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Over the Sliprails-Part11_Henry Lawson(1867-1922)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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down the hidden "siding", and the low sound of men's voices,



blurred and speaking in monosyllables and at intervals it seemed,

and in hushed, awed tones, as though they carried a corpse.



To practical eyes, grown used to such a darkness, and at the nearest point,

the passing blurrs would have suggested two riders on bush hacks



leading a third with an empty saddle on its back -- a lady's or "side-saddle",

if one could have distinguished the horns. They may have struck



a soft track or level, or rounded the buttress of the hill higher up,

but before they had time to reach or round the foot of the spur,



blurs, whispers, stumble and clatter of hoofs, jingle of bridle rings,

and the occasional clank together of stirrup irons, seemed shut off



as suddenly and completely as though a great sound-proof door

had swung to behind them.



It was dark enough on the glaringest of days down in the lonely hollow

or "pocket", between two spurs, at the head of a blind gully



behind Mount Buckaroo, where there was a more or less dusty patch,

barely defined even in broad daylight by a spidery dog-legged fence



on three sides, and a thin "two-rail" (dignified with

the adjective "split-rail" -- though rails and posts were mostly of saplings



split in halves) running along the frontage. In about the middle of it

a little slab hut, overshadowed by a big stringy-bark shed,



was pointed out as Johnny Mears's Farm.

"Black as -- as charcoal," said Johnny Mears. He had never



seen coal, and was a cautious man, whose ideas came slowly.

He stooped, close by the fence, with his hands on his knees,



to "sky" the loom of his big shed and so get his bearings.

He had been to have a look at the penned calves, and see that all slip-rails



were up and pegged, for the words of John Mears junior,

especially when delivered rapidly and shrilly and in injured tones,



were not to be relied upon in these matters.

"It's hot enough to melt the belly out of my fiddle," said Johnny Mears



to his wife, who sat on a three-legged stool by the rough table

in the little whitewashed "end-room", putting a patch of patches



over the seat of a pair of moleskin knickerbockers. He lit his pipe,

moved a stool to the side of the great empty fireplace, where it looked cooler



-- might have been cooler on account of a possible draught

suggested by the presence of the chimney, and where, therefore,



he felt a breath cooler. He took his fiddle from a convenient shelf,

tuned it slowly and carefully, holding his pipe (in his mouth) well up



and to one side, as if the fiddle were an inquisitive and restless baby.

He played "Little Drops o' Brandy" three times, right through,



without variations, blinking solemnly the while; then he put the violin

carefully back in its box, and started to cut up another pipeful.



"You should have gone, Johnny," said the haggard little woman.

"Rackin' the horse out a night like this," retorted Johnny,



"and startin' ploughin' to-morrow. It ain't worth while.

Let them come for me if they want me. Dance on a night like this!



Why! they'll dance in ----"

"But you promised. It won't do you no good, Johnny."



"It won't do me no harm."

The little woman went on stitching.



"It's smotherin' hot," said Johnny, with an impatient oath.

"I don't know whether I'll turn in, or turn out, under the shed to-night.



It's too d----d hot to roost indoors."

She bent her head lower over the patch. One smoked and the other stitched



in silence for twenty minutes or so, during which time

Johnny might be supposed to have been deliberating listlessly



as to whether he'd camp out on account of the heat, or turn in.

But he broke the silence with a clout at a mosquito on the nape of his neck,



and a bad word.

"I wish you wouldn't swear so much, Johnny," she said wearily --



"at least not to-night."

He looked at her blankly.



"Why -- why to-night? What's the matter with you to-night, Mary?

What's to-night more than any other night to you? I see no harm --



can't a man swear when a mosquito sticks him?"

"I -- I was only thinking of the boys, Johnny."






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