Before this,whenever I made a few pounds I'd sink a shaft somewhere,prospecting for gold;but Mary never let me rest till she talked me out of that.
I made up my mind to take on a small selection farm --that an old mate of mine had fenced in and cleared,and afterwards chucked up --about thirty miles out west of Gulgong,at a place called Lahey's Creek.(The places were all called Lahey's Creek,or Spicer's Flat,or Murphy's Flat,or Ryan's Crossing,or some such name --round there.)I reckoned I'd have a run for the horses and be able to grow a bit of feed.I always had a dread of taking Mary and the children too far away from a doctor --or a good woman neighbour;but there were some people came to live on Lahey's Creek,and besides,there was a young brother of Mary's --a young scamp (his name was Jim,too,and we called him `Jimmy'at first to make room for our Jim --he hated the name `Jimmy'or James).
He came to live with us --without asking --and I thought he'd find enough work at Lahey's Creek to keep him out of mischief.
He wasn't to be depended on much --he thought nothing of riding off,five hundred miles or so,`to have a look at the country'--but he was fond of Mary,and he'd stay by her till I got some one else to keep her company while I was on the road.He would be a protection against `sundowners'or any shearers who happened to wander that way in the `D.T.'s'after a spree.Mary had a married sister come to live at Gulgong just before we left,and nothing would suit her and her husband but we must leave little Jim with them for a month or so --till we got settled down at Lahey's Creek.They were newly married.
Mary was to have driven into Gulgong,in the spring-cart,at the end of the month,and taken Jim home;but when the time came she wasn't too well --and,besides,the tyres of the cart were loose,and I hadn't time to get them cut,so we let Jim's time run on a week or so longer,till I happened to come out through Gulgong from the river with a small load of flour for Lahey's Creek way.
The roads were good,the weather grand --no chance of it raining,and I had a spare tarpaulin if it did --I would only camp out one night;so I decided to take Jim home with me.
Jim was turning three then,and he was a cure.He was so old-fashioned that he used to frighten me sometimes --I'd almost think that there was something supernatural about him;though,of course,I never took any notice of that rot about some children being too old-fashioned to live.
There's always the ghoulish old hag (and some not so old nor haggish either)who'll come round and shake up young parents with such croaks as,`You'll never rear that child --he's too bright for his age.'
To the devil with them!I say.
But I really thought that Jim was too intelligent for his age,and I often told Mary that he ought to be kept back,and not let talk too much to old diggers and long lanky jokers of Bushmen who rode in and hung their horses outside my place on Sunday afternoons.
I don't believe in parents talking about their own children everlastingly --you get sick of hearing them;and their kids are generally little devils,and turn out larrikins as likely as not.
But,for all that,I really think that Jim,when he was three years old,was the most wonderful little chap,in every way,that I ever saw.
For the first hour or so,along the road,he was telling me all about his adventures at his auntie's.
`But they spoilt me too much,dad,'he said,as solemn as a native bear.
`An'besides,a boy ought to stick to his parrans!'
I was taking out a cattle-pup for a drover I knew,and the pup took up a good deal of Jim's time.
Sometimes he'd jolt me,the way he talked;and other times I'd have to turn away my head and cough,or shout at the horses,to keep from laughing outright.And once,when I was taken that way,he said --`What are you jerking your shoulders and coughing,and grunting,and going on that way for,dad?Why don't you tell me something?'
`Tell you what,Jim?'
`Tell me some talk.'
So I told him all the talk I could think of.And I had to brighten up,I can tell you,and not draw too much on my imagination --for Jim was a terror at cross-examination when the fit took him;and he didn't think twice about telling you when he thought you were talking nonsense.Once he said --`I'm glad you took me home with you,dad.You'll get to know Jim.'
`What!'I said.
`You'll get to know Jim.'
`But don't I know you already?'
`No,you don't.You never has time to know Jim at home.'
And,looking back,I saw that it was cruel true.I had known in my heart all along that this was the truth;but it came to me like a blow from Jim.
You see,it had been a hard struggle for the last year or so;and when I was home for a day or two I was generally too busy,or too tired and worried,or full of schemes for the future,to take much notice of Jim.Mary used to speak to me about it sometimes.
`You never take notice of the child,'she'd say.`You could surely find a few minutes of an evening.What's the use of always worrying and brooding?
Your brain will go with a snap some day,and,if you get over it,it will teach you a lesson.You'll be an old man,and Jim a young one,before you realise that you had a child once.Then it will be too late.'
This sort of talk from Mary always bored me and made me impatient with her,because I knew it all too well.I never worried for myself --only for Mary and the children.And often,as the days went by,I said to myself,`I'll take more notice of Jim and give Mary more of my time,just as soon as I can see things clear ahead a bit.'And the hard days went on,and the weeks,and the months,and the years --Ah,well!
Mary used to say,when things would get worse,`Why don't you talk to me,Joe?
Why don't you tell me your thoughts,instead of shutting yourself up in yourself and brooding --eating your heart out?
It's hard for me:I get to think you're tired of me,and selfish.
I might be cross and speak sharp to you when you are in trouble.
How am I to know,if you don't tell me?'
But I didn't think she'd understand.
