章节正文
Behind the little row of children hand-in-hand -- and no matter
where they are -- I always see the worn face of the mother.
Towards the end of the first year on the selection our little girl came.
I'd sent Mary to Gulgong for four months that time, and when she came back
with the baby Mrs Spicer used to come up pretty often.
She came up several times when Mary was ill, to lend a hand.
She wouldn't sit down and condole with Mary, or waste her time
asking questions, or talking about the time when she was ill herself.
She'd take off her hat -- a shapeless little lump of black straw
she wore for visiting -- give her hair a quick brush back
with the palms of her hands, roll up her sleeves, and set to work
to `tidy up'. She seemed to take most pleasure in sorting out
our children's clothes, and dressing them. Perhaps she used to dress her own
like that in the days when Spicer was a different man from what he was now.
She seemed interested in the fashion-plates of some women's journals we had,
and used to study them with an interest that puzzled me, for she was
not likely to go in for fashion. She never talked of her early girlhood;
but Mary, from some things she noticed, was inclined to think that Mrs Spicer
had been fairly well brought up. For instance, Dr Balanfantie,
from Cudgeegong, came out to see Wall's wife, and drove up the creek
to our place on his way back to see how Mary and the baby were getting on.
Mary got out some crockery and some table-napkins that she had packed away
for occasions like this; and she said that the way Mrs Spicer
handled the things, and helped set the table (though she did it
in a mechanical sort of way), convinced her that she had been
used to table-napkins at one time in her life.
Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer
would say suddenly --
`Oh, I don't think I'll come up next week, Mrs Wilson.'
`Why, Mrs Spicer?'
`Because the visits doesn't do me any good. I git the dismals afterwards.'
`Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?'
`Oh,-I-don't-know-what-I'm-talkin'-about. You mustn't take any notice of me.'
And she'd put on her hat, kiss the children -- and Mary too, sometimes,
as if she mistook her for a child -- and go.
Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand.
Once, when Mrs Spicer was sick, Mary went down to her, and down again
next day. As she was coming away the second time, Mrs Spicer said --
`I wish you wouldn't come down any more till I'm on me feet, Mrs Wilson.
The children can do for me.'
`Why, Mrs Spicer?'
`Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts me.'
We were the aristocrats of Lahey's Creek. Whenever we drove down
on Sunday afternoon to see Mrs Spicer, and as soon as we got near enough
for them to hear the rattle of the cart, we'd see the children
running to the house as fast as they could split, and hear them screaming --
`Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart.'
And we'd see her bustle round, and two or three fowls fly out the front door,
and she'd lay hold of a broom (made of a bound bunch of `broom-stuff'
-- coarse reedy grass or bush from the ridges -- with a stick
stuck in it) and flick out the floor, with a flick or two round
in front of the door perhaps. The floor nearly always needed at least
one flick of the broom on account of the fowls. Or she'd catch a youngster
and scrub his face with a wet end of a cloudy towel, or twist the towel
round her finger and dig out his ears -- as if she was anxious
to have him hear every word that was going to be said.
No matter what state the house would be in she'd always say,
`I was jist expectin' yer, Mrs Wilson.' And she was original in that, anyway.
She had an old patched and darned white table-cloth that she used to spread
on the table when we were there, as a matter of course
(`The others is in the wash, so you must excuse this, Mrs Wilson'),
but I saw by the eyes of the children that the cloth was rather
a wonderful thing to them. `I must really git some more knives an' forks
next time I'm in Cobborah,' she'd say. `The children break an' lose 'em
till I'm ashamed to ask Christians ter sit down ter the table.'
She had many Bush yarns, some of them very funny, some of them rather ghastly,
but all interesting, and with a grim sort of humour about them.
But the effect was often spoilt by her screaming at the children
to `Drive out them fowls, karnt yer,' or `Take yer maulies [hands]
outer the sugar,' or `Don't touch Mrs Wilson's baby with them dirty maulies,'
or `Don't stand starin' at Mrs Wilson with yer mouth an' ears
in that vulgar way.'
Poor woman! she seemed everlastingly nagging at the children. It was a habit,
but they didn't seem to mind. Most Bushwomen get the nagging habit.
I remember one, who had the prettiest, dearest, sweetest, most willing,
and affectionate little girl I think I ever saw, and she nagged that child
from daylight till dark -- and after it. Taking it all round,
I think that the nagging habit in a mother is often worse
on ordinary children, and more deadly on sensitive youngsters,
than the drinking habit in a father.
One of the yarns Mrs Spicer told us was about a squatter she knew
who used to go wrong in his head every now and again,
and try to commitsuicide. Once, when the station-hand, who was watching him,
had his eye off him for a minute, he hanged himself to a beam in the stable.
The men ran in and found him hanging and kicking. `They let him hang
for a while,' said Mrs Spicer, `till he went black in the face
and stopped kicking. Then they cut him down and threw a bucket of water
over him.'
`Why! what on earth did they let the man hang for?' asked Mary.
`To give him a good bellyful of it: they thought it would cure him
of tryin' to hang himself again.'
`Well, that's the coolest thing I ever heard of,' said Mary.
`That's jist what the magistrate said, Mrs Wilson,' said Mrs Spicer.
`One morning,' said Mrs Spicer, `Spicer had gone off on his horse somewhere,
and I was alone with the children, when a man came to the door and said --
`"For God's sake, woman, give me a drink!"
`Lord only knows where he came from! He was dressed like a new chum --
his clothes was good, but he looked as if he'd been sleepin' in them
in the Bush for a month. He was very shaky. I had some coffee that mornin',
so I gave him some in a pint pot; he drank it, and then he stood on his head
till he tumbled over, and then he stood up on his feet and said,
"Thenk yer, mum."
`I was so surprised that I didn't know what to say, so I jist said,
"Would you like some more coffee?"
`"Yes, thenk yer," he said -- "about two quarts."
`I nearly filled the pint pot, and he drank it and stood on his head
as long as he could, and when he got right end up he said,
"Thenk yer, mum -- it's a fine day," and then he walked off.
He had two saddle-straps in his hands.'
`Why, what did he stand on his head for?' asked Mary.
`To wash it up and down, I suppose, to get twice as much taste of the coffee.
He had no hat. I sent Tommy across to Wall's to tell them
that there was a man wanderin' about the Bush in the horrors of drink,
and to get some one to ride for the police. But they was too late,
for he hanged himself that night.'
`O Lord!' cried Mary.
`Yes, right close to here, jist down the creek where the track to Wall's
branches off. Tommy found him while he was out after the cows.
Hangin' to the branch of a tree with the two saddle-straps.'
Mary stared at her, speechless.
`Tommy came home yellin' with fright. I sent him over to Wall's at once.
After breakfast, the minute my eyes was off them, the children slipped away
and went down there. They came back screamin' at the tops of their voices.
I did give it to them. I reckon they won't want ter see a dead body again
in a hurry. Every time I'd mention it they'd huddle together,
or ketch hold of me skirts and howl.
`"Yer'll go agen when I tell yer not to," I'd say.
`"Oh no, mother," they'd howl.
`"Yer wanted ter see a man hangin'," I said.
`"Oh, don't, mother! Don't talk about it."
`"Yer wouldn't be satisfied till yer see it," I'd say;
"yer had to see it or burst. Yer satisfied now, ain't yer?"
`"Oh, don't, mother!"
`"Yer run all the way there, I s'pose?"
`"Don't, mother!"
`"But yer run faster back, didn't yer?"
`"Oh, don't, mother."
`But,' said Mrs Spicer, in conclusion, `I'd been down to see it myself
before they was up.'
`And ain't you afraid to live alone here, after all these horrible things?'
asked Mary.
`Well, no; I don't mind. I seem to have got past carin' for anythink now.
I felt it a little when Tommy went away -- the first time I felt anythink
for years. But I'm over that now.'
`Haven't you got any friends in the district, Mrs Spicer?'
`Oh yes. There's me married sister near Cobborah, and a married brother
near Dubbo; he's got a station. They wanted to take me an' the children
between them, or take some of the younger children. But I couldn't
bring my mind to break up the home. I want to keep the children together
as much as possible. There's enough of them gone, God knows.
But it's a comfort to know that there's some one to see to them
if anythink happens to me.'
. . . . .
One day -- I was on my way home with the team that day --
Annie Spicer came running up the creek in terrible trouble.
`Oh, Mrs Wilson! something terribl's happened at home! A trooper'
(mounted policeman -- they called them `mounted troopers' out there),
`a trooper's come and took Billy!' Billy was the eldest son at home.
`What?'
`It's true, Mrs Wilson.'
`What for? What did the policeman say?'
`He -- he -- he said, "I -- I'm very sorry, Mrs Spicer;
but -- I -- I want William."'
It turned out that William was wanted on account of a horse
missed from Wall's station and sold down-country.
`An' mother took on awful,' sobbed Annie; `an' now she'll only sit stock-still
an' stare in front of her, and won't take no notice of any of us.
Oh! it's awful, Mrs Wilson. The policeman said he'd tell Aunt Emma'
(Mrs Spicer's sister at Cobborah), `and send her out.
But I had to come to you, an' I've run all the way.'
James put the horse to the cart and drove Mary down.
Mary told me all about it when I came home.
`I found her just as Annie said; but she broke down and cried in my arms.
Oh, Joe! it was awful! She didn't cry like a woman. I heard
a man at Haviland cry at his brother's funeral, and it was just like that.
She came round a bit after a while. Her sister's with her now. . . .
Oh, Joe! you must take me away from the Bush.'
Later on Mary said --
`How the oaks are sighing to-night, Joe!'
. . . . .
Next morning I rode across to Wall's station and tackled the old man;
but he was a hard man, and wouldn't listen to me -- in fact,
he ordered me off the station. I was a selector, and that was enough for him.
But young Billy Wall rode after me.
`Look here, Joe!' he said, `it's a blanky shame. All for the sake of a horse!
And as if that poor devil of a woman hasn't got enough to put up with already!
I wouldn't do it for twenty horses. I'LL tackle the boss,
and if he won't listen to me, I'll walk off the run for the last time,
if I have to carry my swag.'
Billy Wall managed it. The charge was withdrawn, and we got
young Billy Spicer off up-country.
But poor Mrs Spicer was never the same after that. She seldom
came up to our place unless Mary dragged her, so to speak;
and then she would talk of nothing but her last trouble, till her visits
were painful to look forward to.
`If it only could have been kep' quiet -- for the sake of the other children;
they are all I think of now. I tried to bring 'em all up decent,
but I s'pose it was my fault, somehow. It's the disgrace that's killin' me --
I can't bear it.'
I was at home one Sunday with Mary and a jolly Bush-girl
named Maggie Charlsworth, who rode over sometimes from Wall's station
where they are -- I always see the worn face of the mother.
Towards the end of the first year on the selection our little girl came.
I'd sent Mary to Gulgong for four months that time, and when she came back
with the baby Mrs Spicer used to come up pretty often.
She came up several times when Mary was ill, to lend a hand.
She wouldn't sit down and condole with Mary, or waste her time
asking questions, or talking about the time when she was ill herself.
She'd take off her hat -- a shapeless little lump of black straw
she wore for visiting -- give her hair a quick brush back
with the palms of her hands, roll up her sleeves, and set to work
to `tidy up'. She seemed to take most pleasure in sorting out
our children's clothes, and dressing them. Perhaps she used to dress her own
like that in the days when Spicer was a different man from what he was now.
She seemed interested in the fashion-plates of some women's journals we had,
and used to study them with an interest that puzzled me, for she was
not likely to go in for fashion. She never talked of her early girlhood;
but Mary, from some things she noticed, was inclined to think that Mrs Spicer
had been fairly well brought up. For instance, Dr Balanfantie,
from Cudgeegong, came out to see Wall's wife, and drove up the creek
to our place on his way back to see how Mary and the baby were getting on.
Mary got out some crockery and some table-napkins that she had packed away
for occasions like this; and she said that the way Mrs Spicer
handled the things, and helped set the table (though she did it
in a mechanical sort of way), convinced her that she had been
used to table-napkins at one time in her life.
Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer
would say suddenly --
`Oh, I don't think I'll come up next week, Mrs Wilson.'
`Why, Mrs Spicer?'
`Because the visits doesn't do me any good. I git the dismals afterwards.'
`Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?'
`Oh,-I-don't-know-what-I'm-talkin'-about. You mustn't take any notice of me.'
And she'd put on her hat, kiss the children -- and Mary too, sometimes,
as if she mistook her for a child -- and go.
Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand.
Once, when Mrs Spicer was sick, Mary went down to her, and down again
next day. As she was coming away the second time, Mrs Spicer said --
`I wish you wouldn't come down any more till I'm on me feet, Mrs Wilson.
The children can do for me.'
`Why, Mrs Spicer?'
`Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts me.'
We were the aristocrats of Lahey's Creek. Whenever we drove down
on Sunday afternoon to see Mrs Spicer, and as soon as we got near enough
for them to hear the rattle of the cart, we'd see the children
running to the house as fast as they could split, and hear them screaming --
`Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart.'
And we'd see her bustle round, and two or three fowls fly out the front door,
and she'd lay hold of a broom (made of a bound bunch of `broom-stuff'
-- coarse reedy grass or bush from the ridges -- with a stick
stuck in it) and flick out the floor, with a flick or two round
in front of the door perhaps. The floor nearly always needed at least
one flick of the broom on account of the fowls. Or she'd catch a youngster
and scrub his face with a wet end of a cloudy towel, or twist the towel
round her finger and dig out his ears -- as if she was anxious
to have him hear every word that was going to be said.
No matter what state the house would be in she'd always say,
`I was jist expectin' yer, Mrs Wilson.' And she was original in that, anyway.
She had an old patched and darned white table-cloth that she used to spread
on the table when we were there, as a matter of course
(`The others is in the wash, so you must excuse this, Mrs Wilson'),
but I saw by the eyes of the children that the cloth was rather
a wonderful thing to them. `I must really git some more knives an' forks
next time I'm in Cobborah,' she'd say. `The children break an' lose 'em
till I'm ashamed to ask Christians ter sit down ter the table.'
She had many Bush yarns, some of them very funny, some of them rather ghastly,
but all interesting, and with a grim sort of humour about them.
But the effect was often spoilt by her screaming at the children
to `Drive out them fowls, karnt yer,' or `Take yer maulies [hands]
outer the sugar,' or `Don't touch Mrs Wilson's baby with them dirty maulies,'
or `Don't stand starin' at Mrs Wilson with yer mouth an' ears
in that vulgar way.'
Poor woman! she seemed everlastingly nagging at the children. It was a habit,
but they didn't seem to mind. Most Bushwomen get the nagging habit.
I remember one, who had the prettiest, dearest, sweetest, most willing,
and affectionate little girl I think I ever saw, and she nagged that child
from daylight till dark -- and after it. Taking it all round,
I think that the nagging habit in a mother is often worse
on ordinary children, and more deadly on sensitive youngsters,
than the drinking habit in a father.
One of the yarns Mrs Spicer told us was about a squatter she knew
who used to go wrong in his head every now and again,
and try to commitsuicide. Once, when the station-hand, who was watching him,
had his eye off him for a minute, he hanged himself to a beam in the stable.
The men ran in and found him hanging and kicking. `They let him hang
for a while,' said Mrs Spicer, `till he went black in the face
and stopped kicking. Then they cut him down and threw a bucket of water
over him.'
`Why! what on earth did they let the man hang for?' asked Mary.
`To give him a good bellyful of it: they thought it would cure him
of tryin' to hang himself again.'
`Well, that's the coolest thing I ever heard of,' said Mary.
`That's jist what the magistrate said, Mrs Wilson,' said Mrs Spicer.
`One morning,' said Mrs Spicer, `Spicer had gone off on his horse somewhere,
and I was alone with the children, when a man came to the door and said --
`"For God's sake, woman, give me a drink!"
`Lord only knows where he came from! He was dressed like a new chum --
his clothes was good, but he looked as if he'd been sleepin' in them
in the Bush for a month. He was very shaky. I had some coffee that mornin',
so I gave him some in a pint pot; he drank it, and then he stood on his head
till he tumbled over, and then he stood up on his feet and said,
"Thenk yer, mum."
`I was so surprised that I didn't know what to say, so I jist said,
"Would you like some more coffee?"
`"Yes, thenk yer," he said -- "about two quarts."
`I nearly filled the pint pot, and he drank it and stood on his head
as long as he could, and when he got right end up he said,
"Thenk yer, mum -- it's a fine day," and then he walked off.
He had two saddle-straps in his hands.'
`Why, what did he stand on his head for?' asked Mary.
`To wash it up and down, I suppose, to get twice as much taste of the coffee.
He had no hat. I sent Tommy across to Wall's to tell them
that there was a man wanderin' about the Bush in the horrors of drink,
and to get some one to ride for the police. But they was too late,
for he hanged himself that night.'
`O Lord!' cried Mary.
`Yes, right close to here, jist down the creek where the track to Wall's
branches off. Tommy found him while he was out after the cows.
Hangin' to the branch of a tree with the two saddle-straps.'
Mary stared at her, speechless.
`Tommy came home yellin' with fright. I sent him over to Wall's at once.
After breakfast, the minute my eyes was off them, the children slipped away
and went down there. They came back screamin' at the tops of their voices.
I did give it to them. I reckon they won't want ter see a dead body again
in a hurry. Every time I'd mention it they'd huddle together,
or ketch hold of me skirts and howl.
`"Yer'll go agen when I tell yer not to," I'd say.
`"Oh no, mother," they'd howl.
`"Yer wanted ter see a man hangin'," I said.
`"Oh, don't, mother! Don't talk about it."
`"Yer wouldn't be satisfied till yer see it," I'd say;
"yer had to see it or burst. Yer satisfied now, ain't yer?"
`"Oh, don't, mother!"
`"Yer run all the way there, I s'pose?"
`"Don't, mother!"
`"But yer run faster back, didn't yer?"
`"Oh, don't, mother."
`But,' said Mrs Spicer, in conclusion, `I'd been down to see it myself
before they was up.'
`And ain't you afraid to live alone here, after all these horrible things?'
asked Mary.
`Well, no; I don't mind. I seem to have got past carin' for anythink now.
I felt it a little when Tommy went away -- the first time I felt anythink
for years. But I'm over that now.'
`Haven't you got any friends in the district, Mrs Spicer?'
`Oh yes. There's me married sister near Cobborah, and a married brother
near Dubbo; he's got a station. They wanted to take me an' the children
between them, or take some of the younger children. But I couldn't
bring my mind to break up the home. I want to keep the children together
as much as possible. There's enough of them gone, God knows.
But it's a comfort to know that there's some one to see to them
if anythink happens to me.'
. . . . .
One day -- I was on my way home with the team that day --
Annie Spicer came running up the creek in terrible trouble.
`Oh, Mrs Wilson! something terribl's happened at home! A trooper'
(mounted policeman -- they called them `mounted troopers' out there),
`a trooper's come and took Billy!' Billy was the eldest son at home.
`What?'
`It's true, Mrs Wilson.'
`What for? What did the policeman say?'
`He -- he -- he said, "I -- I'm very sorry, Mrs Spicer;
but -- I -- I want William."'
It turned out that William was wanted on account of a horse
missed from Wall's station and sold down-country.
`An' mother took on awful,' sobbed Annie; `an' now she'll only sit stock-still
an' stare in front of her, and won't take no notice of any of us.
Oh! it's awful, Mrs Wilson. The policeman said he'd tell Aunt Emma'
(Mrs Spicer's sister at Cobborah), `and send her out.
But I had to come to you, an' I've run all the way.'
James put the horse to the cart and drove Mary down.
Mary told me all about it when I came home.
`I found her just as Annie said; but she broke down and cried in my arms.
Oh, Joe! it was awful! She didn't cry like a woman. I heard
a man at Haviland cry at his brother's funeral, and it was just like that.
She came round a bit after a while. Her sister's with her now. . . .
Oh, Joe! you must take me away from the Bush.'
Later on Mary said --
`How the oaks are sighing to-night, Joe!'
. . . . .
Next morning I rode across to Wall's station and tackled the old man;
but he was a hard man, and wouldn't listen to me -- in fact,
he ordered me off the station. I was a selector, and that was enough for him.
But young Billy Wall rode after me.
`Look here, Joe!' he said, `it's a blanky shame. All for the sake of a horse!
And as if that poor devil of a woman hasn't got enough to put up with already!
I wouldn't do it for twenty horses. I'LL tackle the boss,
and if he won't listen to me, I'll walk off the run for the last time,
if I have to carry my swag.'
Billy Wall managed it. The charge was withdrawn, and we got
young Billy Spicer off up-country.
But poor Mrs Spicer was never the same after that. She seldom
came up to our place unless Mary dragged her, so to speak;
and then she would talk of nothing but her last trouble, till her visits
were painful to look forward to.
`If it only could have been kep' quiet -- for the sake of the other children;
they are all I think of now. I tried to bring 'em all up decent,
but I s'pose it was my fault, somehow. It's the disgrace that's killin' me --
I can't bear it.'
I was at home one Sunday with Mary and a jolly Bush-girl
named Maggie Charlsworth, who rode over sometimes from Wall's station
- instance [´instəns]
n.例子，实例，例证 (初中英语单词) - mechanical [mi´kænikəl] a.机械的；力学的 (初中英语单词)
- whenever [wen´evə] conj.&ad.无论何时 (初中英语单词)
- rattle [´rætl] n.嘎吱声 (初中英语单词)
- coarse [kɔ:s] a.粗(糙)的；粗鲁的 (初中英语单词)
- account [ə´kaunt] vi.说明 vt.认为 n.帐目 (初中英语单词)
- ashamed [ə´ʃeimd] a.惭愧；不好意思 (初中英语单词)
- humour [´hju:mə] n.幽默，诙谐 (初中英语单词)
- daylight [´deilait] n.日光；黎明 (初中英语单词)
- deadly [´dedli] a.致命的 ad.死一般地 (初中英语单词)
- commit [kə´mit] vt.犯(罪)；把...判处 (初中英语单词)
- fright [frait] n.惊吓；恐怖；怪人 (初中英语单词)
- reckon [´rekən] v.计算；认为；估计 (初中英语单词)
- conclusion [kən´klu:ʒən] n.结束；结论；推论 (初中英语单词)
- horrible [´hɔrəbəl] a.可怕的；恐怖的 (初中英语单词)
- running [´rʌniŋ] a.奔跑的；流动的 (初中英语单词)
- policeman [pə´li:smən] n.警察 (初中英语单词)
- funeral [´fju:nərəl] n.葬礼，丧葬；困难 (初中英语单词)
- charge [tʃɑ:dʒ] v.收费；冲锋 n.费用 (初中英语单词)
- disgrace [dis´greis] n.耻辱 vt.玷辱；贬黜 (初中英语单词)
- selection [si´lekʃən] n.选择；选拔；精选物 (高中英语单词)
- bustle [´bʌsəl] v.(使)匆忙 n.匆忙 (高中英语单词)
- affectionate [ə´fekʃənit] a.亲爱的 (高中英语单词)
- sensitive [´sensitiv] a.敏感的；感光的 (高中英语单词)
- suicide [´su:isaid, ´sju:-] n.&a.自杀(者)(的) (高中英语单词)
- hanging [´hæŋiŋ] n.绞刑 a.悬挂着的 (高中英语单词)
- bucket [´bʌkit] n.水桶 (高中英语单词)
- huddle [´hʌdl] vi.卷缩 vt.乱堆，乱挤 (高中英语单词)
- eldest [´eldist] a.最年长的 (高中英语单词)
- tackle [´tækəl] n.用具；装置 vt.处理 (高中英语单词)
- painful [´peinfəl] a.痛(苦)的；费力的 (高中英语单词)
- knives [naivz] knife的复数 (英语四级单词)
- vulgar [´vʌlgə] a.粗俗的；大众的 (英语四级单词)
- withdrawn [wið´drɔ:n] withdraw过去分词 (英语四级单词)
- shapeless [´ʃeiplis] a.无定形的；不成样的 (英语六级单词)
- taking [´teikiŋ] a.迷人的 n.捕获物 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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