Joe Wilson and His Mates [22]
a chance, now that Cob & Co.'s coaches
and the big teams and vans had shifted out of the main western terminus.
There were tall she-oaks all along the creek, and a clump of big ones
over a deep water-hole just above the crossing. The creek oaks
have rough barked trunks, like English elms, but are much taller,
and higher to the branches -- and the leaves are reedy;
Kendel, the Australian poet, calls them the `she-oak harps Aeolian'.
Those trees are always sigh-sigh-sighing -- more of a sigh
than a sough or the `whoosh' of gum-trees in the wind.
You always hear them sighing, even when you can't feel any wind.
It's the same with telegraph wires: put your head against a telegraph-post
on a dead, still day, and you'll hear and feel the far-away roar of the wires.
But then the oaks are not connected with the distance,
where there might be wind; and they don't ROAR in a gale,
only sigh louder and softer according to the wind, and never seem to go
above or below a certain pitch, -- like a big harp with all the strings
the same. I used to have a theory that those creek oaks got the wind's voice
telephoned to them, so to speak, through the ground.
I happened to look down, and there was Jim (I thought he was on the tarpaulin,
playing with the pup): he was standing close beside me with his legs
wide apart, his hands behind his back, and his back to the fire.
He held his head a little on one side, and there was such an old, old,
wise expression in his big brown eyes -- just as if he'd been a child
for a hundred years or so, or as though he were listening to those oaks
and understanding them in a fatherly sort of way.
`Dad!' he said presently -- `Dad! do you think I'll ever grow up to be a man?'
`Wh--why, Jim?' I gasped.
`Because I don't want to.'
I couldn't think of anything against this. It made me uneasy.
But I remembered *I* used to have a childish dread of growing up to be a man.
`Jim,' I said, to break the silence, `do you hear what the she-oaks say?'
`No, I don't. Is they talking?'
`Yes,' I said, without thinking.
`What is they saying?' he asked.
I took the bucket and went down to the creek for some water for tea.
I thought Jim would follow with a little tin billy he had, but he didn't:
when I got back to the fire he was again on the 'possum rug,
comforting the pup. I fried some bacon and eggs that I'd brought out with me.
Jim sang out from the waggon --
`Don't cook too much, dad -- I mightn't be hungry.'
I got the tin plates and pint-pots and things out on a clean new flour-bag,
in honour of Jim, and dished up. He was leaning back on the rug
looking at the pup in a listless sort of way. I reckoned he was tired out,
and pulled the gin-case up close to him for a table and put his plate on it.
But he only tried a mouthful or two, and then he said --
`I ain't hungry, dad! You'll have to eat it all.'
It made me uneasy -- I never liked to see a child of mine turn from his food.
They had given him some tinned salmon in Gulgong, and I was afraid
that that was upsetting him. I was always against tinned muck.
`Sick, Jim?' I asked.
`No, dad, I ain't sick; I don't know what's the matter with me.'
`Have some tea, sonny?'
`Yes, dad.'
I gave him some tea, with some milk in it that I'd brought in a bottle
from his aunt's for him. He took a sip or two and then put the pint-pot
on the gin-case.
`Jim's tired, dad,' he said.
I made him lie down while I fixed up a camp for the night.
It had turned a bit chilly, so I let the big tarpaulin down all round --
it was made to cover a high load, the flour in the waggon
didn't come above the rail, so the tarpaulin came down well on to the ground.
I fixed Jim up a comfortable bed under the tail-end of the waggon:
when I went to lift him in he was lying back, looking up at the stars
in a half-dreamy, half-fascinated way that I didn't like.
Whenever Jim was extra old-fashioned, or affectionate, there was danger.
`How do you feel now, sonny?'
It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned
and the big teams and vans had shifted out of the main western terminus.
There were tall she-oaks all along the creek, and a clump of big ones
over a deep water-hole just above the crossing. The creek oaks
have rough barked trunks, like English elms, but are much taller,
and higher to the branches -- and the leaves are reedy;
Kendel, the Australian poet, calls them the `she-oak harps Aeolian'.
Those trees are always sigh-sigh-sighing -- more of a sigh
than a sough or the `whoosh' of gum-trees in the wind.
You always hear them sighing, even when you can't feel any wind.
It's the same with telegraph wires: put your head against a telegraph-post
on a dead, still day, and you'll hear and feel the far-away roar of the wires.
But then the oaks are not connected with the distance,
where there might be wind; and they don't ROAR in a gale,
only sigh louder and softer according to the wind, and never seem to go
above or below a certain pitch, -- like a big harp with all the strings
the same. I used to have a theory that those creek oaks got the wind's voice
telephoned to them, so to speak, through the ground.
I happened to look down, and there was Jim (I thought he was on the tarpaulin,
playing with the pup): he was standing close beside me with his legs
wide apart, his hands behind his back, and his back to the fire.
He held his head a little on one side, and there was such an old, old,
wise expression in his big brown eyes -- just as if he'd been a child
for a hundred years or so, or as though he were listening to those oaks
and understanding them in a fatherly sort of way.
`Dad!' he said presently -- `Dad! do you think I'll ever grow up to be a man?'
`Wh--why, Jim?' I gasped.
`Because I don't want to.'
I couldn't think of anything against this. It made me uneasy.
But I remembered *I* used to have a childish dread of growing up to be a man.
`Jim,' I said, to break the silence, `do you hear what the she-oaks say?'
`No, I don't. Is they talking?'
`Yes,' I said, without thinking.
`What is they saying?' he asked.
I took the bucket and went down to the creek for some water for tea.
I thought Jim would follow with a little tin billy he had, but he didn't:
when I got back to the fire he was again on the 'possum rug,
comforting the pup. I fried some bacon and eggs that I'd brought out with me.
Jim sang out from the waggon --
`Don't cook too much, dad -- I mightn't be hungry.'
I got the tin plates and pint-pots and things out on a clean new flour-bag,
in honour of Jim, and dished up. He was leaning back on the rug
looking at the pup in a listless sort of way. I reckoned he was tired out,
and pulled the gin-case up close to him for a table and put his plate on it.
But he only tried a mouthful or two, and then he said --
`I ain't hungry, dad! You'll have to eat it all.'
It made me uneasy -- I never liked to see a child of mine turn from his food.
They had given him some tinned salmon in Gulgong, and I was afraid
that that was upsetting him. I was always against tinned muck.
`Sick, Jim?' I asked.
`No, dad, I ain't sick; I don't know what's the matter with me.'
`Have some tea, sonny?'
`Yes, dad.'
I gave him some tea, with some milk in it that I'd brought in a bottle
from his aunt's for him. He took a sip or two and then put the pint-pot
on the gin-case.
`Jim's tired, dad,' he said.
I made him lie down while I fixed up a camp for the night.
It had turned a bit chilly, so I let the big tarpaulin down all round --
it was made to cover a high load, the flour in the waggon
didn't come above the rail, so the tarpaulin came down well on to the ground.
I fixed Jim up a comfortable bed under the tail-end of the waggon:
when I went to lift him in he was lying back, looking up at the stars
in a half-dreamy, half-fascinated way that I didn't like.
Whenever Jim was extra old-fashioned, or affectionate, there was danger.
`How do you feel now, sonny?'
It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned