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

mind, there was something so hopeless in the lunar and stellar outlook that, for comfort, I turned my eyes toward the station cemetery, which was dimly in view.

There several shapeless forms, some white, and others of neutral hue, seemed to be moving slowly and silently amongst the dwellings of the dead, as if holding what you could scarcely call a carnival, in their own sombre way. The time, the place, the supermundane conditions, acting together on a half-drowned mind, gave to the whole scene a weird reality which writing cannot convey; so, after pinching myself to make sure I was awake, and doing a small sum in mental arithmetic to verify my sanity, I advanced toward the perturbed spirits, got them against the sky, and identified them as cattle, greedily stevedoring the long, dry grass.

It seemed a pity to turn the poor hungry animals out; yet I knew that somebody would have to suffer for it if Montgomery knew of anything trespassing here. But how had they got in, through seven wires⁠—the upper one barbed⁠—with rabbit-netting along the bottom?⁠—

“Evenin’, Collins.”

“Evening, Priestley. Working the oracle?”

“Inclinin’ that road. Dangerous⁠—ain’t it? Good job it’s on’y you. Nobody else stirrin’?”

“Not a soul. They’re as regular as clockwork on this station. How did you get in?”

“Took the hinges off o’ the gate with my monkey-wrench. I’ll leave that all straight. Course, they’ll see the tracks by-’n’-by, an’ know who to blame; but I’ll be clear by that time; an’ I must guard agen comin’ in contract with Runnymede till the st⁠⸺⁠nk blows off o’ this transaction. Natural enough, Magomery’ll buck; but the ration-paddick’s as bare as a stockyard; an’ I can’t ast the bullocks to die o’ starvation.

“Certainly not, Priestley. Mind, it’s only four hours till daylight. Good night.”

“Good night, ole man.”

My way led me past a small, isolated stable, used exclusively for the boss’s buggy-horses. Nearing this building, I heard a suppressed commotion inside, followed by soothing gibberish, in a very low voice. This was bad. Priestley’s bullocks were within easy view; and Jerry, the groom, was a notorious master’s man. I must have a friendly yarn with him.

“What’s up with you this hour of the night, Jerry?” I asked, looking through the latticed upper-wall. “Uneasy conscience, I bet.” Whilst speaking the last words, I distinguished Montgomery’s pair of greys, tied, one in each back corner of the stable, whilst Pawsome’s horses⁠—a white and a piebald⁠—were occupying the two stalls, and voraciously tearing down mouthfuls of good Victorian hay from the rack above the manger. Pawsome, silently caressing one of the greys, moved to the lattice on hearing my voice. “Sleight-of-hand work?” I suggested, in a whisper.

“Sort of attempt,” replied the wizard, in the same key. “You gev me a start. All the lights was out two hours ago, an’ I med sure everybody was safe.”

“So they are. I’ve only been down for a swim. Good night, Possum.”

“I say, Collins⁠—don’t split!”

“Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing?”

“Second Kings,” whispered the poor necromancer, in eager fellowship, and displaying a knowledge of the Bible rare amongst his sect. “God bless you, Collins! may we meet in a better world!”

“It won’t be difficult to do that,” I replied dejectedly, as I withdrew to enjoy my unearned slumber.

Now the night, replete with such sphere-music, was past, and the cares that infest the day had returned to everyone on the station, except myself and two or three equally clean, useless, and aristocratic loafers in the boss’s house. Toby, the half-caste, was cantering away toward Clarke’s, for the weekly mail. Priestley, at his wagon, was bullocking even more desperately than usual, with a view to getting out of sight of the station as soon as possible. Pawsome, repairing a sidesaddle, on his extemporised bench, was softly crooning a familiar hymn, the sentiment of which seemed appropriate to himself, whilst the language breathed the very aroma of his social atmosphere:⁠—

Must I be carried to the skies
On flowery beds of ease,
While others fought to gain the prize,
And sail’d through (adj.) seas?

In the veranda of the house, Mr. Folkestone, a young English gentleman of not less than two hundredweight, lolled on a hammock, smoking a chibouque, and reading a magazine; while straight between us two aristocratic loafers, Vandemonian Jack, aged about a century, was mechanically sawing firewood in the hot, sickly sunshine. This is one of the jobs that it takes a man of four or five score years to perform ungrudgingly; and, to any illuminated mind, the secret of these old fellows’ greatness is very plain. Bathing, though an ancient heresy, has been of strictly local prevalence, and, for the best of reasons, of transient continuance. Our relapse belongs to the present generation. Though our better-class grandsires understood no science unconnected with the gloves, a marvellous instinct taught them the unwholesomeness of sluicing away that panoply of dirt which is Nature’s own defence against the microbe of imbecility, and which, indeed, was the only armour worn by the formidable Berserkers, from whom some of them claimed descent. We have done it however (at least, we say so), whilst our social inferiors have held on to the old-time religion (at least, we say so, here again); wherefore⁠—

“I say, Mr. Collins,” faltered Ida, breaking in on my reflections, “I picked up this little buckle aside o’ your b⁠⸺⁠d; it’s come off o’ the back o’ your tr⁠⸺⁠rs. I’ll sew it on for you any time, for I notice you’re bothered with them slippin’ down. O, Mr. Collins!”⁠—and the poor unlovely face was suddenly distorted with anguish and wet with tears⁠—“ain’t Mrs. Bodyzart wicked to put a slur on me like that? There ain’t one word o’ truth in it; I’d say the same if I was to die tonight; an’ you may believe me or believe me not, but I’m tellin’ the truth. Far be it, indeed!”

“Hush! Stop crying, Ida! Don’t look round⁠—Mrs. Beaudesart’s watching you from the window, over there. You poor thing! you shouldn’t trouble yourself over what anybody