into the minister’s eyes as he turned to this grotesque atom already in the short coat stage. He remembered Jyne’s awful discovery of a little while back, and shirked the duty of holding it even for a moment.

The christening was a matter that had some personal interest for the elders, and they grouped round the minister. Bridegroom Tommy, striking the mossy back of Alick’s old father, suggested that he and Jyne’s mother should get spliced, and he expressed the opinion of the fruitfulness of such union within record time as a set-off dig at Jyne.

She instantly balanced matters between herself and the incautiously smiling Liz and the laughing unfilial Ned, “Stop scratchin’ yer ’ed, miss; anyone ’ud think there wus anythink in it,” she said to Liz’s eldest girl, who was brushing the christening water from her hair. Ned’s stepson she invited to come nearer, and tell her who had blackened his poor eye. She advised the silent lad “ter get a waddy ther nex’ time anyone bigger’n yer goes ter ’it yer.” And she gave him directions by twirling an imaginary waddy swiftly, its circuit suddenly diverting in a line with Ned’s skull.

It was long past noon when the ceremony was ended. The minister drained his glass of water, mopped his face, and heaved a deep sigh. As the whole congregation still sat on, he gave them a hint that “church” was out, and their presence no longer required. He spoke with a show of concern of how very hot they would find the walk home, and to further emphasise his meaning, he shook hands with all the adults, and walked to the verandah. Without the slightest concern they sat on, listening intently to the sounds the hostess made in trying to scrape together a meal for the clergyman. Apparently they all meant to stay the day.

The grazier’s wife appeared for a moment to beckon him to go round the house into the dining-room. He sat down to the remains of the dinner the children had left.

At that moment Jinny, who had been awakened for the christening, looked round the door. “Our Sis wants ter know w’en’s ’er supper’s goin’ ter be!” she said.

This perhaps was an acknowledgment that Sis had already dined.

THE CHOSEN VESSEL.

She laid the stick and her baby on the grass while she untied the rope that tethered the calf. The length of the rope separated them. The cow was near the calf, and both were lying down. Feed along the creek was plentiful, and every day she found a fresh place to tether it, since tether it she must, for if she did not, it would stray with the cow out on the plain. She had plenty of time to go after it, but then there was baby; and if the cow turned on her out on the plain, and she with baby,--she had been a town girl and was afraid of the cow, but she did not want the cow to know it. She used to run at first when it bellowed its protest against the penning up of its calf. This satisfied the cow, also the calf, but the woman’s husband was angry, and called her--the noun was cur. It was he who forced her to run and meet the advancing cow, brandishing a stick, and uttering threatening words till the enemy turned and ran. “That’s the way!” the man said, laughing at her white face. In many things he was worse than the cow, and she wondered if the same rule would apply to the man, but she was not one to provoke skirmishes even with the cow.

It was early for the calf to go “to bed”--nearly an hour earlier than usual; but she had felt so restless all day. Partly because it was Monday, and the end of the week that would bring her and baby the companionship of its father, was so far off. He was a shearer, and had gone to his shed before daylight that morning. Fifteen miles as the crow flies separated them.

There was a track in front of the house, for it had once been a wine shanty, and a few travellers passed along at intervals. She was not afraid of horsemen; but swagmen, going to, or worse, coming from the dismal, drunken little township, a day’s journey beyond, terrified her. One had called at the house to-day, and asked for tucker.

Ah! that was why she had penned up the calf so early! She feared more from the look of his eyes, and the gleam of his teeth, as he watched her newly awakened baby beat its impatient fists upon her covered breasts, than from the knife that was sheathed in the belt at his waist.

She had given him bread and meat. Her husband she told him was sick. She always said that when she was alone, and a swagman came, and she had gone in from the kitchen to the bedroom, and asked questions and replied to them in the best man’s voice she could assume. Then he had asked to go into the kitchen to boil his billy, but she gave him tea, and he drank it on the wood heap. He had walked round and round the house, and there were cracks in some places, and after the last time he had asked for tobacco. She had none to give him, and he had grinned, because there was a broken clay pipe near the wood heap where he stood, and if there were a man inside, there ought to have been tobacco. Then he asked for money, but women in the bush never have money.

At last he had gone, and she, watching through the cracks, saw him when about a quarter of a mile away, turn and look back at the house. He had stood so for some moments with a pretence of fixing his swag, and then, apparently satisfied, moved to the left towards the creek. The creek made a bow round the house, and when he came to it she lost sight of him. Hours after, watching intently for signs of smoke, she saw the man’s dog chasing some sheep that had gone to the creek for water, and saw it slink back suddenly, as if the man had called it.

More than once she thought of taking her baby and going to her husband. But in the past, when she had dared to speak of the dangers to which her loneliness exposed her, he had taunted and sneered at her. She need not flatter herself, he had coarsely told her, that any body would want to run away with her.

Long before nightfall she placed food on the kitchen table, and beside it laid the big brooch that had been her mother’s. It was the only thing of value that she had. And she left the kitchen door wide open.

The doors inside she securely fastened. Beside the bolt in the back one she drove in the steel and scissors; against it she piled the table and the stools. Underneath the lock of the front door she forced the handle of the spade, and the blade between the cracks in the flooring boards. Then the prop-stick, cut into lengths, held the top, as the spade held the middle. The windows were little more than portholes; she had nothing to fear through them.

She ate a few mouthfuls of food and drank a cup of milk. But she lighted no fire, and when night came, no candle, but crept with her baby to bed.

What woke her? The wonder was that she had slept--she had not meant to. But she was young, very young. Perhaps the shrinking of the galvanized roof--yet hardly, since that was so usual. Something had set her heart beating wildly; but she lay quite still, only she put her arm over her baby. Then she had both round it, and she prayed, “Little baby, little baby, don’t wake!”

The moon’s rays shone on the front of the house, and she saw one of the open cracks, quite close to where she lay, darken with a shadow. Then a protesting growl reached her; and she could fancy she heard the man turn hastily. She plainly heard the thud of something striking the dog’s ribs, and the long flying strides of the animal as it howled and ran. Still watching, she saw the shadow darken every crack along the wall. She knew by the sounds that the man was trying every standpoint that might help him to see in; but how much he saw she could not tell. She thought of many things she might do to deceive him into the idea that she was not alone. But the sound of her voice would wake baby, and she dreaded that as though it were the only danger that threatened her. So she prayed, “Little baby, don’t wake, don’t cry!”

Stealthily the man crept about. She knew he had his boots off, because of the vibration that his feet caused as he walked along the verandah to gauge the width of the little window in her room, and the resistance of the front door.

Then he went to the other end, and the uncertainty of what he was doing became unendurable. She had felt safer, far safer, while he was close, and she could watch and listen. She felt she must watch, but the great fear of wakening baby again assailed her. She suddenly recalled that one of the slabs on that side of the house had shrunk in length as well as in width, and had once fallen out. It was held in position only by a wedge of wood underneath. What if he should discover that! The uncertainty increased her terror. She prayed as she gently raised herself with her little one in her arms, held tightly to her breast.

She thought of the knife, and shielded her child’s body with her hands and arms. Even its little feet she covered with its white gown, and baby never murmured--it liked to be held so. Noiselessly she crossed to the other side, and stood where she could see and hear, but not be seen. He was trying every slab, and was very near to that with the wedge under it. Then she saw him find it; and heard the sound of the knife as bit by bit he began to cut away the wooden support.

She waited motionless, with her baby pressed tightly to her, though she knew that in another few minutes this man with the cruel eyes, lascivious mouth, and gleaming knife, would enter. One side of the slab tilted; he had only to cut away the remaining little end, when the slab, unless he held it, would fall outside.

She heard his jerked breathing as it kept time with the cuts of the knife, and the brush of his clothes as he rubbed the wall in his movements, for she was so still and quiet, that she did not even tremble. She knew when he ceased, and wondered why. She stood well concealed; she knew he could not see her, and that he would not fear if he did, yet she heard him move cautiously away. Perhaps he expected the slab to fall. Still his motive puzzled her, and she moved even closer, and bent her body the better to listen. Ah! what sound was that? “Listen! Listen!” she bade her heart--her heart that had kept so still, but now bounded with tumultuous throbs that dulled her ears. Nearer and nearer came the sounds, till the welcome thud of a horse’s hoof rang out clearly.

“Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!” she cried for they were very close before she could make sure. She turned to the door, and with her baby in her arms tore frantically at its bolts and bars.

Out she darted at last, and running madly along, saw the horseman beyond her in the distance. She called to him in Christ’s name, in her babe’s name, still flying like the wind with the speed that deadly peril gives. But the distance grew greater and greater between them, and when she reached the creek her prayers turned to wild shrieks, for there crouched the man she feared, with outstretched arms that caught her as she fell. She knew he was offering terms if she ceased to struggle and cry for help, though louder and louder did she cry for it, but it was only when the man’s hand gripped her throat, that the cry of “Murder” came from her lips. And when she ceased, the startled curlews took up the awful sound, and flew shrieking over the horseman’s head.

* * * * *

“By God!” said the boundary rider, “its been a dingo right enough! Eight killed up here, and there’s more down in the creek--a ewe and a lamb, I’ll bet; and the lamb’s alive!” And he shut out the sky with his hand, and watched the crows that were circling round and round, nearing the earth one moment, and the next shooting skywards. By that he knew the lamb must be alive; even a dingo will spare a lamb sometimes.

Yes, the lamb was alive, and after the manner of lambs of its kind did not know its mother when the light came. It had sucked the still warm breasts, and laid its little head on her bosom, and slept till the morn. Then, when it looked at the swollen disfigured face, it wept and would have crept away, but for the hand that still clutched its little gown. Sleep was nodding its golden head and swaying its small body, and the crows were close, so close, to the mother’s wide-open eyes, when the boundary rider galloped down.

“Jesus Christ!” he said, covering his eyes. He told afterwards how the little child held out its arms to him, and how he was forced to cut its gown that the dead hand held.

* * * * *

It was election time, and as usual the priest had selected a candidate. His choice was so obviously in the interests of the squatter, that Peter Hennessey’s reason, for once in his life, had over-ridden superstition, and he had dared promise his vote to another. Yet he was uneasy, and every time he woke in the night (and it was often), he heard the murmur of his mother’s voice. It came through the partition, or under the door. If through the partition, he knew she was praying in her bed; but when the sounds came under the door, she was on her knees before the little altar in the corner that enshrined the statue of the Blessed Virgin and Child.

“Mary, Mother of Christ! save my son! Save him!” prayed she in the dairy as she strained and set the evening’s milking. “Sweet Mary! for the love of Christ, save him!” The grief in her old face made the morning meal so bitter, that to avoid her he came late to his dinner. It made him so cowardly, that he could not say good-bye to her, and when night fell on the eve of the election day, he rode off secretly.

He had thirty miles to ride to the township to record his vote. He cantered briskly along the great stretch of plain that had nothing but stunted cotton bush to play shadow to the full moon, which glorified a sky of earliest spring. The bruised incense of the flowering clover rose up to him, and the glory of the night appealed vaguely to his imagination, but he was preoccupied with his present act of revolt.

Vividly he saw his mother’s agony when she would find him gone. At that moment, he felt sure, she was praying.

“Mary! Mother of Christ!” He repeated the invocation, half unconsciously. And suddenly, out of the stillness, came Christ’s name to him--called loudly in despairing accents.

“For Christ’s sake! Christ’s sake! Christ’s sake!” called the voice. Good Catholic that he had been, he crossed himself before he dared to look back. Gliding across a ghostly patch of pipe-clay, he saw a white-robed figure with a babe clasped to her bosom.

All the superstitious awe of his race and religion swayed his brain. The moonlight on the gleaming clay was a “heavenly light” to him, and he knew the white figure not for flesh and blood, but for the Virgin and Child of his mother’s prayers. Then, good Catholic that once more he was, he put spurs to his horse’s sides and galloped madly away.

His mother’s prayers were answered.

Hennessey was the first to record his vote--for the priest’s candidate. Then he sought the priest at home, but found that he was out rallying the voters. Still, under the influence of his blessed vision, Hennessey would not go near the public houses, but wandered about the outskirts of the town for hours, keeping apart from the towns-people, and fasting as penance. He was subdued and mildly ecstatic, feeling as a repentant chastened child, who awaits only the kiss of peace.

And at last, as he stood in the graveyard crossing himself with reverent awe, he heard in the gathering twilight the roar of many voices crying the name of the victor at the election. It was well with the priest.

Again Hennessey sought him. He was at home, the house-keeper said, and led him into the dimly-lighted study. His seat was immediately opposite a large picture, and as the housekeeper turned up the lamp, once more the face of the Madonna and Child looked down on him, but this time silently, peacefully. The half-parted lips of the Virgin were smiling with compassionate tenderness; her eyes seemed to beam with the forgiveness of an earthly mother for her erring but beloved child.

He fell on his knees in adoration. Transfixed, the wondering priest stood, for mingled with the adoration, “My Lord and my God!” was the exaltation, “And hast Thou chosen me?”

“What is it, Peter?” said the priest.

“Father,” he answered reverently, and with loosened tongue he poured forth the story of his vision.

“Great God!” shouted the priest, “and you did not stop to save her! Have you not heard?”

* * * * *

Many miles further down the creek a man kept throwing an old cap into a water-hole. The dog would bring it out and lay it on the opposite side to where the man stood, but would not allow the man to catch him, though it was only to wash the blood of the sheep from his mouth and throat, for the sight of blood made the man tremble.

Transcriber’s Note:

Words in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like this_. Underlined text is surrounded by tildes, ~like this~. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged, as were jargon, dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings. Final stops missing at the end of sentences were added. Duplicate words at line endings were removed. Punctuation was standardized. Four misspelled words were corrected. Unprinted letters were added to three words:

‘... who from time to t[ime] continued to take ...’
‘... She [fea]red more from the look of his eyes,...’
‘... and [l]ooked under the mat ...’