On Our Selection [7]
would give it you willingly," Dad would say, "if I had it, Mr. Rice; but what can I do? You can't knock blood out of a stone."
We ran short of tea, and Dad thought to buy more with the money Anderson owed him for some fencing he had done; but when he asked for it, Anderson was very sorry he had n't got it just then, but promised to let him have it as soon as he could sell his chaff. When Mother heard Anderson could n't pay, she DID cry, and said there was n't a bit of sugar in the house, nor enough cotton to mend the children's bits of clothes.
We could n't very well go without tea, so Dad showed Mother how to make a new kind. He roasted a slice of bread on the fire till it was like a black coal, then poured the boiling water over it and let it "draw" well. Dad said it had a capital flavour--HE liked it.
Dave's only pair of pants were pretty well worn off him; Joe had n't a decent coat for Sunday; Dad himself wore a pair of boots with soles tied on with wire; and Mother fell sick. Dad did all he could--waited on her, and talked hopefully of the fortune which would come to us some day; but once, when talking to Dave, he broke down, and said he did n't, in the name of the Almighty God, know what he would do! Dave could n't say anything--he moped about, too, and home somehow did n't seem like home at all.
When Mother was sick and Dad's time was mostly taken up nursing her; when there was nothing, scarcely, in the house; when, in fact, the wolf was at the very door;--Dan came home with a pocket full of money and swag full of greasy clothes. How Dad shook him by the hand and welcomed him back! And how Dan talked of "tallies", "belly-wool", and "ringers" and implored Dad, over and over again, to go shearing, or rolling up, or branding-- ANYTHING rather than work and starve on the selection.
That's fifteen years ago, and Dad is still on the farm.
Chapter V.
The Night We Watched For Wallabies.
It had been a bleak July day, and as night came on a bitter westerly howled through the trees. Cold! was n't it cold! The pigs in the sty, hungry and half-fed (we wanted for ourselves the few pumpkins that had survived the drought) fought savagely with each other for shelter, and squealed all the time like--well, like pigs. The cows and calves left the place to seek shelter away in the mountains; while the draught horses, their hair standing up like barbed-wire, leaned sadly over the fence and gazed up at the green lucerne. Joe went about shivering in an old coat of Dad's with only one sleeve to it--a calf had fancied the other one day that Dad hung it on a post as a mark to go by while ploughing.
"My! it'll be a stinger to-night," Dad remarked to Mrs. Brown--who sat, cold-looking, on the sofa--as he staggered inside with an immense log for the fire. A log! Nearer a whole tree! But wood was nothing in Dad's eyes.
Mrs. Brown had been at our place five or six days. Old Brown called occasionally to see her, so we knew they could n't have quarrelled. Sometimes she did a little house-work, but more often she did n't. We talked it over together, but could n't make it out. Joe asked Mother, but she had no idea--so she said. We were full up, as Dave put it, of Mrs. Brown, and wished her out of the place. She had taken to ordering us about, as though she had something to do with us.
After supper we sat round the fire--as near to it as we could without burning ourselves--Mrs. Brown and all, and listened to the wind whistling outside. Ah, it was pleasant beside the fire listening to the wind! When Dad had warmed himself back and front he turned to us and said:
"Now, boys, we must go directly and light some fires and keep those wallabies back."
That was a shock to us, and we looked at him to see if he were really in earnest. He was, and as serious as a judge.
" TO-NIGHT!" Dave answered, surprisedly--"why to-night any more than last night or the night before? Thought you had decided to let them rip?"
"Yes, but we might as well keep them off a bit longer."
"But there's no wheat
We ran short of tea, and Dad thought to buy more with the money Anderson owed him for some fencing he had done; but when he asked for it, Anderson was very sorry he had n't got it just then, but promised to let him have it as soon as he could sell his chaff. When Mother heard Anderson could n't pay, she DID cry, and said there was n't a bit of sugar in the house, nor enough cotton to mend the children's bits of clothes.
We could n't very well go without tea, so Dad showed Mother how to make a new kind. He roasted a slice of bread on the fire till it was like a black coal, then poured the boiling water over it and let it "draw" well. Dad said it had a capital flavour--HE liked it.
Dave's only pair of pants were pretty well worn off him; Joe had n't a decent coat for Sunday; Dad himself wore a pair of boots with soles tied on with wire; and Mother fell sick. Dad did all he could--waited on her, and talked hopefully of the fortune which would come to us some day; but once, when talking to Dave, he broke down, and said he did n't, in the name of the Almighty God, know what he would do! Dave could n't say anything--he moped about, too, and home somehow did n't seem like home at all.
When Mother was sick and Dad's time was mostly taken up nursing her; when there was nothing, scarcely, in the house; when, in fact, the wolf was at the very door;--Dan came home with a pocket full of money and swag full of greasy clothes. How Dad shook him by the hand and welcomed him back! And how Dan talked of "tallies", "belly-wool", and "ringers" and implored Dad, over and over again, to go shearing, or rolling up, or branding-- ANYTHING rather than work and starve on the selection.
That's fifteen years ago, and Dad is still on the farm.
Chapter V.
The Night We Watched For Wallabies.
It had been a bleak July day, and as night came on a bitter westerly howled through the trees. Cold! was n't it cold! The pigs in the sty, hungry and half-fed (we wanted for ourselves the few pumpkins that had survived the drought) fought savagely with each other for shelter, and squealed all the time like--well, like pigs. The cows and calves left the place to seek shelter away in the mountains; while the draught horses, their hair standing up like barbed-wire, leaned sadly over the fence and gazed up at the green lucerne. Joe went about shivering in an old coat of Dad's with only one sleeve to it--a calf had fancied the other one day that Dad hung it on a post as a mark to go by while ploughing.
"My! it'll be a stinger to-night," Dad remarked to Mrs. Brown--who sat, cold-looking, on the sofa--as he staggered inside with an immense log for the fire. A log! Nearer a whole tree! But wood was nothing in Dad's eyes.
Mrs. Brown had been at our place five or six days. Old Brown called occasionally to see her, so we knew they could n't have quarrelled. Sometimes she did a little house-work, but more often she did n't. We talked it over together, but could n't make it out. Joe asked Mother, but she had no idea--so she said. We were full up, as Dave put it, of Mrs. Brown, and wished her out of the place. She had taken to ordering us about, as though she had something to do with us.
After supper we sat round the fire--as near to it as we could without burning ourselves--Mrs. Brown and all, and listened to the wind whistling outside. Ah, it was pleasant beside the fire listening to the wind! When Dad had warmed himself back and front he turned to us and said:
"Now, boys, we must go directly and light some fires and keep those wallabies back."
That was a shock to us, and we looked at him to see if he were really in earnest. He was, and as serious as a judge.
" TO-NIGHT!" Dave answered, surprisedly--"why to-night any more than last night or the night before? Thought you had decided to let them rip?"
"Yes, but we might as well keep them off a bit longer."
"But there's no wheat