Joe Wilson and His Mates [39]
to Spicer's, and were just in time
to save the wheat. She had her sleeves tucked up, and was
beating out the burning grass with a bough. She'd been at it for an hour,
and was as black as a gin, they said. She only said when they'd turned
the fire: `Thenk yer! Wait an' I'll make some tea.'
. . . . .
After tea the first Sunday she came to see us, Mary asked --
`Don't you feel lonely, Mrs Spicer, when your husband goes away?'
`Well -- no, Mrs Wilson,' she said in the groping sort of voice.
`I uster, once. I remember, when we lived on the Cudgeegong river --
we lived in a brick house then -- the first time Spicer
had to go away from home I nearly fretted my eyes out.
And he was only goin' shearin' for a month. I muster bin a fool;
but then we were only jist married a little while. He's been away
drovin' in Queenslan' as long as eighteen months at a time since then.
But' (her voice seemed to grope in the dark more than ever) `I don't mind, --
I somehow seem to have got past carin'. Besides -- besides,
Spicer was a very different man then to what he is now.
He's got so moody and gloomy at home, he hardly ever speaks.'
Mary sat silent for a minute thinking. Then Mrs Spicer roused herself --
`Oh, I don't know what I'm talkin' about! You mustn't take any notice of me,
Mrs Wilson, -- I don't often go on like this. I do believe I'm gittin'
a bit ratty at times. It must be the heat and the dulness.'
But once or twice afterwards she referred to a time `when Spicer was
a different man to what he was now.'
I walked home with her a piece along the creek. She said nothing
for a long time, and seemed to be thinking in a puzzled way.
Then she said suddenly --
`What-did-you-bring-her-here-for? She's only a girl.'
`I beg pardon, Mrs Spicer.'
`Oh, I don't know what I'm talkin' about! I b'lieve I'm gittin' ratty.
You mustn't take any notice of me, Mr Wilson.'
She wasn't much company for Mary; and often, when she had a child with her,
she'd start taking notice of the baby while Mary was talking,
which used to exasperate Mary. But poor Mrs Spicer couldn't help it,
and she seemed to hear all the same.
Her great trouble was that she `couldn't git no reg'lar schoolin'
for the children.'
`I learns 'em at home as much as I can. But I don't git a minute
to call me own; an' I'm ginerally that dead-beat at night
that I'm fit for nothink.'
Mary had some of the children up now and then later on,
and taught them a little. When she first offered to do so,
Mrs Spicer laid hold of the handiest youngster and said --
`There -- do you hear that? Mrs Wilson is goin' to teach yer,
an' it's more than yer deserve!' (the youngster had been `cryin''
over something). `Now, go up an' say "Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson."
And if yer ain't good, and don't do as she tells yer, I'll break every bone
in yer young body!'
The poor little devil stammered something, and escaped.
The children were sent by turns over to Wall's to Sunday-school.
When Tommy was at home he had a new pair of elastic-side boots,
and there was no end of rows about them in the family --
for the mother made him lend them to his sister Annie,
to go to Sunday-school in, in her turn. There were only
about three pairs of anyway decent boots in the family,
and these were saved for great occasions. The children were always
as clean and tidy as possible when they came to our place.
And I think the saddest and most pathetic sight on the face of God's earth
is the children of very poor people made to appear well: the broken
worn-out boots polished or greased, the blackened (inked) pieces of string
for laces; the clean patched pinafores over the wretched threadbare frocks.
Behind the little row of children hand-in-hand -- and no matter
where they are -- I always see the worn face of the mother.
Towards the end of the first year on the selection our little girl came.
I'd sent Mary to Gulgong for four months that time, and when she came back
with the baby Mrs Spicer used to come up
to save the wheat. She had her sleeves tucked up, and was
beating out the burning grass with a bough. She'd been at it for an hour,
and was as black as a gin, they said. She only said when they'd turned
the fire: `Thenk yer! Wait an' I'll make some tea.'
. . . . .
After tea the first Sunday she came to see us, Mary asked --
`Don't you feel lonely, Mrs Spicer, when your husband goes away?'
`Well -- no, Mrs Wilson,' she said in the groping sort of voice.
`I uster, once. I remember, when we lived on the Cudgeegong river --
we lived in a brick house then -- the first time Spicer
had to go away from home I nearly fretted my eyes out.
And he was only goin' shearin' for a month. I muster bin a fool;
but then we were only jist married a little while. He's been away
drovin' in Queenslan' as long as eighteen months at a time since then.
But' (her voice seemed to grope in the dark more than ever) `I don't mind, --
I somehow seem to have got past carin'. Besides -- besides,
Spicer was a very different man then to what he is now.
He's got so moody and gloomy at home, he hardly ever speaks.'
Mary sat silent for a minute thinking. Then Mrs Spicer roused herself --
`Oh, I don't know what I'm talkin' about! You mustn't take any notice of me,
Mrs Wilson, -- I don't often go on like this. I do believe I'm gittin'
a bit ratty at times. It must be the heat and the dulness.'
But once or twice afterwards she referred to a time `when Spicer was
a different man to what he was now.'
I walked home with her a piece along the creek. She said nothing
for a long time, and seemed to be thinking in a puzzled way.
Then she said suddenly --
`What-did-you-bring-her-here-for? She's only a girl.'
`I beg pardon, Mrs Spicer.'
`Oh, I don't know what I'm talkin' about! I b'lieve I'm gittin' ratty.
You mustn't take any notice of me, Mr Wilson.'
She wasn't much company for Mary; and often, when she had a child with her,
she'd start taking notice of the baby while Mary was talking,
which used to exasperate Mary. But poor Mrs Spicer couldn't help it,
and she seemed to hear all the same.
Her great trouble was that she `couldn't git no reg'lar schoolin'
for the children.'
`I learns 'em at home as much as I can. But I don't git a minute
to call me own; an' I'm ginerally that dead-beat at night
that I'm fit for nothink.'
Mary had some of the children up now and then later on,
and taught them a little. When she first offered to do so,
Mrs Spicer laid hold of the handiest youngster and said --
`There -- do you hear that? Mrs Wilson is goin' to teach yer,
an' it's more than yer deserve!' (the youngster had been `cryin''
over something). `Now, go up an' say "Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson."
And if yer ain't good, and don't do as she tells yer, I'll break every bone
in yer young body!'
The poor little devil stammered something, and escaped.
The children were sent by turns over to Wall's to Sunday-school.
When Tommy was at home he had a new pair of elastic-side boots,
and there was no end of rows about them in the family --
for the mother made him lend them to his sister Annie,
to go to Sunday-school in, in her turn. There were only
about three pairs of anyway decent boots in the family,
and these were saved for great occasions. The children were always
as clean and tidy as possible when they came to our place.
And I think the saddest and most pathetic sight on the face of God's earth
is the children of very poor people made to appear well: the broken
worn-out boots polished or greased, the blackened (inked) pieces of string
for laces; the clean patched pinafores over the wretched threadbare frocks.
Behind the little row of children hand-in-hand -- and no matter
where they are -- I always see the worn face of the mother.
Towards the end of the first year on the selection our little girl came.
I'd sent Mary to Gulgong for four months that time, and when she came back
with the baby Mrs Spicer used to come up