The Book of the Bush Part 12

"Well, Mister, how do you like that filly I sold you?"

"Very well indeed. She is a capital roadster and stockhorse."

"Does she ever throw you?"

"Never. What makes you ask?"

"Well, that's queer. The fact is I sold her to you because I could not ride her. Every time I mounted, she slung me a buster."

"I see, Bob, you meant well, didn't you? But she never yet slung me a buster; she is quieter than a lamb, and she will come to me whenever I whistle, and follow me like a dog."

Philip's first dog was named Sam. He was half collie and half bull dog, and was therefore both brave and full of sagacity. He guarded the hut and the other domestics during school hours, and when he saw Philip coming up the hill, he ran to meet him, smiling and wagging his tail, and reported all well. The other dog was only a small pup, a Skye terrier, like a bunch of tow, a present from Tommy Traddles.

Pup's early days were made very miserable by Maggie, the magpie.

That wicked bird used to strut around Philip while he was digging in the garden, and after filling her crop with worms and grubs, she flapped away on one wing and went round the hut looking for amus.e.m.e.nt. She jumped on Pup's back, scratched him with her claws, pecked at his skull, and pulled locks of wool out of it, the poor innocent all the while yelping and howling for mercy. Sam never helped Pup, or drove Maggie away; he was actually afraid of her, and believed she was a dangerous witch. Sometimes she pecked at his tail, and he dared not say a word, but sneaked away, looking sideways at her, hanging down his ears, and afraid to say his tail was his own. Joey, the parrot, watched all that was going on from his cage, which was hung on a hook outside the hut door. Philip tried to teach Joey to whistle a tune: "There is na luck aboot the hoose, There is na luck at a'," but the parrot had so many things to attend to that he never had time to finish the tune. He was, indeed, very vain and flighty, sidling along his perch and saying: "Sweet pretty Joey, who are you, who are you? Ha! Ha! Ha!" wanting everybody to take notice and admire him. When Maggie first attacked poor Pup, scratched his back, pecked at his head, and tore locks of wool out of him, and Pup screamed pitifully to all the world for help, Joey poked his head between the wires of his cage, turned one eye downwards, listened to the language, and watched the new performance with silent ecstacy. He had never heard or seen anything like it in the whole course of his life. Philip used to drive Maggie away, take up poor Pup and stroke him, while Maggie, the villain, hopped around, flapping her wings and giving the greatest impudence.

It really gave Philip a great deal of trouble to keep order among his domestics. One day, while hoeing in the garden, he heard the Pup screaming miserably. He said, "There's that villain, Maggie, at him again," and he ran up to the hut to drive her away. But when he reached it there was neither Pup nor Maggie to be seen, only Joey in his cage, and he was bobbing his head up and down, yelping exactly like the Pup, and then he began laughing at Philip ready to burst, "Ha! Ha!

Ha! Who are you? Who are you? There is no luck aboot the hoose, There is na luck at a'."

The native bear resided in a packing case, nailed on the top of a stump nearly opposite the hut door. He had a strap round his waist, and was fastened to the stump by a piece of clothes line. The boys called him a monkey-bear, but though his face was like that of a bear he was neither a monkey nor a bear. He was in fact a sloth; his legs were not made for walking, but for climbing, and although he had strong claws and a very muscular forearm, he was always slow in his movements. He was very silent and unsociable, never joined in the amus.e.m.e.nts of the other domestics, and when Philip brought him a bunch of tender young gum-tree shoots for his breakfast in the morning, he did not even say "thanks" or smile, or show the least grat.i.tude. He never spoke except at dead of night, when he was exchanging compliments with some other bear up a gum tree in the forty-acre paddock. And such compliments! Their voices were frightful, something between a roar and a groan, and although Philip was a great linguist he was never quite sure what they were saying.

But the bear was always scheming to get away; he was like the Boers, and could not abide British rule. Philip would not have kept him at all, but as he had taken him into the family circle when a cub he did not like to be cruel and turn him out along in a heartless world.

Twice Bruin managed to untie the clothes line and started for the forty-acre. He crawled along very slowly, and when he saw Philip coming after him, he stopped, looked behind him, and said, "Hoo,"

showing his disgust. Then Philip took hold of the end of the clothes line and brought him back, scolding all the time.

"You miserable Bruin, you don't know what's good for you; you can't tell a light-wood from a gum-tree, and you'll die of starvation, or else the boys will find you, and they will kill you, thinking you are a wild bush bear, for you don't show any signs of good education, after all the trouble I have taken to teach you manners. I am afraid you will come to a bad end."

And so he did. The third time Bruin loosed the clothes line he had a six hours' start before he was missed, and sure enough he hid himself in a lightwood for want of sense, and that very night the boys saw him by the light of the moon, and Hugh Boyle climbed up the tree and knocked him down with a waddy.

p.u.s.s.y, Philip's sixth domestic, had attained her majority; she had never gone after snakes in her youth, and had always avoided bad company. She did her duty in the house as a good mouser, and when mice grew scarce she went hunting for game; she had a hole under the eaves near the chimney, through which she could enter the hut at any time of the night or day. While Philip was musing after tea on the "Pons Asinorum" by the light of a tallow candle, p.u.s.s.y was out poaching for quail, and as soon as she caught one she brought it home, dropped it on the floor, rubbed her side against Philip's boot, and said, "I have brought a little game for breakfast." Then Philip stroked her along the back, after which she lay down before the fire, tucked in her paws and fell asleep, with a good conscience.

But many bush cats come to an unhappy and untimely end by giving way to the vice of curiosity. When Dinah, the vain kitten, takes her first walk abroad in spring time, she observes something smooth and s.h.i.+ny gliding gently along. She p.r.i.c.ks up her ears, and gazes at the interesting stranger; then she goes a little nearer, softly lifting first one paw and then another.

The stranger is more intelligent than Dinah. He says to himself, "I know her sort well, the silly thing. Saw her ages ago in the Garden.

She wants mice and frogs and such things--takes the bread out of my mouth. Native industry must be protected." so the stranger brings his head round under the gra.s.s and waits for Dinah, who is watching his tail. The tail moves a little and then a little more. Dinah says, "It will be gone if I don't mind," and she jumps for it. At that instant the snake strikes her on the nose with his fangs.

Dinah's fur rises on end with sudden fright, she shakes her head, and the snake drops off. She turns away, and says, "This is frightful; what a deceitful world! Life is not worth living." Her head feels queer, and being sleepy she lies down, and is soon a dead cat.

That summer was very hot at Nyalong, one hundred and ten degrees in the shade. Philip began to find his bed of stringy bark very hard, and as it grew older it curled together so much that he could scarcely turn in it from one side to the other. So he made a mattress which he stuffed with straw, and he found it much softer than the stringy bark. But after a while the mattress grew flat, and the stuffing lumpy. Sometimes on hot days he took out his bed, and after shaking it, he laid it down on the gra.s.s; his blankets he hung on the fence for many reasons which he wanted to get rid of.

The water in the forty-acre to the south was all dried up. An old black snake with a streak of orange along his ribs grew thirsty. His last meal was a mouse, and he said, "That was a dry mouthful, and wants something to wash it down." He knew his way to the water-hole at the end of the garden, but he had to pa.s.s the hut, which when he travelled that way the summer before was unoccupied. After creeping under the bottom rail of the fence, he raised his head a little, and looked round. He said, "I see there's another tenant here"--Bruin was then alive and was sitting on the top of his stump eating gum leaves--"I never saw that fellow so low down in the world before; I wonder what he is doing here; been lagged, I suppose for something or other. He is a stupid, anyway, and won't take any notice even if he sees me."

Sam and Puss were both blinking their eyes in the shade of the lightwood, and whisking the flies from their ears. Maggie was walking about with beak open, showing her parched tongue; the heat made her low-spirited.

The snake had crept as far as Philip's mattress, which was lying on the gra.s.s, when Maggie saw him. She instantly gave the alarm, "A snake, a snake!" for she knew he was a bad character. Sam and Puss jumped up and began to bark; Joey said, "There is na luck aboot the hoose." Bruin was too stupid to say anything. The snake said, "Here is a terrible row all at once, I must make for a hole." He had a keen eye for a hole, and he soon saw one. It was a small one, in Philip's mattress, almost hidden by the seam, and had been made most likely by a splinter or a nail. The snake put his head in it, saying, "Any port in a storm," then drew in his whole length, and settled himself comfortably among the straw.

Beasts and birds have instincts, and a certain amount of will and understanding, but no memory worth mentioning. For that reason the domestics never told Philip about the snake in his mattress, they had forgotten all about it. If Sam had buried a bone, he would have remembered it a week afterwards, if he was hungry; but as for snakes, it was, "out of sight, out of mind."

Philip took in his mattress and blanket before sundown and made his bed. The snake was still in the straw; he had been badly scared, and thought it would be best to keep quiet until he saw a chance to creep out, and continue his journey down the garden. But it was awfully dark inside the mattress, and although he went round and round amongst the straw he could not find any way out of it, so at last he said: "I must wait till morning," and went to sleep.

When Philip went to bed the snake was disturbed, and woke up. There was so heavy a weight on him that he could scarcely move, and he was almost suffocated. He said: "This is dreadful; I have been in many a tight place in my time, but never in one so tight as this.

Whatever am I to do? I shall be squeezed to death if I don't get away from this horrid monster on top of me."

Philip fell asleep as usual, and by-and-by the snake began to flatten his ribs, and draw himself from under the load, until at last he was clear of it; then, heaving a deep sigh of relief he lay quiet for awhile to recover his breath. He knew there was a hole somewhere if he could only find it and he kept poking his nose here and there against the mattress.

After sleeping an hour or two, Philip turned on his other side, and the snake had to move out of the way in a hurry for fear of being squeezed to death. There was a noise as of something rustling in the straw, and after listening awhile, Philip said: "I suppose it's a mouse," and soon fell fast asleep again, because he was not afraid of mice even when they ran across his nose.

In the morning he took his blankets out again, and hung them on the fence, shook up his mattress and pillow, and then spread the sheets over them, tucking them in all round, and then he got ready his breakfast.

The whole of that day was spent by the snake in trying to find a way out. The sheets being tucked in he was still in the dark, and he kept going round and round, feeling for the hole with his nose until he went completely out of his mind, just as a man does when he is lost in the bush. So the day wore on, night and bedtime came again, and Philip lay down to rest once more right over the imprisoned snake. Then that snake went raving mad, lost all control of himself, and rolled about recklessly. Philip sat up in bed, and a cold sweat began to trickle down his face, and his hair stood on end. He whispered to himself as if afraid the snake might hear him. "The Lord preserve us, that's no mouse; it's a snake right under me. What shall I do?"

The first thing to do was to strike a light; the matches and candle were on a box at his bedside, and he slowly put out his hand to reach them, expecting every moment to feel the fangs in his wrist. But he found the match-box, struck a light, carefully examined the floor as far as he could see it, jumped out of bed at one bound, and took refuge in the other room. There he looked in every corner, and along every rafter for the other snake, for he knew that at this season snakes are often found in pairs, but he could not see the mate of the one he had left in bed.

There was no sleep for Philip that night, and, by the light of the candle, he sat waiting for the coming day, and planning dire vengeance. At sunrise he examined closely every hole, and crevice, and corner, and crack in both rooms, floor and floor, slabs, rafters, and s.h.i.+ngles. He said, at last: "I think there is only one snake, and he is in the bed."

Then he went outside, and cut a stick about five feet long, one end of which he pointed with his knife. Returning to the bedroom, he lifted up with the point of his stick the sheets, blankets, and pillows, took them outside, and hung them on the fence. Next he turned over the mattress slowly, but there was nothing to be seen under it. He poked the mattress with the blunt end of his stick here and there, and he soon saw that something was moving inside. "Ah!"

he said, "there you are, my friend." The thought of having slept two nights on a live snake made him shudder a little, but he was bent on vengeance. He took hold of one end of the mattress with one hand, and holding the stick in the other, he carried it outside and laid it on the gra.s.s. Looking carefully at every side of the mattress he discovered the hole through which the snake had entered. It was so small that he could scarcely believe that a snake had gone through it, but no other hole was anywhere visible. Philip said, "If the beast comes out it shall be through fire," so he picked up a few pieces of bark which he placed over the hole, and set on fire. The straw inside was soon in a blaze, and the snake was lively. His situation was desperate, and his movements could be traced by the rising and falling of the ticking. Philip said, "My friend, you are looking for a hole, but when you find it it will be a hot one." The snake at last made a dash for life through the fire, and actually came out into the open air. But he was dazed and blinded, and his skin was wet and s.h.i.+ning with oil, or perspiration, or something.

Philip gave him a finis.h.i.+ng stroke with his stick, and tossed him back into the fire. Of course a new mattress was necessary, and a keen eye for snakes ever afterwards.

The teaching in the school went on with regularity and success.

There was, however, an occasional interruption. Once a furious squall came over the lake, and shook the frail building so much that Philip threw open the door and sent out all the children, the little ones and girls first, and then the boys, remaining himself to the last like the captain of a sinking s.h.i.+p; but he was not so much of a fool to stay inside and brave destruction; he went out to a safe distance until the squall was over.

Sometimes a visitor interfered with the work of the school, and Philip for that reason hated visitors; but it was his duty to be civil and patient. Two inspectors called on two different occasions to examine the scholars. One of them was scarcely sober, and he behaved in a manner so eccentric that the master had a strong temptation to kick him out. However, he at last succeeded in seeing the inspector outside the door peaceably, and soon afterwards the department dispensed with that gentleman's services.

He had obtained his office by favour of a minister at home for services rendered at an election. His salary was 900 pounds per annum. The next inspector received the same salary. He was brother or brother-in-law to a bishop, and had many ancestors and relatives of high degree. Philip foolishly showed him a few nuggets which he had picked up in Picaninny Gully, and the inspector showed Philip the letter by which he had obtained his appointment and 900 pounds a year. It was only a couple of lines written and signed by a certain lord in London, but it was equivalent to an order for a billet on the government of Victoria. Then the inspector said he would feel extremely obliged to Philip if he would give him one of his little nuggets that he might send it to my lord as a present, and Philip at once handed over his biggest nugget. Little amenities of this kind make life so pleasant. My lord would be pleased to receive the nugget, the inspector was pleased to send it, and Philip said "it cannot be bribery and corruption, but this inspector being a gentleman will be friendly. When he mentions me and my school in his report he cannot possibly forget the nugget."

Barney, the boozer, one day visited the school. He opened the door and stood on the threshold. His eyes seemed close together, and there was a long red scar on his bare neck, where he had on a former occasion cut his throat. All the scholars were afraid of Barney, and the girls climbed up on the benches and began to scream.

Philip went up to the Boozer and said:

"Well, my friend, what do you want here?"

"The devil knows," replied Barney.

"Very likely, but he is not here, he has gone down the road."

Then taking Barney by the arm he turned him round and guided him to the road. Barney went about twenty yards until he came to a pool of water. He stepped on to the fence and sat on the top rail gazing into the pool. At last he threw his hat into it, then his boots, coat, s.h.i.+rt, and trousers. When he was quite naked, he stamped on his clothes until they were thoroughly soaked and buried in mud.

Barney then resumed his search for the devil, swinging his arms to and fro in a free and defiant manner.

The school was also visited by a bishop, a priest, a squatter, and a judge. The dress and demeanour of the judge were very impressive at so great a distance from any centre of civilization, for he wore a tall beaver hat, a suit of black broadcloth, and a white necktie.

Philip received him with reverence, thinking he could not be anything less than a lord spiritual, such is the power of broadcloth and fine linen. Nosey, the shepherd, was then living at Nyalong, having murdered the other shepherd, Baldy, about six months before, and this judge sent Nosey to the gallows seventeen years afterwards; but neither Nosey nor the judge knew what was to happen after seventeen years. This is the story of Nosey and Baldy.

THE TWO SHEPHERDS.

By the men on the run they were known as Nosey and Baldy, but in a former stage of their existence, in the days of the Emperor Augustus Caesar, they were known as Naso and Balbus. They were then rivals in love and song, and accused each other of doing things that were mean.

And now, after undergoing for their sins various transmigrations into the forms of inferior animals, during two thousand years, as soon as shepherds are required in Australia Felix, they appear once more following their flocks and herds. But they are entirely forgetful of all Greek and Roman civilization; their morals have not improved, and their quarrels are more bitter than ever. In the old times they tootled on the tuneful reed, and sang in purest Latin the sweetest ditties ever heard, in praise of Galatea and Amyntas, Delia and Iolla. But they never tootle now, and never sing, and when they speak, their tongue is that of the unmusical barbarians. In their pagan days they stained their rustic altars with the blood of a kid, a sacrifice to Jupiter, and poured out libations of generous wine; but they offer up neither prayer nor sacrifice now, and they pour libations of gin down their throats.

The Italian rustic is yet musical, and the Roman citizen has not lost the genius of his race. He is still unrivalled in sculpture and architecture, in painting, in poetry, and philosophy; and in every handicraft his fingers are as deft as ever. But empire has slipped from his grasp, and empire once lost, like time, never returns. Who can rebuild Ninevah or Babylon, put new life into the mummies of the Pharoahs, and recrown them; raise armies from the dust of the warriors of Sesostris, and send them forth once more to victory and slaughter? Julian the Apostate tried to rebuild the Holy City and Temple of Israel, to make prophecy void--apparently a small enterprise for a Roman Emperor--but all his labours were vain.

Modern Julians have been trying to resuscitate old Rome, and to found for her a new empire, and have only made Italy another Ireland, with a starving people and a bankrupt government. 'Nos patriae fines, nos dulcia linquimus arva'. The Italians are emigrating year after year to avoid starvation in the Garden of Europe. In every city of the great empire on which the sun never sets they wander through the streets, clad in faded garments of olive green--the toga long since discarded and forgotten--making sweet music from the harp and violin, their melancholy eyes wandering after the pa.s.sing crowd, hoping for the pitiful penny that is so seldom given.