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Over the Sliprails-Part12_Henry Lawson(1867-1922)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"The boys couldn't find the horses," put in Mrs. Mears.



"Johnny was just going down the gully again."

He gave her a grateful look, and felt a strange, new thrill of admiration



for his wife.

"And -- there's a bottle of the best put by for you, Johnny,"



added Pat McDurmer, mistaking Johnny's silence; "and we'll call it

thirty bob!" (Johnny's ideas were coming slowly again,



after the recent rush.) "Or -- two quid! -- there you are!"

"I don't want two quid, nor one either, for taking my wife to a dance



on New Year's Night!" said Johnny Mears. "Run and put on

your best bib and tucker, Mary."



And she hurried to dress as eager and excited, and smiling to herself

as girlishly as she had done on such occasions on evenings



before the bright New Year's Night twenty years ago.

--



For a related story, see "A Bush Dance", in "Joe Wilson and His Mates".

-- A. L., 1998.



--

Black Joe



They called him Black Joe, and me White Joe, by way of distinction

and for the convenience of his boss (my uncle), and my aunt, and mother;



so, when we heard the cry of "Bla-a-ack Joe!" (the adjective drawn out

until it became a screech, after several repetitions,



and the "Joe" short and sharp) coming across the flat in a woman's voice,

Joe knew that the missus wanted him at the house, to get wood or water,



or mind the baby, and he kept carefully out of sight; he went at once

when uncle called. And when we heard the cry of "Wh-i-i-te Joe!" which we did



with difficulty and after several tries -- though Black Joe's ears

were of the keenest -- we knew that I was overdue at home,



or absent without leave, and was probably in for a warming,

as the old folk called it. On some occasions I postponed the warming



as long as my stomach held out, which was a good while in five-corner,

native-cherry, or yam season -- but the warming was none the cooler



for being postponed.

Sometimes Joe heard the wrong adjective, or led me to believe he did --



and left me for a whole afternoon under the impression that the race of Ham

was in demand at the homestead, when I myself was wanted there,



and maternal wrath was increasing every moment of my absence.

But Joe knew that my conscience was not so elastic as his, and -- well,



you must expect little things like this in all friendships.

Black Joe was somewhere between nine and twelve when I first met him,



on a visit to my uncle's station; I was somewhere in those years too.

He was very black, the darker for being engaged in the interesting



but uncertainoccupation of "burning off" in his spare time --

which wasn't particularly limited. He combined shepherding,



'possum and kangaroo hunting, crawfishing, sleeping,

and various other occupations and engagements with that of burning off.



I was very white, being a sickly town boy; but, as I took great interest

in burning off, and was not particularly fond of cold water



-- it was in winter time -- the difference in our complexions

was not so marked at times.



Black Joe's father, old Black Jimmie, lived in a gunyah

on the rise at the back of the sheepyards, and shepherded for my uncle.



He was a gentle, good-humoured, easy-going old fellow with a pleasant smile;

which description applies, I think, to most old blackfellows in civilisation.



I was very partial to the old man, and chummy with him,

and used to slip away from the homesteadwhenever I could,



and squat by the campfire along with the other piccaninnies,

and think, and yarn socially with Black Jimmie by the hour.



I would give something to remember those conversations now.

Sometimes somebody would be sent to bring me home, when it got too late,



and Black Jimmie would say:

"Piccaninnie alonga possum rug," and there I'd be, sound asleep,



with the other young Australians.

I liked Black Jimmie very much, and would willingly have adopted him



as a father. I should have been quite content to spend my days in the scrub,

enjoying life in dark and savage ways, and my nights "alonga possum rug";



but the family had other plans for my future.

It was a case of two blackfellows and one gin, when Black Jimmie went a-wooing



-- about twelve years before I made his acquaintance -- and he fought

for his bride in the black fashion. It was the last affair of that kind



in the district. My uncle's brother professed to have been present

at the fight, and gave me an alleged description of it.



He said that they drew lots, and Black Jimmie put his hands on his knees




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