Free Bush Studies by Barbara Baynton Page A

semicircles in the dust. “Damned if I know,” he said with a snort, “but there’ll be a ’ell of a row somew’ere.”
    She noticed that the discoloured teeth his bush grin showed so plainly, were worn in the centre, and met at both sides with the pipe between the front. Worn stepping-stones, her mind insisted.
    She looked away towards the horizon where the smoke of the hidden train showed faintly against a clear sky, and as he was silent, she seemed to herself to be intently listening to the croak of the frogs and the threat of the crows. She knew that, from under the brim of the hat he wore over his eyes, he was looking at her sideways.
    Suddenly he withdrew his hands and said again, “Damned if I know. S’pose it’s all right! Got any traps? Get up then an’ ’ole the Neddy while I get it.” They drove a mile or so in silence; his pipe was still in his mouth though not alight.
    She spoke once only. “What a lot of frogs seem to be in that lake!”
    He laughed. “That’s ther Nine Mile Dam!” He laughed again after a little—an intelligent, complacent laugh.
    â€œIt used ter be swarmin’ with teal in a good season, but Gord A’mighty knows w’en it’s ever goin’ ter rain any more! I dunno!” This was an important admission, for he was a great weather prophet. “Lake!” he sniggered and looked sideways at his companion. “Thet’s wot thet there bloke, the painter doodle, called it. An’ ’e goes ter’ dror it, an’ ’e sez wot ’e ’ll give me five bob if I’ll run up ther horses, an’ keep ’em so’s ’e ken put ’em in ther picshure. An’ ’e drors ther Dam an’ ther trees, puts in thet there ole dead un, an’ ’e puts in ther ’orses right clost against ther water w’ere the frogs is. ’E puts them in too, an’ damned if ’e don’t dror ther ’orses drinkin’ ther water with ther frogs, an’ ther frogs’ spit on it! Likely yarn ther ’orses ud drink ther water with ther blanky frogs’ spit on it! Fat lot they know about ther bush! Blarsted nannies!”
    Presently he inquired as to the place where they kept pictures in Sydney, and she told him, the Art Gallery.
    â€œWell some of these days I’m goin’ down ter Sydney,” he continued, “an’ I’ll collar thet one ’cos it’s a good likerness of ther ’orses—you’d know their ’ide on a gum-tree—an’ that mean mongrel never paid me ther five bob.”
    Between his closed teeth he hissed a bush tune for some miles, but ceased to look at the sky, and remarked, “No sign er rain! No lambin’ this season; soon as they’re dropt we’ll ’ave ter knock ’em all on ther ’ead!” He shouted an oath of hatred at the crows following after the tottering sheep that made in a straggling line for the water. “Look at ’em!” he said. “Scoffin’ out ther eyes!” He pointed to where the crows hovered over the bogged sheep. “They putty well lives on eyes! ‘Blanky bush Chinkies!’ I call ’em. No one carn’t tell ’em apart!”
    There was silence again, except for a remark that he could spit all the blanky rain they had had in the last nine months.
    Away to the left along a side track his eyes travelled searchingly, as they came to a gate. He stood in the buggy and looked again.
    â€œPromised ther ‘Konk’ t’ leave ’im ’ave furst squint at yer,” he muttered, “if ’e was ’ere t’ open ther gate! But I’m not goin’ t’ blanky well wait orl day!” He reluctantly got out and opened the gate, and he had just taken his seat when a “Coo-ee” sounded from his right, heralded by a dusty pillar. He snorted resentfully. “’Ere ’e is;