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

It’s a well-known fact that few carriers of Riverina cleared as much money as he did, and probably not one spent less. Stewart gave him £200 for his plant, and he never broke the cheque; posted it whole; Stewart himself took charge of it, as he told me in his gossiping way. Let Alf alone. He knows how to come in out of the wet; in fact, the rainy day is his strong point. Such, for the third and last time, is life.”

Whilst I spoke, my unfortunate companion was persistently trying to light his empty pipe, his hands trembling, and his breath quickening. The Maroo fly was at him again. I tried to divert his attention.

“By the way,” said I; “didn’t you blame Thompson and Cunningham for duffing in your horse-paddock, ten or twelve months ago?”

“I didn’t make any song about it,” replied the boundary rider half-resentfully.

“Of course not. Still you owe them an apology⁠—which I shall be happy to convey, if you wish it. Alf Morris was the depredator. He was hovering about your hut that night like a guardian angel, while his twenty bullocks had their knife-bars going double-speed on your grass, and you slept the sleep of the unsuspecting. Ask old Jack; he’ll give you chapter and verse, without much pressing. He told me about it this afternoon.”

But the fit came on, after all. The boundary man stared at me with a wild, shrinking look, and the same paling of the lips I had noticed before; then he drank the remaining water out of the cup, and, rising from his seat, walked slowly to his bed, and lay down with his face toward the wall.

Far gone, i’ faith, thought I. Presently I went to the door, and, shoring up one of the posts with my shoulder, looked out upon the cool, white moonlight, flooding the level landscape.

Strange phenomena follow the footsteps of night. It has long been observed that avalanches and landslips occur most frequently about midnight, and especially on moonless midnights, when the sun and moon are in conjunction at the nadir. This is the time when mines cave in; when loose bark falls from trees; when limbs crash down from old, dead timber; when snow-laden branches break; when all ponderable bodies, of relatively slight restraint, are most apt to lose their hold. This may be definitely and satisfactorily accounted for by the mere operation of Newton’s Law. At the time, and under the conditions, specified, the conjoined attraction of sun and moon⁠—an attraction sufficient to sway millions of tons of water, in the spring tides⁠—is superadded to the centric gravity of the earth, the triple force, at the moment of midnight, tending toward the nadir, or downward. So that, when these midnight phenomena are most observable at one point of the globe, they will be least likely to make midday manifestation at the antipodes to that point.

And, though changes of the moon⁠—as copiously proved by meteorological statistics⁠—have no relation whatever to rainfall, the illuminated moon, on rising, will rarely fail to clear a clouded sky. This singular influence is exercised solely by the cold light of that dead satellite producing an effect which the sunlight, though two hundred times as intense,1 is altogether powerless to rival in kind. When we can explain the nature of this force adherent to moonlight, and to no other light, we may inquire why, in all ages and in all lands, the verdict of experience points to moonlight as a factor in the production and aggravation of lunacy. An empirical hypothesis, of course; but in the better sense, as well as in the worse. For the perturbing influence of moonlight, if it be a myth, is about the most tenacious one on earth. This anomalous form of force may or may not be observable in asylums, where the patients are not directly subjected to it; but anyone who has lived in the back country, camping out with all sorts and conditions of oddities, need not be accounted credulous if he holds the word “lunatic” to rest on a sounder derivation than “ill-starred,” or “disastrous.”

But the subtropical moonlight⁠—strong, chaste, and beautiful as its ideal queen⁠—soothes and elevates the well-balanced mind. I took from my packsaddle the double-tongued jews-harp I always carry; and, sitting on the floor with my back against the doorpost, unbound the instrument from its square stick, and began to play. It is not the highest class of music, I am well aware; and this paragraph is dictated by no shallow impulse of self-glorification. But I never had opportunity to master any more complicated instrument; and even if I had, it wouldn’t be much use, for I know only about three tunes, and these by no means perfectly.

So I played softly and voluptuously, till my scanty repertory was exhausted, and then drifted into a tender capriccio. I noticed Alf move uneasily on his bed; but, knowing the effect of music on my own mind, and remembering Moriarty’s and Montgomery’s independent panegyrics on the boundary man’s skill, I felt put on my mettle, and performed with a power and feeling which surprised myself.

“Do you like music?” asked Alf, at length.

“Like it!” I repeated. “I would give one-fourth of the residue of my life to be a good singer and musician. As it is, I’m not much of a player, and still less of a vocalist; but I’ll give you a song if you like. How sweetly everything sounds tonight?” Bee-o-buoy-bee-o-buoy-bee-o-buoy⁠—

“Do you like jews-harp music?” interrupted Alf, sitting up on the bed.

“Not if I could play any better instrument⁠—such as the violin, or the concertina; though I should in any case avoid the piano, for fear of flattening the ends of my fingers. Still, the jews-harp is a jews-harp; and this is the very best I could find in the market. Humble as it looks, and humble as it undeniably is, it has sounded in every nook and corner of Riverina. Last time I took it