On Our Selection Part 17

How free we felt! To think we were finished for ever with the raking and carting of hay--finished tramping up and down beside Dad, with the plough-reins in our hands, flies in our eyes and burr in our feet--finished being the target for Dad's blasphemy when the plough or the horses or the harness went wrong--was delightful! And the adventure and excitement which this new industry promised operated strongly upon us. We rioted and careered like hunted brumbies through the trees, till warned by Dad to "keep our eyes about;" then we settled down, and Joe found the first bear. It was on an ironbark tree, around the base of which we soon were clamouring.

"Up y' go!" Dad said, cheerfully helping Dave and the tomahawk into the first fork.

Dave ascended and crawled cautiously along the limb the bear was on and began to chop. WE armed ourselves with heavy sticks and waited. The dog sat on his tail and stared and whined at the bear. The limb cracked, and Dave ceased chopping and shouted "Look out!" We shouldered arms. The dog was in a hurry. He sprang in the air and landed on his back. But Dave had to make another nick or two. Then with a loud crack the limb parted and came sweeping down. The dog jumped to meet it. He met it, and was laid out on the gra.s.s. The bear scrambled to its feet and made off towards Bill. Bill squealed and fell backwards over a log. Dad rushed in and kicked the bear up like a football. It landed near Joe. Joe's eyes shone with the hunter's l.u.s.t of blood. He swung his stick for a tremendous blow--swung it mightily and high--and nearly knocked his parent's head off. When Dad had spat blood enough to make sure that he had only lost one tooth, he hunted Joe; but Joe was too fleet, as usual.

Meanwhile, the bear had run up another tree--about the tallest old gum in the paddock. Dad snapped his fingers angrily and cried: "Where the devil was the DOG?"

"Oh, where the devil wuz the DORG?" Dave growled, sliding down the tree--"where th' devil wuz YOU? Where wuz the lot o' y'?"

"Ah, well!" Dad said "--there's plenty more we can get. Come along."

And off we went. The dog pulled himself together and limped after us.

Bears were plentiful enough, but we wandered far before we found another on a tree that Dave could climb, and, when we DID, somehow or other the limb broke when he put his weight on it, and down he came, bear and all. Of course we were not ready, and that bear, like the other, got up another tree. But Dave did n't. He lay till Dad ran about two miles down a gully to a dam and filled his hat with muddy water and came tearing back with it empty--till Anderson and Mother came and helped to carry him home.

We did n't go out any more after bears. Dave, when he was able, went and got Maloney's colt and put him in the plough. And, after he had kicked Dad and smashed all the swingle-trees about the place, and got right out of his harness a couple of times and sulked for two days, he went well enough beside Anderson's old grey mare.

And that season, when everyone else's wheat was red with rust--when Anderson and Maloney cut theirs for hay--when Johnson put a firestick in his--ours was good to see. It ripened; and the rain kept off, and we reaped 200 bags. Salvation!

Chapter XIX.

Nell and Ned.

That harvest of two hundred bags of wheat was the turning-point in the history of our selection. Things somehow seemed to go better; and Dad's faith was gradually justified--to some extent. We acc.u.mulated out-buildings and added two new rooms to the hut, and Dad was able to lend old Anderson five pounds in return for a promise to pay seven pounds ten s.h.i.+llings in six months' time. We increased the stock, too, by degrees; and--crowning joy!--we got a horse or two you could ride to the towns.h.i.+p.

With Nell and Ned we reckoned we had two saddle-horses--those were their names, Nell and Ned, a mare and a colt. Fine hacks they were, too! Anybody could ride them, they were so quiet. Dad reckoned Ned was the better of the two. He was well-bred, and had a pedigree and a gentle disposition, and a bald-face, and a b.u.mble-foot, and a raw wither, and a sore back that gave him a habit of "flinching"--a habit that discounted his uselessness a great deal, because, when we were n't at home, the women could n't saddle him to run the cows in. Whenever he saw the saddle or heard the girth-buckles rattle he would start to flinch. Put the cloth on his back--folded or otherwise--and, no matter how smart you might be, it would be off before you could cover it with the saddle, and he would n't have flicked it with his tail, or pulled it off with his teeth, or done anything to it. He just flinched--made the skin on his back--where there was any--QUIVER. Throw on the saddle without a cloth, and he would "give" in the middle like a broken rail--bend till his belly almost touched the ground, and remain bent till mounted; then he'd crawl off and gradually straighten up as he became used to you. Were you tender-hearted enough to feel compunction in sitting down hard on a six-year-old sore, or if you had an aversion to kicking the suffering brute with both heels and belting his hide with a yard or two of fencing-wire to get him to show signs of animation, you would dismount and walk--perhaps, weep. WE always rode him right out, though.

As a two-year-old Ned was Dad's hope. Pointing proudly to the long-legged, big-headed, ugly moke mooching by the door, smelling the dust, he would say: "Be a fine horse in another year! Little sleepy-looking yet; that's nothing!"

"Stir him up a bit, till we see how he canters," he said to Joe one day. And when Joe stirred him up--rattled a piece of rock on his jaw that nearly knocked his head off--Dad took after Joe and chased him through the potatoes, and out into the gra.s.s-paddock, and across towards Anderson's; then returned and yarded the colt, and knocked a patch of skin off him with a rail because he would n't stand in a corner till he looked at his eye. "Would n't have anything happen to that colt for a fortune!" he said to himself. Then went away, forgetting to throw the rails down. Dave threw them down a couple of days after.

WE preferred Nell to Ned, but Dad always voted for the colt. "You can trust him; he'll stand anywhere," he used to say. Ned WOULD! Once, when the gra.s.s-paddock was burning, he stood until he took fire. Then he stood while we hammered him with boughs to put the blaze out. It took a lot to frighten Ned. His presence of mind rarely deserted him.

Once, though, he got a start. He was standing in the shade of a tree in the paddock when Dad went to catch him. He seemed to be watching Dad, but was n't. He was ASLEEP. "Well, old chap," said Dad, "how ARE y'?" and proceeded to bridle him. Ned opened his mouth and received the bit as usual, only some of his tongue came out and stayed out.

"Wot's up w' y'?" and Dad tried to poke it in with his finger, but it came out further, and some chewed gra.s.s dropped into his hand. Dad started to lead him then, or rather to PULL him, and at the first tug he have the reins Ned woke with a snort and broke away. And when the other horses saw him looking at Dad with his tail c.o.c.ked, and his head up, and the bridle-reins hanging, they went for their lives through the trees, and Blossom's foal got staked.

Another day Dad was out on Ned, looking for the red heifer, and came across two men fencing--a tall, powerful-looking man with a beard, and a slim young fellow with a smooth face. Also a kangaroo-pup. As Dad slowly approached, Ned swaying from side to side with his nose to the ground, the elder man drove the crowbar into the earth and stared as if he had never seen a man on horseback before. The young fellow sat on a log and stared too. The pup ran behind a tree and growled.

"Seen any cattle round here?" Dad asked.

"No," the man said, and grinned.

"Did n't notice a red heifer?"

"No," grinning more.

The kangaroo-pup left the tree and sniffed at Ned's heels.

"Won't kick, will he?" said the man.

The young fellow broke into a loud laugh and fell off the log.

"No," Dad replied--"he's PERFECTLY quiet."

"He LOOKS quiet."

The young fellow took a fit of coughing.

After a pause. "Well, you did n't see any about, then?" and Dad wheeled Ned round to go away.

"No, I DID N'T, old man," the other answered, and s.n.a.t.c.hed hold of Ned's tail and hung back with all his might. Ned grunted and strained and tore the ground up with his toes; Dad spurred and leathered him with a strap, looking straight ahead. The man hung on. "Come 'long,"

Dad said. The pup barked. "COME 'long with YER!" Dad said. The young fellow fell off the log again. Ned's tail cracked. Dad hit him between the ears. The tail cracked again. A piece of it came off; then Ned stumbled and went on his head. "What the DEVIL----!" Dad said, looking round. But only the young fellow was laughing.

Nell was different from Ned. She was a bay, with yellow flanks and a lump under her belly; a bright eye, lop ears, and heavy, hairy legs.

She was a very wise mare. It was wonderful how much she know. She knew when she was wanted; and she would go away the night before and get lost. And she knew when she was n't wanted; then she'd hang about the back-door licking a hole in the ground where the dish-water was thrown, or fossicking at the barn for the corn Dad had hidden, or scratching her neck or her rump against the cultivation paddock slip-rails. She always scratched herself against those slip-rails--sometimes for hours--always until they fell down. Then she'd walk in and eat. And how she COULD eat!

As a hack, Nell was unreliable. You could n't reckon with certainty on getting her to start. All depended on the humour she was in and the direction you wished to take--mostly the direction. If towards the gra.s.s-paddock or the dam, she was off helter-skelter. If it was n't, she'd go on strike--put her head down and chew the bit. Then, when you'd get to work on her with a waddy--which we always did--she'd walk backwards into the house and frighten Mother, or into the waterhole and dirty the water. Dad said it was the fault of the cove who broke her in. Dad was a just man. The "cove" was a union shearer--did it for four s.h.i.+llings and six pence. Wanted five bob, but Dad beat him down.

Anybody else would have asked a pound.

When Nell DID make up her mind to go, it was with a rush, and, if the slip-rails were on the ground, she'd refuse to take them. She'd stand and look out into the lane. You'd have to get off and drag the rails aside (about twenty, counting broken ones). Then she'd fancy they were up, and would shake her head and mark time until you dug your heels into her; then she'd gather herself together and jump high enough for a show--over nothing!

Dave was to ride Nell to town one Christmas to see the sports. He had n't seen any sports before, and went to bed excited and rose in the middle of the night to start. He dressed in the dark, and we heard him going out, because he fell over Sandy and Kate. They had come on a visit, and were sleeping on the floor in the front room. We also heard him throw the slip-rails down.

There was a heavy fog that morning. At breakfast we talked about Dave, and Dad "s'posed" he would just about be getting in; but an hour or two after breakfast the fog cleared, and we saw Dave in the lane hammering Nell with a stick. Nell had her rump to the fence and was trying hard to kick it down. Dad went to him. "Take her gently; take her GENTLY, boy," he shouted. "PSHAW! take her GENTLY!" Dave shouted back.

"Here"--he jumped off her and handed Dad the reins--"take her away and cut her throat." Then he cried, and then he picked up a big stone and rushed at Nell's head. But Dad interfered.

But the day Dad mounted Nell to bring a doctor to Anderson! She started away smartly--the wrong road. Dad jerked her mouth and pulled her round roughly. He was in a hurry--Nell was n't. She stood and shook her head and switched her tail. Dad rattled a waddy on her and jammed his heels hard against her ribs. She dropped her head and cow-kicked. Then he coaxed her. "Come on, old girl," he said; "come on,"--and patted her on the neck. She liked being patted. That exasperated Dad. He hit her on the head with his fist. Joe ran out with a long stick. He poked her in the flank. Nell kicked the stick out of his hands and bolted towards the dam. Dad pulled and swore as she bore him along. And when he did haul her in, he was two hundred yards further from the doctor. Dad turned her round and once more used the waddy. Nell was obdurate, Dad exhausted. Joe joined them, out of breath. He poked Nell with the stick again. She "kicked up." Dad lost his balance. Joe laughed. Dad said, "St-o-op!" Joe was energetic. So was Nell. She kicked up again--strong--and Dad fell off.

"Wot, could'n' y' s-s-s-stick to 'er, Dad?" Joe asked.

"STICK BE d.a.m.nED--run--CATCH her!--D----N y'!"

Joe obeyed.

Dad made another start, and this time Nell went willingly. Dad was leading her!

Those two old horses are dead now. They died in the summer when there was lots of gra.s.s and water--just when Dad had broken them into harness--just when he was getting a good team together to draw logs for the new railway line!

Chapter XX.

The Cow We Bought.

When Dad received two hundred pounds for the wheat he saw nothing but success and happiness ahead. His faith in the farm and farming swelled. Dad was not a pessimist--when he had two hundred pounds.