Joe Wilson and His Mates [28]
said. `You want to get home early
with that boy.'
I got down and went round to where she stood. I held out my hand
and tried to speak, but my voice went like an ungreased waggon wheel,
and I gave it up, and only squeezed her hand.
`That's all right,' she said; then tears came into her eyes,
and she suddenly put her hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek.
`You be off -- you're only a boy yourself. Take care of that boy;
be kind to your wife, and take care of yourself.'
`Will you come to see us?'
`Some day,' she said.
I started the horses, and looked round once more. She was looking up at Jim,
who was waving his hand to her from the top of the load.
And I saw that haggard, hungry, hopeless look come into her eyes
in spite of the tears.
I smoothed over that story and shortened it a lot, when I told it to Mary --
I didn't want to upset her. But, some time after I brought Jim home
from Gulgong, and while I was at home with the team for a few days,
nothing would suit Mary but she must go over to Brighten's shanty
and see Brighten's sister-in-law. So James drove her over one morning
in the spring-cart: it was a long way, and they stayed
at Brighten's overnight and didn't get back till late the next afternoon.
I'd got the place in a pig-muck, as Mary said, `doing for' myself,
and I was having a snooze on the sofa when they got back.
The first thing I remember was some one stroking my head and kissing me,
and I heard Mary saying, `My poor boy! My poor old boy!'
I sat up with a jerk. I thought that Jim had gone off again.
But it seems that Mary was only referring to me. Then she started
to pull grey hairs out of my head and put 'em in an empty match-box --
to see how many she'd get. She used to do this when she felt a bit soft.
I don't know what she said to Brighten's sister-in-law
or what Brighten's sister-in-law said to her, but Mary was extra gentle
for the next few days.
`Water Them Geraniums'.
I. A Lonely Track.
The time Mary and I shifted out into the Bush from Gulgong
to `settle on the land' at Lahey's Creek.
I'd sold the two tip-drays that I used for tank-sinking and dam-making,
and I took the traps out in the waggon on top of a small load
of rations and horse-feed that I was taking to a sheep-station
out that way. Mary drove out in the spring-cart. You remember
we left little Jim with his aunt in Gulgong till we got settled down.
I'd sent James (Mary's brother) out the day before, on horseback,
with two or three cows and some heifers and steers and calves we had,
and I'd told him to clean up a bit, and make the hut
as bright and cheerful as possible before Mary came.
We hadn't much in the way of furniture. There was the four-poster
cedar bedstead that I bought before we were married, and Mary was
rather proud of it: it had `turned' posts and joints that bolted together.
There was a plain hardwood table, that Mary called her `ironing-table',
upside down on top of the load, with the bedding and blankets
between the legs; there were four of those common black kitchen-chairs --
with apples painted on the hard board backs -- that we used for the parlour;
there was a cheap batten sofa with arms at the ends and turned rails
between the uprights of the arms (we were a little proud of the turned rails);
and there was the camp-oven, and the three-legged pot, and pans and buckets,
stuck about the load and hanging under the tail-board of the waggon.
There was the little Wilcox & Gibb's sewing-machine -- my present to Mary
when we were married (and what a present, looking back to it!).
There was a cheap little rocking-chair, and a looking-glass and some pictures
that were presents from Mary's friends and sister. She had her
mantel-shelf ornaments and crockery and nick-nacks packed away,
in the linen and old clothes, in a big tub made of half a cask,
and a box that had been Jim's cradle. The live stock was a cat in one box,
and in another an old rooster, and three hens that formed cliques,
two against one,
with that boy.'
I got down and went round to where she stood. I held out my hand
and tried to speak, but my voice went like an ungreased waggon wheel,
and I gave it up, and only squeezed her hand.
`That's all right,' she said; then tears came into her eyes,
and she suddenly put her hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek.
`You be off -- you're only a boy yourself. Take care of that boy;
be kind to your wife, and take care of yourself.'
`Will you come to see us?'
`Some day,' she said.
I started the horses, and looked round once more. She was looking up at Jim,
who was waving his hand to her from the top of the load.
And I saw that haggard, hungry, hopeless look come into her eyes
in spite of the tears.
I smoothed over that story and shortened it a lot, when I told it to Mary --
I didn't want to upset her. But, some time after I brought Jim home
from Gulgong, and while I was at home with the team for a few days,
nothing would suit Mary but she must go over to Brighten's shanty
and see Brighten's sister-in-law. So James drove her over one morning
in the spring-cart: it was a long way, and they stayed
at Brighten's overnight and didn't get back till late the next afternoon.
I'd got the place in a pig-muck, as Mary said, `doing for' myself,
and I was having a snooze on the sofa when they got back.
The first thing I remember was some one stroking my head and kissing me,
and I heard Mary saying, `My poor boy! My poor old boy!'
I sat up with a jerk. I thought that Jim had gone off again.
But it seems that Mary was only referring to me. Then she started
to pull grey hairs out of my head and put 'em in an empty match-box --
to see how many she'd get. She used to do this when she felt a bit soft.
I don't know what she said to Brighten's sister-in-law
or what Brighten's sister-in-law said to her, but Mary was extra gentle
for the next few days.
`Water Them Geraniums'.
I. A Lonely Track.
The time Mary and I shifted out into the Bush from Gulgong
to `settle on the land' at Lahey's Creek.
I'd sold the two tip-drays that I used for tank-sinking and dam-making,
and I took the traps out in the waggon on top of a small load
of rations and horse-feed that I was taking to a sheep-station
out that way. Mary drove out in the spring-cart. You remember
we left little Jim with his aunt in Gulgong till we got settled down.
I'd sent James (Mary's brother) out the day before, on horseback,
with two or three cows and some heifers and steers and calves we had,
and I'd told him to clean up a bit, and make the hut
as bright and cheerful as possible before Mary came.
We hadn't much in the way of furniture. There was the four-poster
cedar bedstead that I bought before we were married, and Mary was
rather proud of it: it had `turned' posts and joints that bolted together.
There was a plain hardwood table, that Mary called her `ironing-table',
upside down on top of the load, with the bedding and blankets
between the legs; there were four of those common black kitchen-chairs --
with apples painted on the hard board backs -- that we used for the parlour;
there was a cheap batten sofa with arms at the ends and turned rails
between the uprights of the arms (we were a little proud of the turned rails);
and there was the camp-oven, and the three-legged pot, and pans and buckets,
stuck about the load and hanging under the tail-board of the waggon.
There was the little Wilcox & Gibb's sewing-machine -- my present to Mary
when we were married (and what a present, looking back to it!).
There was a cheap little rocking-chair, and a looking-glass and some pictures
that were presents from Mary's friends and sister. She had her
mantel-shelf ornaments and crockery and nick-nacks packed away,
in the linen and old clothes, in a big tub made of half a cask,
and a box that had been Jim's cradle. The live stock was a cat in one box,
and in another an old rooster, and three hens that formed cliques,
two against one,