Joe Wilson and His Mates [20]
-- a young scamp
(his name was Jim, too, and we called him `Jimmy' at first
to make room for our Jim -- he hated the name `Jimmy' or James).
He came to live with us -- without asking -- and I thought he'd find
enough work at Lahey's Creek to keep him out of mischief.
He wasn't to be depended on much -- he thought nothing of riding off,
five hundred miles or so, `to have a look at the country' --
but he was fond of Mary, and he'd stay by her till I got some one else
to keep her company while I was on the road. He would be a protection
against `sundowners' or any shearers who happened to wander that way
in the `D.T.'s' after a spree. Mary had a married sister come to live
at Gulgong just before we left, and nothing would suit her and her husband
but we must leave little Jim with them for a month or so --
till we got settled down at Lahey's Creek. They were newly married.
Mary was to have driven into Gulgong, in the spring-cart,
at the end of the month, and taken Jim home; but when the time came
she wasn't too well -- and, besides, the tyres of the cart were loose,
and I hadn't time to get them cut, so we let Jim's time run on
a week or so longer, till I happened to come out through Gulgong
from the river with a small load of flour for Lahey's Creek way.
The roads were good, the weather grand -- no chance of it raining,
and I had a spare tarpaulin if it did -- I would only camp out one night;
so I decided to take Jim home with me.
Jim was turning three then, and he was a cure. He was so old-fashioned
that he used to frighten me sometimes -- I'd almost think that there was
something supernatural about him; though, of course, I never took
any notice of that rot about some children being too old-fashioned to live.
There's always the ghoulish old hag (and some not so old nor haggish either)
who'll come round and shake up young parents with such croaks as,
`You'll never rear that child -- he's too bright for his age.'
To the devil with them! I say.
But I really thought that Jim was too intelligent for his age,
and I often told Mary that he ought to be kept back, and not let
talk too much to old diggers and long lanky jokers of Bushmen
who rode in and hung their horses outside my place on Sunday afternoons.
I don't believe in parents talking about their own children everlastingly --
you get sick of hearing them; and their kids are generally little devils,
and turn out larrikins as likely as not.
But, for all that, I really think that Jim, when he was three years old,
was the most wonderful little chap, in every way, that I ever saw.
For the first hour or so, along the road, he was telling me
all about his adventures at his auntie's.
`But they spoilt me too much, dad,' he said, as solemn as a native bear.
`An' besides, a boy ought to stick to his parrans!'
I was taking out a cattle-pup for a drover I knew, and the pup took up
a good deal of Jim's time.
Sometimes he'd jolt me, the way he talked; and other times
I'd have to turn away my head and cough, or shout at the horses,
to keep from laughing outright. And once, when I was taken that way,
he said --
`What are you jerking your shoulders and coughing, and grunting,
and going on that way for, dad? Why don't you tell me something?'
`Tell you what, Jim?'
`Tell me some talk.'
So I told him all the talk I could think of. And I had to brighten up,
I can tell you, and not draw too much on my imagination --
for Jim was a terror at cross-examination when the fit took him;
and he didn't think twice about telling you when he thought
you were talking nonsense. Once he said --
`I'm glad you took me home with you, dad. You'll get to know Jim.'
`What!' I said.
`You'll get to know Jim.'
`But don't I know you already?'
`No, you don't. You never has time to know Jim at home.'
And, looking back, I saw that it was cruel true. I had known in my heart
all along that this was the truth; but it came to me like a blow from Jim.
You see, it had been a hard struggle for the last year or so;
(his name was Jim, too, and we called him `Jimmy' at first
to make room for our Jim -- he hated the name `Jimmy' or James).
He came to live with us -- without asking -- and I thought he'd find
enough work at Lahey's Creek to keep him out of mischief.
He wasn't to be depended on much -- he thought nothing of riding off,
five hundred miles or so, `to have a look at the country' --
but he was fond of Mary, and he'd stay by her till I got some one else
to keep her company while I was on the road. He would be a protection
against `sundowners' or any shearers who happened to wander that way
in the `D.T.'s' after a spree. Mary had a married sister come to live
at Gulgong just before we left, and nothing would suit her and her husband
but we must leave little Jim with them for a month or so --
till we got settled down at Lahey's Creek. They were newly married.
Mary was to have driven into Gulgong, in the spring-cart,
at the end of the month, and taken Jim home; but when the time came
she wasn't too well -- and, besides, the tyres of the cart were loose,
and I hadn't time to get them cut, so we let Jim's time run on
a week or so longer, till I happened to come out through Gulgong
from the river with a small load of flour for Lahey's Creek way.
The roads were good, the weather grand -- no chance of it raining,
and I had a spare tarpaulin if it did -- I would only camp out one night;
so I decided to take Jim home with me.
Jim was turning three then, and he was a cure. He was so old-fashioned
that he used to frighten me sometimes -- I'd almost think that there was
something supernatural about him; though, of course, I never took
any notice of that rot about some children being too old-fashioned to live.
There's always the ghoulish old hag (and some not so old nor haggish either)
who'll come round and shake up young parents with such croaks as,
`You'll never rear that child -- he's too bright for his age.'
To the devil with them! I say.
But I really thought that Jim was too intelligent for his age,
and I often told Mary that he ought to be kept back, and not let
talk too much to old diggers and long lanky jokers of Bushmen
who rode in and hung their horses outside my place on Sunday afternoons.
I don't believe in parents talking about their own children everlastingly --
you get sick of hearing them; and their kids are generally little devils,
and turn out larrikins as likely as not.
But, for all that, I really think that Jim, when he was three years old,
was the most wonderful little chap, in every way, that I ever saw.
For the first hour or so, along the road, he was telling me
all about his adventures at his auntie's.
`But they spoilt me too much, dad,' he said, as solemn as a native bear.
`An' besides, a boy ought to stick to his parrans!'
I was taking out a cattle-pup for a drover I knew, and the pup took up
a good deal of Jim's time.
Sometimes he'd jolt me, the way he talked; and other times
I'd have to turn away my head and cough, or shout at the horses,
to keep from laughing outright. And once, when I was taken that way,
he said --
`What are you jerking your shoulders and coughing, and grunting,
and going on that way for, dad? Why don't you tell me something?'
`Tell you what, Jim?'
`Tell me some talk.'
So I told him all the talk I could think of. And I had to brighten up,
I can tell you, and not draw too much on my imagination --
for Jim was a terror at cross-examination when the fit took him;
and he didn't think twice about telling you when he thought
you were talking nonsense. Once he said --
`I'm glad you took me home with you, dad. You'll get to know Jim.'
`What!' I said.
`You'll get to know Jim.'
`But don't I know you already?'
`No, you don't. You never has time to know Jim at home.'
And, looking back, I saw that it was cruel true. I had known in my heart
all along that this was the truth; but it came to me like a blow from Jim.
You see, it had been a hard struggle for the last year or so;