Joe Wilson and His Mates [44]
I got him to iron the cart,
and he put it through the paint-shop for nothing. He sent it out, too,
at the tail of Tom Tarrant's big van -- to increase the surprise.
We were swells then for a while; I heard no more of a buggy
until after we'd been settled at Lahey's Creek for a couple of years.
I told you how I went into the carrying line, and took up a selection
at Lahey's Creek -- for a run for the horses and to grow a bit of feed --
and shifted Mary and little Jim out there from Gulgong,
with Mary's young scamp of a brother James to keep them company
while I was on the road. The first year I did well enough carrying,
but I never cared for it -- it was too slow; and, besides,
I was always anxious when I was away from home. The game was right enough
for a single man -- or a married one whose wife had got the nagging habit
(as many Bushwomen have -- God help 'em!), and who wanted
peace and quietness sometimes. Besides, other small carriers started
(seeing me getting on); and Tom Tarrant, the coach-driver at Cudgeegong,
had another heavy spring-van built, and put it on the roads,
and he took a lot of the light stuff.
The second year I made a rise -- out of `spuds', of all the things
in the world. It was Mary's idea. Down at the lower end of our selection --
Mary called it `the run' -- was a shallow watercourse called Snake's Creek,
dry most of the year, except for a muddy water-hole or two;
and, just above the junction, where it ran into Lahey's Creek,
was a low piece of good black-soil flat, on our side -- about three acres.
The flat was fairly clear when I came to the selection --
save for a few logs that had been washed up there in some big `old man' flood,
way back in black-fellows' times; and one day, when I had a spell at home,
I got the horses and trace-chains and dragged the logs together --
those that wouldn't split for fencing timber -- and burnt them off.
I had a notion to get the flat ploughed and make a lucern-paddock of it.
There was a good water-hole, under a clump of she-oak in the bend,
and Mary used to take her stools and tubs and boiler down there
in the spring-cart in hot weather, and wash the clothes
under the shade of the trees -- it was cooler, and saved carrying water
to the house. And one evening after she'd done the washing she said to me --
`Look here, Joe; the farmers out here never seem to get a new idea:
they don't seem to me ever to try and find out beforehand
what the market is going to be like -- they just go on farming
the same old way and putting in the same old crops year after year.
They sow wheat, and, if it comes on anything like the thing,
they reap and thresh it; if it doesn't, they mow it for hay --
and some of 'em don't have the brains to do that in time.
Now, I was looking at that bit of flat you cleared, and it struck me
that it wouldn't be a half bad idea to get a bag of seed-potatoes,
and have the land ploughed -- old Corny George would do it cheap --
and get them put in at once. Potatoes have been dear all round
for the last couple of years.'
I told her she was talking nonsense, that the ground was no good for potatoes,
and the whole district was too dry. `Everybody I know has tried it,
one time or another, and made nothing of it,' I said.
`All the more reason why you should try it, Joe,' said Mary.
`Just try one crop. It might rain for weeks, and then you'll be sorry
you didn't take my advice.'
`But I tell you the ground is not potato-ground,' I said.
`How do you know? You haven't sown any there yet.'
`But I've turned up the surface and looked at it. It's not rich enough,
and too dry, I tell you. You need swampy, boggy ground for potatoes.
Do you think I don't know land when I see it?'
`But you haven't TRIED to grow potatoes there yet, Joe.
How do you know ----'
I didn't listen to any more. Mary was obstinate when she got an idea
into her head. It was no use arguing with her. All the time I'd be talking
she'd just knit her forehead and go on thinking straight ahead,
on the track
and he put it through the paint-shop for nothing. He sent it out, too,
at the tail of Tom Tarrant's big van -- to increase the surprise.
We were swells then for a while; I heard no more of a buggy
until after we'd been settled at Lahey's Creek for a couple of years.
I told you how I went into the carrying line, and took up a selection
at Lahey's Creek -- for a run for the horses and to grow a bit of feed --
and shifted Mary and little Jim out there from Gulgong,
with Mary's young scamp of a brother James to keep them company
while I was on the road. The first year I did well enough carrying,
but I never cared for it -- it was too slow; and, besides,
I was always anxious when I was away from home. The game was right enough
for a single man -- or a married one whose wife had got the nagging habit
(as many Bushwomen have -- God help 'em!), and who wanted
peace and quietness sometimes. Besides, other small carriers started
(seeing me getting on); and Tom Tarrant, the coach-driver at Cudgeegong,
had another heavy spring-van built, and put it on the roads,
and he took a lot of the light stuff.
The second year I made a rise -- out of `spuds', of all the things
in the world. It was Mary's idea. Down at the lower end of our selection --
Mary called it `the run' -- was a shallow watercourse called Snake's Creek,
dry most of the year, except for a muddy water-hole or two;
and, just above the junction, where it ran into Lahey's Creek,
was a low piece of good black-soil flat, on our side -- about three acres.
The flat was fairly clear when I came to the selection --
save for a few logs that had been washed up there in some big `old man' flood,
way back in black-fellows' times; and one day, when I had a spell at home,
I got the horses and trace-chains and dragged the logs together --
those that wouldn't split for fencing timber -- and burnt them off.
I had a notion to get the flat ploughed and make a lucern-paddock of it.
There was a good water-hole, under a clump of she-oak in the bend,
and Mary used to take her stools and tubs and boiler down there
in the spring-cart in hot weather, and wash the clothes
under the shade of the trees -- it was cooler, and saved carrying water
to the house. And one evening after she'd done the washing she said to me --
`Look here, Joe; the farmers out here never seem to get a new idea:
they don't seem to me ever to try and find out beforehand
what the market is going to be like -- they just go on farming
the same old way and putting in the same old crops year after year.
They sow wheat, and, if it comes on anything like the thing,
they reap and thresh it; if it doesn't, they mow it for hay --
and some of 'em don't have the brains to do that in time.
Now, I was looking at that bit of flat you cleared, and it struck me
that it wouldn't be a half bad idea to get a bag of seed-potatoes,
and have the land ploughed -- old Corny George would do it cheap --
and get them put in at once. Potatoes have been dear all round
for the last couple of years.'
I told her she was talking nonsense, that the ground was no good for potatoes,
and the whole district was too dry. `Everybody I know has tried it,
one time or another, and made nothing of it,' I said.
`All the more reason why you should try it, Joe,' said Mary.
`Just try one crop. It might rain for weeks, and then you'll be sorry
you didn't take my advice.'
`But I tell you the ground is not potato-ground,' I said.
`How do you know? You haven't sown any there yet.'
`But I've turned up the surface and looked at it. It's not rich enough,
and too dry, I tell you. You need swampy, boggy ground for potatoes.
Do you think I don't know land when I see it?'
`But you haven't TRIED to grow potatoes there yet, Joe.
How do you know ----'
I didn't listen to any more. Mary was obstinate when she got an idea
into her head. It was no use arguing with her. All the time I'd be talking
she'd just knit her forehead and go on thinking straight ahead,
on the track