Such Is Life by Joseph Furphy (children's books read aloud .TXT) 📕

“We cleared out one of the wagonettes, and filled it with pine leaves, and laid a blanket over it. And Spanker gently took the child from Dan, and laid her there, spreading the other half of the blanket over her. Then he thanked all hands, and made them welcome at the station, if they liked to come. I went, for one; but Bob went back to Kulkaroo direct, so I saw no more of him till tonight.

“Poor Dan! He walked behind the wagonette all the way, crying softly, like a child, and never taking his eyes from the little shape under the soaking wet blanket. Hard lines for him! He had heard her voice calling him, not an hour before; and now, if he lived till he was a hundred, he would never hear it again.

“As soon as we reached the station, I helped Andrews, the storekeeper, to make the little coffin. Dan wouldn’t have her buried in the station cemetery; she must be buried in consecrated ground, at Hay. So we boiled a pot of gas-tar to the quality of pitch, and dipped long strips of wool-bale in it, and wrapped them tight round the coffin, after the lid was on, till it was two ply all over, and as hard and close as sheet-iron. Ay, and by this time more than a dozen blackfellows had rallied-up to the station.

“Spanker arranged to send a man with the wagonette, to look after the horses for Dan. The child’s mother wanted to go with them, but Dan refused to allow it, and did so with a harshness that surprised me. In the end, Spanker sent Ward, one of the narangies. I happened to camp with them four nights ago, when I was coming down from Kulkaroo, and they were getting back to Goolumbulla. However,” added Thompson, with sublime lowliness of manner, “that’s what I meant by saying that, in some cases, a person’s all the better for being uncivilised. You see, we were nowhere beside Bob, and Bob was nowhere beside the old lubra.”

“Had you much of a yarn with the poor fellow when you met him?” I asked.

“Evening and morning only,” replied Thompson, maintaining the fine apathy due to himself under the circumstances. “I was away all night with the bullocks, in a certain paddock. Didn’t recognise me; but I told him I had been there; and then he would talk about nothing but the little girl. Catholic priest in Hay sympathised very strongly with him, he told me, but couldn’t read the service over the child, on account of her not being baptised. So Ward read the service. His people are English Catholics. Most likely Spanker thought of this when he sent Ward. Dan didn’t seem to be as much cut-up as you’d expect. He was getting uneasy about his paddock; and he thought Spanker might be at some inconvenience. But that black beard of his is more than half white already. And⁠—something like me⁠—I never thought of mentioning this to Bob when he was here. Absence of mind. Bad habit.”

“This Dan has much to be thankful for,” remarked Stevenson, with strong feeling in his voice. “Suppose that thunderstorm had come on a few hours sooner⁠—what then?”

There was a silence for some minutes.

“Tell you what made me interrupt you, Thompson, when I foun’ fault with singin’-out after lost kids,” observed Saunders, at length. “Instigation o’ many a pore little (child) perishin’ unknownst. Seen one instance when I was puttin’ up a bit o’ fence on Grundle⁠—hundred an’ thirty-four chain an’ some links⁠—forty-odd links, if I don’t disremember. Top rail an’ six wires. Jist cuttin’ off a bend o’ the river, to make a handy cattle-paddick. They’d had it fenced-off with deadwood, twelve or fifteen years before; but when they got it purchased they naterally went-in for a proper fence. An’ you can’t lick a top rail an’ six wires, with nine-foot panels⁠—”

“You’re a bit of an authority on fencin’,” remarked Baxter drily.

“Well, as I was sayin’,” continued Saunders; “this kid belonged to a married man, name o’ Tom Bracy, that was workin’ mates with me. One night when his missus drafted the lot she made one short; an’ she hunted roun’, an’ called, an’ got excited; an’ you couldn’t blame the woman. Well, we hunted all night-me, an’ Tom, an’ Cunningham, the cove that was engaged to cart the stuff onto the line. Decent, straight-forrid chap, Cunningham is, but a (sheol) of a liar when it shoots him. Course, some o’ you fellers knows him. Meejum-size man, but one o’ them hard, wiry, deepchested, deceivin’ fellers. See him slingin’ that heavy red-gum stuff about, as if it was broad palin’. Course, he was on’y three-an’ twenty; an’ fellers o’ that age don’t know their own strenth. His bullocks was fearful low at the time, on account of a trip he had out to Wilcanniar with flour; an’ that’s how he come to take this job⁠—”

“Never mind Cunningham; he’s dead now,” observed Donovan indifferently.

“Well as I was tellin’ you,” pursued Saunders, “we walked that bend the whole (adj.) night, singin’ out ‘Hen-ree! Hen-ree!’ an’ in the mornin’ we was jist as fur as when we started. Tom, he clears-off to the station before daylight, to git help; an’ by this time I’d come to the conclusion that the kid must be in the river, or out on the plains. I favoured the river a lot; but I bethought me o’ where this deadwood fence had bin burnt, to git it out o’ our road, before the grass got dry. So I starts at one end to examine the line o’ soft ashes that divided the bend off o’ the plain⁠—an’ har’ly a sign o’ traffic across it yet. Hadn’t went, not fifteen chain, before I bumps up agen the kid’s tracks, plain as A.B.C., crossin’ out towards the plain. Coo-ees for Cunningham; shows him the tracks; an’ the two of us follers the