And so,getting acquainted,and chumming and dozing,with the gums closing over our heads here and there,and the ragged patches of sunlight and shade passing up,over the horses,over us,on the front of the load,over the load,and down on to the white,dusty road again --Jim and I got along the lonely Bush road and over the ridges,some fifteen miles before sunset,and camped at Ryan's Crossing on Sandy Creek for the night.I got the horses out and took the harness off.
Jim wanted badly to help me,but I made him stay on the load;for one of the horses --a vicious,red-eyed chestnut --was a kicker:he'd broken a man's leg.I got the feed-bags stretched across the shafts,and the chaff-and-corn into them;and there stood the horses all round with their rumps north,south,and west,and their heads between the shafts,munching and switching their tails.We use double shafts,you know,for horse-teams --two pairs side by side,--and prop them up,and stretch bags between them,letting the bags sag to serve as feed-boxes.
I threw the spare tarpaulin over the wheels on one side,letting about half of it lie on the ground in case of damp,and so making a floor and a break-wind.I threw down bags and the blankets and 'possum rug against the wheel to make a camp for Jim and the cattle-pup,and got a gin-case we used for a tucker-box,the frying-pan and billy down,and made a good fire at a log close handy,and soon everything was comfortable.Ryan's Crossing was a grand camp.I stood with my pipe in my mouth,my hands behind my back,and my back to the fire,and took the country in.
Reedy Creek came down along a western spur of the range:the banks here were deep and green,and the water ran clear over the granite bars,boulders,and gravel.Behind us was a dreary flat covered with those gnarled,grey-barked,dry-rotted `native apple-trees'(about as much like apple-trees as the native bear is like any other),and a nasty bit of sand-dusty road that I was always glad to get over in wet weather.To the left on our side of the creek were reedy marshes,with frogs croaking,and across the creek the dark box-scrub-covered ridges ended in steep `sidings'coming down to the creek-bank,and to the main road that skirted them,running on west up over a `saddle'in the ridges and on towards Dubbo.The road by Lahey's Creek to a place called Cobborah branched off,through dreary apple-tree and stringy-bark flats,to the left,just beyond the crossing:all these fanlike branch tracks from the Cudgeegong were inside a big horse-shoe in the Great Western Line,and so they gave small carriers a chance,now that Cob &Co.'s coaches and the big teams and vans had shifted out of the main western terminus.
There were tall she-oaks all along the creek,and a clump of big ones over a deep water-hole just above the crossing.The creek oaks have rough barked trunks,like English elms,but are much taller,and higher to the branches --and the leaves are reedy;Kendel,the Australian poet,calls them the `she-oak harps Aeolian'.
Those trees are always sigh-sigh-sighing --more of a sigh than a sough or the `whoosh'of gum-trees in the wind.
You always hear them sighing,even when you can't feel any wind.
It's the same with telegraph wires:put your head against a telegraph-post on a dead,still day,and you'll hear and feel the far-away roar of the wires.
But then the oaks are not connected with the distance,where there might be wind;and they don't ROAR in a gale,only sigh louder and softer according to the wind,and never seem to go above or below a certain pitch,--like a big harp with all the strings the same.I used to have a theory that those creek oaks got the wind's voice telephoned to them,so to speak,through the ground.
I happened to look down,and there was Jim (I thought he was on the tarpaulin,playing with the pup):he was standing close beside me with his legs wide apart,his hands behind his back,and his back to the fire.
He held his head a little on one side,and there was such an old,old,wise expression in his big brown eyes --just as if he'd been a child for a hundred years or so,or as though he were listening to those oaks and understanding them in a fatherly sort of way.
`Dad!'he said presently --`Dad!do you think I'll ever grow up to be a man?'
`Wh--why,Jim?'I gasped.
`Because I don't want to.'
I couldn't think of anything against this.It made me uneasy.
But I remembered Iused to have a childish dread of growing up to be a man.
`Jim,'I said,to break the silence,`do you hear what the she-oaks say?'
`No,I don't.Is they talking?'
`Yes,'I said,without thinking.
`What is they saying?'he asked.
I took the bucket and went down to the creek for some water for tea.
I thought Jim would follow with a little tin billy he had,but he didn't:when I got back to the fire he was again on the 'possum rug,comforting the pup.I fried some bacon and eggs that I'd brought out with me.
Jim sang out from the waggon --
`Don't cook too much,dad --I mightn't be hungry.'
I got the tin plates and pint-pots and things out on a clean new flour-bag,in honour of Jim,and dished up.He was leaning back on the rug looking at the pup in a listless sort of way.I reckoned he was tired out,and pulled the gin-case up close to him for a table and put his plate on it.
But he only tried a mouthful or two,and then he said --`I ain't hungry,dad!You'll have to eat it all.'
It made me uneasy --I never liked to see a child of mine turn from his food.
They had given him some tinned salmon in Gulgong,and I was afraid that that was upsetting him.I was always against tinned muck.
`Sick,Jim?'I asked.
`No,dad,I ain't sick;I don't know what's the matter with me.'
`Have some tea,sonny?'
`Yes,dad.'
I gave him some tea,with some milk in it that I'd brought in a bottle from his aunt's for him.He took a sip or two and then put the pint-pot on the gin-case.
`Jim's tired,dad,'he said.
I made him lie down while I fixed up a camp for the night.
