We of the Never-Never

As a matter of course, Bertie’s Nellie quietly gathered the reins of management into her own hands, and as a matter of course, Jimmy’s Nellie indulged in ear-splitting continuous protest, and Brown of the Bulls expressed himself as satisfied, so far, with the entertaining powers of the homestead.

As a matter of course, we left the servant problem to work out its own solution, and, also as a matter of course, the Sanguine Scot was full of plans for the future but particularly bubbling over with the news that he had secured Tam-o’-Shanter for a partner in the brumby venture.

“He’ll be along in a few days,” he explained, confident that he was “in luck this time all right,” and remembering Tam among the horses at the Katherine, we congratulated him.

As a matter of course, our conversation was all of brumbies, and Mac was also convinced that “when you reckoned everything up there was a good thing in it.”

“Of course it’ll take a bit of jumping round,” he agreed. But the Wet was to be devoted to the building of a strong holding-yard, a “trap,” and a “wing,” so as to be able to get going directly the Wet lifted; and knowing the run well, and the extent of the brumby mobs on it, Mac then and there set to work to calculate the “sized mob” that could be “got together after the Wet,” listening with interest to the account of our brumby encounters out east.

But long before we had done with brumbies Cheon was announcing dinner in his own peculiar way.

“Din-ner! Mis-sus! Boss! All about!” he chanted, standing in the open doorway nearest to us; and as we responded to his call, he held the door of the dining-net and glided into the details of his menu: “Veg-e-table Soooup!” he sang: “Ro-oast Bee-ef! Pee-es! Bee-ens! Too-mar-toos! Mar-row!” and listening, we felt Brown of the Bulls was being right royally welcomed with as many vegetables as were good for him. But the sweets shrank into a simple “bakee custard!”

“This is what you might call style!” Mac and Brown of the Bulls declared, as Cheon waved them to seats with the air of an Emperor, and for two courses the dinner went forward according to its menu, but at the third course tinned peaches had usurped the place of the “bakee custard.”

Every one looked surprised, but, being of the bush-folk, accepted peaches and cream without comment, until Cheon, seeing the surprise, and feeling an explanation was due—anyway to the missus—bent over her and whispered in a hoarse aside. “Pussy cat been tuck-out custard.”

For a moment the bushmen bent over their plates, intent on peaches and cream; but there is a limit to even a bushman’s dignity, and with a choking gulp Mac exploded, and Brown of the Bulls joining in with a roar dragged down the Măluka’s self-control; and as Cheon reiterated: “What name all about laugh, missus,” chuckled in sympathy himself. Brown of the Bulls pulled himself together for a moment, once more to assure us that he was “Satisfied so far.”

But the day’s entertainment was only just beginning for after comparing weights and heights, Mac, Jack, Dan and Brown of the Bulls, entered into a trial of strength, and a heavy rail having been brought down from the stackyard, the “caber” was tossed before an enthusiastic company. The homestead thoroughfare was the arena and around it stood or sat the onlookers: the Quarters travellers, Happy Dick, some of the Line Party, the Măluka, the missus, and others, and as the caber pitched and tossed, Cheon came and went, cheering every throw lustily with charming impartiality, beating up a frothy cake mixture the while, until, finally, the cakes being in the oven, he was drawn, with others, into the competition.

A very jaunty, confident Cheon entered the lists, but a very surprised, chagrined Cheon retired in high dudgeon. “What’s ’er matter!” he said indignantly. “Him too muchee heavy fellow. S’pose him little fellow me chuck him all right,” explaining a comical failure with even more comical explanations. Soon after the retirement of our crestfallen Cheon, hot cakes were served by a Cheon all rotundity and chuckles once more, but immediately afterwards, a snort of indignation riveted our attention on an exceedingly bristling, dignified Cheon, who was glaring across the enclosure at two of our neighbour’s black-boys, one of whom was the bearer of a letter, and the other, of a long yellow vegetable-marrow.

Right up to the house verandah they came, and the letter was presented to the Măluka, and the marrow to the missus in the presence of Cheon’s glare and an intense silence; for most of the bush-folk had heard of the cabbage insult. Cheon had seen to that.

“Hope you will wish me luck while enjoying my little gift,” said the letter, and mistaking its double meaning, I felt really vexed with our neighbour, and passing the marrow to Cheon, reflected a little of his bristling dignity as I said: “This is of no use to any one here, Cheon; you had better take it away”; and as Cheon accepted it with a grateful look, those about the verandah, and those without the garden, waited expectantly.

But there was to be no unseemly rage this time. In dignified silence Cheon received the marrow—a sinuous yellow insult, and as the homestead waited he raised it above his head, and stalking majestically from us towards the finished part of the fence, flung it from him in contemptuous scorn, adding a satisfied snort as the marrow, striking the base of a fence post, burst asunder, and the next moment, after a flashing swoop, he was grovelling under the wires, making frantic efforts to reach a baby bottle of whisky that had rolled from within the marrow away beyond the fence. “Cognac!” he gasped, as he struggled, and then, as shouts greeted his speedy success, he sat up, adding comically: “My word! Me close up smash him Cognac.” At the thought came his inevitable laughter, and as he leant against the fence post, surrounded by the shattered marrow, he sat hopelessly gurgling, and choking, and shaking, and hugging his bottle, the very picture of a dissolute old Bacchanalian. (Cheon would have excelled as a rapid change artist). And as Cheon gurgled, and spluttered, and shook, the homestead rocked with yells of delight, while Brown of the Bulls rolled and writhed in a canvas lounge, gasping between his shouts: “Oh, chase him away, somebody; cover him up. Where did you catch him?”

Finally Cheon scrambled to his feet, and, perspiring and exhausted, presented the bottle to the Măluka. “My word, me cross fellow!” he said weakly, and then, bubbling over again at the recollection, he chuckled: “Close up smash him Cognac all right.” And at the sound of the chuckle Brown of the Bulls broke out afresh:

“Chase him away!” he yelled. “You’ll kill me between you! I never struck such a place! Is it a circus or a Wild West Show?”

Gravely the Măluka accepted the bottle, and with the same mock gravity answered Brown of the Bulls. “It is neither, my man,” he said; “neither a circus, nor a Wild West Show. This is the land the poets sing about, the land where dull despair is king.”

Brown of the Bulls naturally wished “some of the poets were about now,” and Dan, having joined the house party, found a fitting opportunity to air one of his pet grievances.

“I’ve never done wishing some of them town chaps that write bush yarns ’ud come along and learn a thing or two,” he said. “Most of ’em seem to think that when we’re not on the drink we’re whipping the cat or committing suicide.” Rarely had Dan any excuse to offer for those “town chaps,” who, without troubling to learn “a thing or two,” first, depict the bush as a pandemonium of drunken orgies, painted women, low revenge, remorse, and suicide; but being in a more magnanimous mood than usual, as the men-folk flocked towards the Quarters he waited behind to add, unconscious of any irony: “Of course, seeing it’s what they’re used to in town, you can’t expect ’em to know any better.”

Then in the Quarters “Luck to our neighbour” was the toast—“luck,” and the hope that all his ventures might be as successfully carried through as his practical joke. After that the Măluka gravely proposed “Cheon,” and Cheon instantly became statuesque and dignified, to the further diversion of Brown of the Bulls—gravely accepting a thimbleful for himself, and, as gravely, drinking his own health, the Măluka just as gravely “clinking glasses” with him. And from that day to this when Cheon wishes to place the Măluka on a fitting pedestal, he ends his long, long tale with a triumphant: “Boss bin knock glass longa me one time.”

Happy Dick and Peter filled in time for the Quarters until sundown, when Cheon announced supper there with an inspired call of “Cognac!” And then, as if to prove that we are not always on the drink, or “whipping the cat, or committing suicide,” that we can love and live for others besides self, Neaves’ mate came down from the little rise beyond the slip-rails, where he had spent his day carving a headstone out of a rough slab of wood that now stood at the head of our sick traveller’s grave.

Not always on the drink, or whipping the cat, or committing suicide, but too often at the Parting of the Ways, for within another twelve hours the travellers, Happy Dick, the Line Party, Neaves’ mate, Brown of the Bulls, and Mac, had all gone or were going their ways, leaving us to go ours—Brown back to hold his bulls at the Red Lilies until further showers should open up all roads, and Mac to “pick up Tam.” But in the meantime Dan had become Showman of the Showers.

“See anything?” he asked, soon after sun-up, waving his hands towards the northern slip-rails, as we stood at the head of the thoroughfare speeding our parting guests; and then he drew attention to the faintest greenish tinge throughout the homestead enclosure—such a clean-washed-looking enclosure now.

“That’s going to be grass soon,” he said, and, the sun coming out with renewed vigour after another shower, by midday he had gathered a handful of tiny blades half an inch in length with a chuckling “What did I tell you?”

By the next midday, grass, inches tall, was rippling all around the homestead in the now prevalent northwest breeze, and Dan was preparing for a trip out-bush to see where the showers had fallen, and Mac and Tam coming in as he went out, Mac greeted us with a jocular: “The flats get greener every year about the Elsey.”

“Indeed!” we said, and Mac, overcome with confusion, spluttered an apology: “Oh, I say! Look here! I didn’t mean to hit off at the missus, you know!” and then catching the twinkle in Tam’s eyes, stopped short, and with a characteristic shrug “reckoned he was making a fair mess of things.”

Mac would never be other than our impetuous brither Scot, distinct from all other men, for the bush never robs her children of their individuality. In some mysterious way she clean-cuts out the personality of each of them, and keeps it sharply clean-cut; and just as Mac stood apart from all men, so Tam also stood apart, the quiet self-reliant man, though, we had seen among the horses, for that was the real man; and as Mac built castles, and made calculations, Tam put his shoulder to the drudgery, and before Mac quite knew what had happened, he was hauling logs and laying foundations for a brumby trap in the south-east country, while Bertie’s Nellie found herself obliged to divide her attention between the homestead and the brumby camp.

As Mac hauled and drudged, the melons paid their first dividend; half-past eleven four weeks drew near; “Just-So Stories” did all they could, and Dan coming in found the Quiet Stockman away back in the days of old, deep in a simply written volume of Scottish history.

Dan had great news of the showers, but had to find other audience than Jack, for he was away in a world all his own, and, bent over the little volume, was standing shoulder to shoulder with his Scottish fathers, fighting with them for his nation. All evening he followed where they led, enduring and suffering, and mourning with them and rejoicing over their final victory with a ringing “You can’t beat the Scots,” as the little volume, coming to with a bang, roused the Quarters at midnight.

“You can’t beat the Scots, missus!” he repeated, coming over in the morning for “more of that sort,” all unconscious how true he was to type, as he stood there, flushed with the victories of his forefathers, a strong, young Scot, with a newly conquered world of his own at his feet.

As we hunted for “more of that sort,” through a medley of odds and ends, the Quiet Stockman scanned titles and dipped here and there into unknown worlds, and Dan coming by, stared open-eyed.

“You don’t say he’s got the whole mob mouthed and reined and schooled in all the paces?” he gasped; but Jack put aside the word of praise. “There’s writing and spelling yet,” he said, and Dan, with his interest in book-learning reviving, watched the square chin setting squarer, and was bewildered. “Seems to have struck a mob of brumbies,” he commented.

But before Jack could “get properly going” with the brumbies, two travellers rode into the homestead, supporting between them a third rider, a man picked up off the track delirious with fever, and foodless; and at the sight of his ghastly face our hearts stood still with fear. But the man was one of the Scots—another Mac—of the race that loves a good fight, and his plucky heart stood by him so well that within twenty-four hours he was lying contentedly in the shade of the Quarters, looking on, while the homestead shared the Fizzer’s welcome with Mac and Tam and a traveller or two.

Out of the south came the Fizzer, lopping once more in his saddle, with the year’s dry stages behind him, and the set lines all gone from his shoulders, shouting as he came: “Hullo! What ho! Here’s a crowd of us!” but on his return trip the Fizzer was a man of leisure, and we had to wait for news until his camp was fixed up.

“Now for it!” he shouted, at last joining the company, and Mac felt the time was ripe for his jocular greeting and, ogling the Fizzer, noticed that “The flats get greener every year about the Elsey.”

But the Fizzer was a dangerous subject to joke with. “So I’ve noticed,” he shouted as, improving on Mac’s ogle, he singled him out from the company, then dropping his voice to an insinuating drawl he challenged him to have a deal.

Instantly the Sanguine Scot became a Canny Scot, for Mac prided himself on a horse-deal. And as no one had yet got the better of the Fizzer the company gathered round to enjoy itself.

“A swop,” suggested the Fizzer, and Mac agreeing with a “Right ho!” a preliminary hand-shake was exchanged before “getting to business”; and then, as each made a great presence of mentally reviewing his team, each eyed the other with the shrewdness of a fighting cock.

“My brown mare!” Mac offered at last, and knowing the staunch little beast, the homestead wondered what Mac had up his sleeve.

We explained our suspicions in asides to the travellers, but the Fizzer seemed taken by surprise. “By George!” he said. “She’s a stunner! I’ve nothing fit to put near her excepting that upstanding chestnut down there.”

The chestnut was standing near the creek-crossing, and every one knowing him well, and sure of that “something” up Mac’s sleeve, feared for the Fizzer as Mac’s hand came out with a “Done!” and the Fizzer gripped it with a clinching “Right ho!”

Naturally we waited for the dénouement, and the Fizzer appearing unsuspicious and well-pleased with the deal, we turned our attention to the Sanguine Scot.

Mac felt the unspoken flattery, and with an introductory cough, and a great show of indifference, said: “By the way! Perhaps I should have mentioned it, but the brown mare’s down with the puffs since the showers,” and looked around the company for approval.

But the Fizzer was filling the homestead with shoutings: “Don’t apologise,” he yelled. “That’s nothing! The chestnut’s just broken his leg; can’t think how he got here. This’ll save me the trouble of shooting him.” Then dropping back to that chuckling drawl, and re-assuming the ogle, he added: “The—flats—get—greener—every—year—about—the Elsey,” and with a good-humoured laugh Mac asked if “any other gentleman felt on for a swop.”

Naturally, for a while the conversation was all of horse deals, until, Happy Dick coming in, it turned as naturally to dog-fights as Peter and Brown stalked aggressively about the thoroughfare.

Daily we hinted to Happy Dick that Peter’s welcome was wearing out, and daily Happy Dick assured us that he “couldn’t keep him away nohow.” But then Happy Dick’s efforts to keep him away were peculiar, taking the form of monologues as Peter trotted beside him towards the homestead—reiterations of:

“We’re not the sort to say nuff, are we, Peter? We’ll never say die, will we, Peter? We’ll win if we don’t lose, won’t we, Peter?” Adding, after his arrival at the homestead, a subdued “S—s—ss, go it, Peter!” whenever Brown appeared in the thoroughfare.

But the homestead’s hour of triumph was at hand, for as the afternoon wore on, Happy Dick found the very best told recital a poor substitute for the real thing, and thirsting for a further “Peter’s latest,” hissed: “S—ss—s, go it, Peter!” once too often. For, well, soon afterwards—figuratively speaking—Peter was carried off the field on a stretcher.

True, Brown had only one sound leg left to stand on, but by propping the other three carefully against it, he managed to cut a fairly triumphant figure. But Brown’s victory was not to be all advantage to the homestead, for never again were we to hear “Peter’s latest.”

“Can’t beat the Elsey for a good dog-fight! Can you, Peter?” the Fizzer chuckled, as Peter lay licking his wounds at Happy Dick’s feet; but the Quarters, feeling the pleasantry ill-timed, delicately led the conversation to cribbage, and at sun-up next morning Happy Dick “did a get” to his work, with bulging pockets, leaving the Fizzer packing up and declaring that “half a day at the Elsey gave a man a fresh start.”

But Dan also was packing up—a “duplicate” brought in by the Fizzer having necessitated his presence in Darwin, and as he packed up he assured us he would be back in time for the Christmas celebrations, even if he had to swim for it but before he left he paid a farewell visit to the Christmas dinner. “In case of accidents,” he explained, “mightn’t see it again. Looks like another case of one apiece,” he added, surveying with interest the plumpness of six young pullets Cheon was cherishing under a coop.

“Must have pullet longa Clisymus,” Cheon had said, and all readily agreeing, “Of course!” he had added “must have really good Clisymus”; and another hearty “Of course” convincing him we were at one with him in the matter of Christmas, he entered into details.

“Must have big poodinn, and almond, and Clisymus cake, and mince pie,” he chuckled, and then after confiding to us that he had heard of the prospective glories of a Christmas dinner at the Pine Creek “Pub.,” the heathen among us urged us to do honour to the Christian festival.

“Must have top-fellow Clisymus longa Elsey,” he said, and even more heartily we agreed, “of course,” giving Cheon carte blanche to order everything as he wished us to have it. “We were there to command,” we assured him; and accepting our services, Cheon opened the ball by sending the Dandy in to the Katherine on a flying visit to do a little shopping, and, pending the Dandy’s return we sat down and made plans.

The House and the Quarters should join forces that day, Cheon suggested, and dine under the eastern verandah “No good two-fellow dinner longa Clisymus,” he said. And the blacks, too, must be regaled in their humpy. “Must have Vealer longa black fellow Clisymus,” Cheon ordered, and Jack’s services being bespoken for Christmas Eve, to “round up a Vealer,” it was decided to add a haunch of “Vealer” to our menu as a trump card—Vealers being rarities at Pine Creek. Our only regret was that we lived too far from civilisation to secure a ham. Pine Creek would certainly have a ham; but we had a Vealer and faith in Cheon, and waited expectantly for the Dandy, sure the Elsey would “come out top-fellow.”

And as we waited for the Dandy, the Line Party moved on to our northern boundary, taking with it possible Christmas guests; the Fizzer came in and went on, to face a “merry Christmas with damper and beef served in style on a pack-bag,” also regretting empty mail-bags—the Southern mail having been delayed en route. Tam and the Sanguine Scot accepted invitations to the Christmas dinner; and the Wet broke in one terrific thunderclap, as the heavens, opening, emptied a deluge over us.

In that mighty thunderclap the Wet rushed upon us with a roar of falling waters, and with them Billy Muck appeared at the house verandah dripping like a beaver, to claim further credit.

“Well?” he said again, “Me rainmaker, eh?” and the Măluka shouted above the roar and din:

“You’re the boy for my money, Billy! Keep her going!” and Billy kept her going to such purpose that by sun-up the billabong was a banker, Cheon was moving over the face of the earth with the buoyancy of a child’s balloon, and Billy had five inches of rain to his credit. (So far, eleven inches was the Territory record for one night). Also the fringe of birds was back at the billabong, having returned with as little warning as it had left, and once more its ceaseless chatter became the undertone of the homestead.

At sun-up Cheon had us in his garden, sure now that Pine Creek could not possibly outdo us in vegetables and the Dandy coming in with every commission fulfilled we felt ham was a mere detail.

But Cheon’s cup of happiness was to brim over that day, for after answering every question hurled at him, the Dandy sang cheerfully: “He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum,” and dragged forth a ham from its hiding-place, with a laughing, “What a good boy am I.”

With a swoop Cheon was on it, and the Dandy, trying to regain it, said, “Here, hold hard! I’ve to present it to the missus with a bow and the compliments of Mine Host.” But Cheon would not part with it, and so the missus had the bow and the compliments, and Cheon the ham.

Lovingly he patted it and asked us if there ever was such a ham? or ever such a wonderful man as Mine Host? or ever such a fortunate woman as the missus? Had any other woman such a ham or such a friend in need? And bubbling over with affection for the whole world, he sent Jackeroo off for mistletoe, and presently the ham, all brave in Christmas finery, was hanging like a gay wedding-bell in the kitchen doorway. Then the kitchen had to be decorated, also in mistletoe, to make a fitting setting for the ham, and after that the fiat went forth. No one need expect either eggs or cream before “Clisymus”—excepting, of course, the sick Mac—he must be kept in condition to do justice to our “Clisymus” fare.

What a week it was—all festivities, and meagre fare, and whirring egg-beaters, and thunderstorms, and downpours, and water-melon dividends, and daily visits to the vegetable patch; where Happy Dick was assured, during a flying visit, that we were sure of seven varieties of vegetables for “Clisymus.”

But alas for human certainty! Even then swarms of grasshoppers were speeding towards us, and by sundown were with us.

In vain Cheon and the staff, the rejected, Bett-Bett, every shadow and the missus, danced war-dances in the vegetable patch, and chivied and chased, and flew all ways at once; the grasshoppers had found green stuff exactly to their liking, and coming in clouds, settled, and feasted, and flew upwards, and settled back, and feasted, and swept on, leaving poor Cheon’s heart as barren of hope as the garden was of vegetables. Nothing remained but pumpkins, sweet potatoes, and Cheon’s tardy watermelons, and the sight of the glaring blotches of pumpkins filled Cheon with fury.

“Pumpee-kin for Clisymus!” he raved, kicking furiously at the hideous wens. Not if he knew it! and going to some stores left in our care by the Line Party, he openly stole several tins of preserved vegetables. “Must have vegetable longa Clisymus,” he said, feeling his theft amply justified by circumstances, but salved his conscience by sending a gift of eggs to the Line Party as a donation towards its “Clisymus.”

Then finding every one sympathetic, he broached a delicate subject. By some freak of chance, he said, the missus was the only person who had succeeded in growing good melons this year, and taking her to the melon beds, which the grasshoppers had also passed by, he looked longingly at three great fruits that lay like mossy green boulders among the rich foliage. “Just chance,” he reiterated, and surely the missus would see that chance also favoured our “Clisymus.” “A Clisymus without dessert would be no Clisymus at all,” he continued, pressing each fruit in turn between loving hands until it squeaked in response. “Him close up ripe, missus. Him sing out!” he said, translating the squeak.

But the missus appeared strangely inattentive, and in desperation Cheon humbled himself and apologised handsomely for former scoffings. Not chance, he said, but genius! Never was there white woman like the missus! “Him savey all about,” he assured the Măluka. “Him plenty savey gardin.” Further, she was a woman in a thousand! A woman all China would bow down to! Worth ninety-one-hundred pounds in any Chinese matrimonial market. “A valuable asset,” the Măluka murmured.

It was impossible to stand against such flattery. Billy Muck was hastily consulted, and out of his generous heart voted two of the mossy boulders to the white folk, keeping only one for “black fellow all about.” Poor old Billy! He was to pay dearly for his leaning to the white folk.

Nothing was amiss now but Dan’s non-appearance; and the egg-beater whirring merrily on, by Christmas Eve, the Dandy and Jack, coming in with wild duck for breakfast and the Vealer, found the kitchen full of triumphs and Cheon wrestling with an immense pudding. “Four dozen egg sit down,” he chuckled, beating at the mixture. “One bottle port wine, almond, raisin, all about, more better’n Pine Creek all right”; and the homestead taking a turn at the beating “for luck,” assured him that it “knocked spots off Pine Creek.”

“Must have money longa poodin’!” Cheon added, and our wealth lying also in a cheque book, it was not until after a careful hunt that two threepenny bits were produced, when one, with a hole in it, went in “for luck,” and the other followed as an omen for wealth.

The threepenny bits safely in, it took the united efforts of the homestead to get the pudding into a cloth and thence into a boiler, while Cheon explained that it would have been larger if only we had had a larger boiler to hold it. As it was, it had to be boiled out in the open, away from the buildings, where Cheon had constructed an ingenious trench to protect the fire from rain and wind.

Four dozen eggs in a pudding necessitates an all-night boiling, and because of this we offered to share “watches” with Cheon, but were routed in a body. “We were better in bed,” he said. What would happen to his dinner if any one’s appetite failed for want of rest? There were too few of us as it was, and, besides, he would have to stay up all night in any case, for the mince pies were yet to be made, in addition to brownie and another plum-pudding for the “boys,” to say nothing of the hop-beer, which if made too soon would turn with the thunder and if made too late would not “jump up” in time. He did not add that he would have trusted no mortal with the care of the fires that night.

He did add, however, that it would be as well to dispatch the Vealer over night, and that an early move (about fowl-sing-out) would not be amiss; and, always obedient to Cheon’s will, we all turned in, in good time, and becoming drowsy, dreamed of “watching” great mobs of Vealers, with each Vealer endowed with a plum-pudding for a head.

At earliest dawn we were awakened by wild, despairing shrieks, and were instinctively groping for our revolvers when we remembered the fatted fowls and Cheon’s lonely vigil, and turning out, dressed hastily, realising that Christmas had come, and the pullets had sung their last “sing-out.”

When we appeared the stars were still dimly shining, but Cheon’s face was as luminous as a full moon, as, greeting each and all of us with a “Melly Clisymus,” he suggested a task for each and all. Some could see about taking the Vealer down from the gallows; six lubras were “rounded up” for the plucking of the pullets, while the rest of us were sent out, through wet grass and thicket, into the cold, grey dawn, to gather in “big, big mob bough and mistletoe,” for the beautifying of all things.

How we worked! With Cheon at the helm, every one was of necessity enthusiastic. The Vealer was quartered in double-quick time, and the first fitful rays of sunlight found their way to the Creek crossing to light up an advancing forest of boughs and mistletoe clumps that moved forward on nimble black legs.

In a gleaming, rustling procession the forest of green boughs advanced, all crimson-flecked with mistletoe and sunlight, and prostrated itself around us in mighty heaps at the head of the homestead thoroughfare. Then the nimble black legs becoming miraculously endowed with nimble black bodies and arms, soon the gleaming boughs were piled high upon the iron roof of the Eastern verandah to keep our impromptu dining-hall cool and fresh. High above the roof rose the greenery, and over the edge of the verandah, throughout its length, hung a deep fringe of green, reaching right down to the ground at the posts; everywhere among the boughs trailed long strands of bright red mistletoe, while within the leafy bower itself hanging four feet deep from the centre of the high roof one dense elongated mass of mistletoe swayed gently in the breeze, its heaped-up scarlet blossoms clustering about it like a swarm of glorious bees.

Cheon interrupted the decorations with a call to “Bressfass! Duck cully and lice,” he sang boldly, and then followed in a doubtful, hesitating quaver: “I—think—sausage. Must have sausage for Clisymus bress-fass,” he said emphatically, as he ushered us to seats, and we agreed with our usual “Of course!” But we found fried balls of minced collops, which Cheon hastened to explain would have been sausages if only he had had skins to pack them into.

“Him close up sausage!” he assured us, but that anxious quaver was back in his voice, and to banish all clouds from his loyal old heart, we ate heartily of the collops, declaring they were sausages in all but skins. Skins, we persuaded him, were merely appendages to sausages, barriers, in fact, between men and delectable feasts; and satisfied that we were satisfied, he became all beams once more, and called our attention to the curried duck.

The duck discussed, he hinted that dinner was the be all and end all of “Clisymus,” and, taking the hint, we sent the preparations merrily forward.

Every chair and stool on the run was mustered; two tables were placed end to end beneath that clustering mistletoe and covered with clean white tablecloths—remembering the story of the rags and hobble rings we refrained from serviettes—the hop-beer was set in canvas water bags to keep it cool; and Cheon pointing out that the approach from the kitchens was not all that could be desired, an enormous tent-fly was stretched away from the roof of the verandah, extending it half-way to the kitchen, and further greenery was used, decorating it within and without to make it a fitting passage-way for the transport of Cheon’s triumphs. Then Cheon’s kitchen decorations were renewed and added to; and after that further suggestions suggested and attended to. Everything that could be done was done, and by eight o’clock all was ready for Cheon’s triumphs, all but our appetites and time of day.

By nine o’clock Mac and Tam had arrived, and after everything had been sufficiently admired, we trooped in a body to the kitchen, obedient to a call from Cheon.

Triumph after triumph was displayed, and after listening gravely and graciously to our assurances that already everything was “more better’n Pine Creek last year,” Cheon allowed us a glimpse of the pudding through a cloud of steam, the company standing reverently around the fire trench in a circle, as it bent over the bubbling boiler; then scuttling away before us like an old hen with a following of chickens, he led the way to the water-bags, and asked our opinion on the hop-beer: “You think him jump-up longa dinner time? Eh, boss?” he said anxiously, as the Măluka, holding a bottle between us and the light, examined it critically. “Me make him three o’clock longa night-time.”

It looked remarkably still and tranquil, but we hoped for the best, and half an hour later were back at the water-bags, called thither to decide whether certain little globules were sediment or air-bubbles. Being sanguine, we decided in favour of bubbles, and in another half-hour were called back again to the bags to see that the bubbles were bubbles indeed, having dropped in at the kitchens on our way to give an opinion on veal stuffing and bread sauce; and within another half-hour were peering into the oven to inspect further triumphs of cooking.

Altogether the morning passed quickly and merrily, any time Cheon left us being spent in making our personal appearance worthy of the feast.

Scissors and hand-glasses were borrowed, and hair cut, and chins shaved, until we feared our Christmas guests would look like convicts. Then the Dandy producing blacking brushes, boots that had never seen blacking before, shone like ebony. After that a mighty washing of hands took place, to remove the blacking stain; and then the Quarters settled down to a general “titivation,” Tam “cleaning his nails for Christmas,” amid great applause.

By eleven o’clock the Dandy was immaculate, the guests satisfied that they “weren’t too dusty,” while the Măluka, in spotless white relieved with a silk cummerbund and tie, bid fair to outdo the Dandy. Even the Quiet Stockman had succeeded in making a soft white shirt “look as though it had been ironed once.” And then every lubra being radiant with soap, new dresses, and ribbons, the missus, determined not be to outdone in the matter of Christmas finery, burrowed into trunks and boxes, and appeared in cream washing silk, lace fichu, ribbons, rings, and frivolities—finery, by the way, packed down south for that “commodious station home.”

Cheon was enraptured with the appearance of his company, and worked, and slaved, and chuckled in the kitchen as only Cheon could, until at last the critical moment had arrived. Dinner was ready, but an unforeseen difficulty had presented itself. How was it to be announced, Cheon queried, having called the missus to the kitchen for a hasty consultation, for was it wise to puff up the Quarters with a chanted summons?

A compromise being decided on as the only possible course, after the booming teamster’s bell had summoned the Quarters, Cheon, all in white himself, bustled across to the verandah to call the gentry to the dinner by word of mouth:—“Dinner! Boss! Missus!” he sang—careful to specify his gentry, for not even reflected glory was to be shed over the Quarters. Then, moving in and out among the greenery as he put finishing touches to the table here and there, he glided into the wonders of his Christmas menu: “Soo-oup! Chuckie! Ha-am! Roo-oast Veal-er!” he chanted. “Cauli-flower! Pee-es! Bee-ens! Toe-ma-toes!” (with a regretful “tinned” in parenthesis)—“Shweet Poo-tay-toes! Bread Sau-ce!” On and on through mince pies, sweets, cakes, and fruits, went the monotonous chant, the Măluka and the missus standing gravely at attention, until a triumphant paeon of “Plum-m-m Poo-dinn!” soared upwards as Cheon waddled off through the decorated verandah extension for his soup tureen.

But a sudden, unaccountable shyness had come over the Quarters, and as Cheon trundled away, a hurried argument reached our ears of “Go on! You go first!” “No, you. Here! none of that”; and then, after a short subdued scuffle, the Dandy, looking slightly dishevelled, came through the doorway with just the suspicion of assistance from within; and the ice being thus broken the rest of the company came forward in a body and slipped into whichever seat came handiest.

As all of us, with the exception of the Dandy, were Scotch, four of us being Macs, the Măluka chose our Christmas grace from Bobby Burns; and quietly and reverently our Scotch hearts listened to those homely words:

“Some ha’e meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we ha’e meat, and we can eat,
And so the Lord be thankit.”

Then came Cheon’s turn, and gradually and cleverly his triumphs were displayed.

To begin with, we were served to clear soup—“just to tickle your palates,” the Măluka announced, as Cheon in a hoarse whisper instructed him to serve “little-fellow-helps” anxious that none of the keenness should be taken from our appetites. All served, the tureen was whisked away to ensure against further inroads, and then Cheon trundled round the table, removing the soup plates, inquiring of each guest in turn if he found the soup to his liking, and informing all that lubras were on guard in the kitchen, lest the station cats should so far forget themselves as to take an unlawful interest in our dinner.

The soup finished with, Cheon disappeared into the kitchen regions, to reappear almost immediately at the head of a procession of lubras, each of whom carried a pièce de resistance to the feast: Jimmy’s Nellie leading with the six pullets on one great dish, while Bett-Bett brought up the rear with the bread sauce. On through a vista of boughs and mistletoe came the triumphs—how glad we were the way had been made more worthy of their progress—the lubras, of course, were with them, but we had eyes only for the triumphs: Those pullets all a-row with plump brown breasts bursting with impatience to reveal the snowy flesh within; marching behind them that great sizzling “haunch” of veal, taxing Rosy’s strength to the utmost; then Mine Host’s crisply crumbed ham trudging along, and filling Bertie’s Nellie with delight, with its tightly bunched little wreath of mistletoe usurping the place of the orthodox paper frill; behind again vegetable dishes two abreast, borne by the lesser lights of the staff (lids off, of course: none of our glory was to be hidden under covers); tailing along with the rejected and gravy boats came laden soup-plates to eke out the supply of vegetable dishes; and, last of all, that creamy delight of bread sauce, borne sedately and demurely by Bett-Bett.

As the triumphs ranged themselves into a semi-circle at the head of the table, our first impulse was to cheer, but obeying a second impulse we did something infinitely better, for, as Cheon relieved his grinning waitresses, we assured him collectively, and individually, and repeatedly that never had any one seen anything in Pine Creek so glorious as even the dimmest shadow of this feast; and as we reiterated our assurance, I doubt if any man in all the British Empire was prouder or more justified in his pride than our Cheon. Cook and gardener forsooth! Cheon was Cheon, and only Cheon; and there is no word in the English language to define Cheon or the position he filled, simply because there was never another like Cheon.

“Chuckie!” he sang, placing the pullets before the Măluka, and dispatching Jimmy’s Nellie for hot plates; “Roast Vealer for Mac,” and as Mac smiled and acknowledged the honour, Rosy was dismissed. “Boilee Ham” was allotted to the Dandy; and as Bertie’s Nellie scampered away, Cheon announced other triumphs in turn and in order of merit, each of the company receiving a dish also in order of merit: Tam-o’-Shanter contenting himself with the gravy boat, while, from the beginning, the Quiet Stockman had been honoured with the hop-beer.

Long before the last waitress was relieved, the carvers were at work, and the company was bubbling over with merriment. “Have some veal, chaps?” the Sanguine Scot said, opening the ball by sticking a carving fork into the great joint, and waving the knife in a general way round the company; then as the gravy sizzed out in a steaming gurgle he added invitingly: “Come on, chaps! This is Veal prime stuff! None of your staggering Bob tack”; and the Măluka and the Dandy bidding against him, to Cheon’s delight, every one “came on” for some of everything; for veal and ham and chicken and several vegetables and sauces blend wonderfully together when a Cheon’s hand has been at the helm.

The higher the plates were piled the more infectious Cheon’s chuckle became, until nothing short of a national calamity could have checked our flow of spirits. Mishaps only added to our enjoyment, and when a bottle of hop-beer went off unexpectedly as the Quiet Stockman was preparing to open it, and he, with the best intentions in the world, planted his thumb over the mouth of the bottle, and directed two frothing streams over himself and the company in general, the delight of every one was unbounded—a delight intensified a hundredfold by Cheon, who, with his last doubt removed, danced and gurgled in the background, chuckling in an ecstasy of joy: “My word, missus! That one beer plenty jump up!” As there were no carpets to spoil, and every one’s clothes had been washed again and again, no one’s temper was spoiled, and a clean towel quickly repairing all damages, our only regret was that a bottle of beer had been lost.

But the plum-pudding was yet to come, and only Cheon was worthy to carry it to the feast; and as he came through the leafy way, bearing the huge mottled ball, as big as a bullock’s head—all ablaze with spirits and dancing light and crowned with mistletoe—it would have been difficult to say which looked most pleased with itself, Cheon or the pudding; for each seemed wreathed in triumphant smiles.

We held our breaths in astonishment, each feeling like the entire Cratchit family rolled into one, and by the time we had recovered speech, Cheon was soberly carrying one third of the pudding to the missus. The Măluka had put it aside on a plate to simplify the serving of the pudding, and Cheon, sure that the Măluka could mean such a goodly slice for no one but the missus, had carried it off.

There were to be no “little-fellow helps” this time. Cheon saw to that, returning the goodly slice to the Măluka under protest, and urging all to return again and again for more. How he chuckled as we hunted for the “luck” and the “wealth,” like a parcel of children, passing round bushman jokes as we hunted.

“Too much country to work,” said one of the Macs, when after a second helping they were both still “missing.” “Covered their tracks all right,” said another. The Quiet Stockman “reckoned they were bushed all right.” “Going in a circle,” the sick Mac suggested, and then a shout went up as the Dandy found the “luck” in his last mouthful.

“Perhaps some one’s given the “wealth” to his dog,” Tam suggested, to our consternation; for that was more than possible, as the dogs from time to time had received tit-bits from their masters as a matter of course.

But the man who deserved it most was to find it. As we sat sipping tea, after doing our best with the cakes and water-melons, we heard strange gurgles in the kitchen, and then Cheon appeared choking and coughing, but triumphantly announcing that he had found the wealth in his first mouthful. “My word! Me close up gobble him,” he chuckled, exhibiting the pudding-coated threepence, and not one of us grudged him his good omens. May they have been fulfilled a thousand-fold!

Undoubtedly our Christmas dinner was a huge success—from a black fellow’s point of view it was the most sensible thing we Whites had ever organised; for half the Vealer, another huge pudding, several yards of sweet currant “brownie,’” a new pipe apiece, and a few pounds of tobacco had found their way to the “humpy”; and although headaches may have been in the near future, there was never a heartache among them.

All afternoon we sat and chatted as only the bush-folk can (the bush-folk are only silent when in uncongenial society), “putting in” a fair amount of time writing our names on one page of an autograph album; and as strong brown hands tried their utmost to honour Christmas day with something decent in the way of writing, each man declared that he had never written so badly before, while the company murmured: “Oh, yours is all right. Look at mine!”

Jack, however, was the exception; for when his turn came, with quiet humour he “thought that on the whole his was a bit better’n last Christmas,” which naturally set us discussing the advantages of learning; but when we all agreed “it would be a bit off having to employ a private secretary when you were doing a bit of courting,” Jack hastened to assure us that “courting” would never be in his line—coming events do not always throw shadows before them. Thus from “learning” we slipped into “courtship” and marriage, and on into life—life and its problems—and, chatting, agreed that, in spite of, or perhaps because of, its many acknowledged disadvantages, the simple, primitive bush-life is the sweetest and best of all—sure that although there may have been more imposing or less unconventional feasts elsewhere that Christmas day, yet nowhere in all this old round world of ours could there have been a happier, merrier, healthier-hearted gathering. No one was bored. No one wished himself elsewhere. All were sure of their welcome. All were light-hearted and at ease; although no one so far forgot himself as to pour his hop-beer into the saucer in a lady’s presence, for, low be it spoken, although the missus had a glass tumbler, there were only two on the run, and the men-folk drank the Christmas healths from cups, and enamel at that; for a Willy-Willy had taken Cheon unaware when he was laden with a tray containing every glass and china cup fate had left us, and, as by a miracle, those two glasses had been saved from the wreckage.

But enamel cups were no hardships to the bush-folk, and besides, nothing inconvenienced us that day—excepting perhaps doing justice to further triumphs at afternoon tea; and all we had to wish for was the company of Dan and the Fizzer.

To add to the general comfort, a gentle north-west breeze blew all through the day, besides being what Bett-Bett called a “shady day,” cloudy and cool; and to add to the general rejoicing, before we had quite done with “Clisymus” an extra mail came in per black boy—a mail sent out to us by the “courtesy of our officers” at the Katherine, “seeing some of the packages felt like Christmas.”

It came to us on the verandah. Two very full Mailbags borne by two very empty black boys, and in an incredibly short space of time there were two very full black boys, and two very empty mail-bags; for the mail was our delayed mail, and exactly what we wanted; and the boys had found all they wanted at Cheon’s hospitable hands.

But even Christmas days must come to an end; and as the sun slipped down to the west, Mac and Tam “reckoned it was time to be getting a move on”; and as they mounted amid further Christmas wishes, with saddle-pouches bursting with offerings from Cheon for “Clisymus supper,” a strange feeling of sadness crept in among us, and we wondered where “we would all be next Christmas.” Then our Christmas guests rode out into the forest, taking with them the sick Mac, and as they faded from our sight we knew that the memory of that Christmas day would never fade out of our lives; for we bush-folk have long memories and love to rest now and then beside the milestones of the past.

A Day or two after Christmas, Dan came in full of regrets because he had “missed the celebrations,” and gratified Cheon’s heart with a minute and detailed account of the “Clisymus” at Pine Creek. Then the homestead settled down to the stagnation of the Wet, and as the days and weeks slipped by, travellers came in and went on, and Mac and Tam paid us many visits, as with the weeks we slipped through a succession of anniversaries.

“A year to-day, Mac, since you sent those telegrams!” we said, near the beginning of those weeks; and, all mock gravity, Mac answered “Yes! And blocked that Goer!... Often wondered what happened to her!”

“A year to-day, gentlemen,” I added a few days later, “since you flung that woman across the Fergusson”; and as Mac enjoyed the reminiscence, the Măluka said: “And forgot to fling the false veneer of civilisation after her.”

A few days later again we were greeting Tam at the homestead. “Just a year ago, Tam,” we said, “you were...” but Tam’s horse was young and untutored, and, getting out of hand, carried Tam away beyond the buildings. “A Tam-o’-Shanter fleeing,” the Măluka once more murmured.

Then Dan filled in the days, until one evening just at sundown, when we said:

“A year this sundown, Dan, since we first sampled one of your dampers,” and, chuckling, Dan reviewed the details of that camp, and slipped thence into reviewing education. “Somebody’s learned a thing or two since then,” he chuckled: “don’t notice people catching cows and milking ’em round these parts quite so often.”

In the morning came the Quiet Stockman’s turn. “There’s a little brown filly in the mob I’m just beginning on, cut out for the missus,” he said, coming to the house on his way to the stockyard, and we went with him to see the bonnie creature.

“She’s the sort that’ll learn anything,” Jack said, his voice full of admiration. “If the missus’ll handle her a bit, I’ll learn her everything a horse can learn.”

“Gypsy” he had named her, and in a little while the pretty creature was “roped” and standing quietly beneath Jack’s caressing hand. “Now, missus,” he said—and then followed my first lesson in “handling,” until the soft brown muzzle was resting contentedly in my hand. “She’ll soon follow you,” Jack said eagerly, “you ought to come up every day”; and looking up at the glowing, boyish face, I said quietly:

“Just a year to-day, Jack, since you met us by the roadside,” and the strong young giant looked down with an amused light in his eyes. “Just a year,” he said, with that quiet smile of his; and that quiet smile, and that amused “Just a year” were more eloquent than volumes of words, and set Dan “reckoning” that somebody else’s been learning a thing or two besides book learning.

But the Dandy was waiting for some tools from the office, and as we went with him he, too, spoke of the anniversaries. “Just a year since you first put foot on this verandah,” he said, and that reminiscence brought into the Măluka’s eyes that deep look of bush comradeship, as he added: “And became just One of Us.”

Before long Mac was reminding us that a year ago she was wrestling with the servant question, and Cheon coming by, we indulged in a negative anniversary. “A year ago, Cheon,” we said “there was no Cheon in our lives,” and Cheon pitied our former forlorn condition as only Cheon could, at the same time asking us what could be expected of one of Sam’s ways and caste.

Then other anniversaries crowded on us thick and fast, and with them there crept into the Territory that scourge of the wet season—malarial dysentery, and travellers coming in stricken-down with it rested a little while before going on again.

But two of these sick travellers went down to the very gates of death, where one, a little Chinaman, slipped through, blessing the “good boss,” who treated all men alike, and leaving an echo of the blessing in old Cheon’s loyal heart. But the other sick traveller turned back from those open gates, although bowed with the weight of seventy years, and faced life anew, blessing in his turn “the whitest man” those seventy years had known.

Bravely the worn, bowed shoulders took up the burden of life again, and, as they squared to their load, we slipped back to our anniversaries—once more Jack went bush for the schooling of his colts, once more Mac and Dan went into the Katherine to “see about the ordering of stores,” Tam going with them; and as they rode out of the homestead, once more we slipped, with the Dandy, into the Land of Wait-a-while—waiting once more for the wet to lift, for the waggons to come, and for the Territory to rouse itself for another year’s work.

Full of bright hopes, we rested in that Land of Wait-a-while, speaking of the years to come, when the bush-folk will have conquered the Never-Never and lain it at the feet of great cities; and, waiting and resting, made merry and planned plans, all unconscious of the great shadow that was even then hovering over us.