Jean, Our Little Australian Cousin

Life at the run proved pleasant to Jean and full of interesting happenings. She missed her father and Fergus, but she and Sandy soon grew to be great friends, and many were the thrilling bits of mischief into which he dragged her, sure that he would escape punishment if Jean were only to say, "Don't punish Sandy, Uncle Angus, I did it too."

The little girl loved her Aunt Mildred, but more than any one at the station her uncle had won her heart. She grew to be his little shadow, driving and riding with him, sun-tanned and rosy, growing strong and healthy in the free Australian life.

"You are getting as fat as a Chinaman's horse, lassie," said her uncle as they rode to the river one day.

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"The Chinese are always very kind to their horses and keep them fat and slick, so that has grown to be a proverb, though some people say as 'fat as a larrikin's dog,' instead."

"What is a larrikin?" Jean was growing as full of questions as Fergus.

"Larrikin is a slang term applied to the idlers who lounge about the cities, a dog at their heels, like the 'Enery 'Awkins of London or Glasgow. There are many of them in Australia and they have formed a kind of secret society among themselves, which is not a very good thing. Here is a fine bit for a canter, Jeanie. I'll beat you to the big eucalyptus."

"No, you won't." Jean chirruped to her pony and was off like a shot through the open paddock, jumping a fence as if on wings. She loved to gallop when the air was filled with the fragrance of the wattle and the gum, and she had grown to ride like a little centaur.

"Well done," cried her uncle as she drew up at the gate, laughing and breathless, her horse half a head in advance of his. "We are so near to 'Mason's run,' I think we'll have time to stop there. I want to see him about several things, so we'll ride on."

"Very well, Uncle. Is it a sheep run?"

"No, cattle. You have not seen one yet, so keep your eyes open and learn all you can. Mason breeds the long horns, sullen beasts, but good stock."

"I shall be glad to see them," she said, and they cantered up to the homestead, which was very unlike her uncle's station.

Built of wood, with a galvanized-iron roof, the house stood on piles, but between each pile and the house was a tin plate to keep the white ants from climbing into the rooms. Several gins[7 - Black women.] came out to see who the strangers were, the first that Jean had seen, and she looked at them curiously. Not more so, however, than they looked at her, for they stared at her and whispered together.

"They don't know what to make of you, 'Lassie with the lint white locks,'" her uncle laughed. "The young gin wants to know if you are Great Baiame's golden child. It's your fair hair, I suppose."

Jean's hair was light golden and floated all about her face like a halo.

"Great Baiame is their god, good spirit, and they think you are a goddess. That gin wants to touch your hair. Better let her, she won't hurt you."

Jean smilingly bent her head and let the black woman run her fingers over her shining tresses. The gin smiled and, seized by a sudden impulse, Jean said,

"She may have a curl if she wants it, Uncle. I have plenty and mother won't care." He handed her his knife and she snipped off a silken strand, which the gin took with many expressions of delight.

"You have certainly made a hit among the Blacks," said her uncle teasingly. "She will wear that as a charm and be the envy of all the tribe. Your hair is pretty.

"'The world to me knows no fairer sight
Than your long hair veiling your shoulders white,
As I tangle my hand in your hair my pet.'"

he quoted as he stroked the shining mane.

"Uncle, I don't think cattle runs are as nice as sheep runs. There aren't any wool sheds, but just open yards."

"These are the stock and branding yards. You see the cattle roam the hills, some of the runs being as large as five thousand square miles, on which the cattle find their own food and water."

"If they wander over all that distance, how do the owners ever tell their own cattle?" asked Jean.

"Every beast is branded, that is, he has his owner's mark burnt into his hide," said her uncle. "So it is easy to draft out of the mobs the cattle which belong to other ranchmen. The young oxen are sent to the coast to be fattened for market, while the old cattle are sent to the rendering works, where they are made into tallow and beef extract. The stockman's life is harder than that of the shepherd, and dangerous because of the bullocks' stampedes, when they break loose and often run down horses and men in their frantic rush for freedom."

"I like the sheep run much better," said Jean. "See that flying squirrel, Uncle! I think they are the cunningest little things. Who do you suppose is hiding behind that tree? I heard some one laughing."

"Look and see," her uncle smiled. Jean jumped down from her horse and peered behind the tree. There she saw a little bird perched on one leg which sang a pretty little song, always breaking off with "H-ah-ha! Hoo-hoo-hoo!"

"That's a laughing jackass, Jeanie," said her uncle. "He's a funny little fellow, isn't he?"

"He isn't a bit pretty," said Jean.

"No, but he's very useful, for he eats snakes and lizards and all kinds of things, and there is a law forbidding any one to kill him."

"You have so many queer things in Australia," said Jean. "Down by the river Sandy and I found the queerest thing. It looked part animal and part bird. It had a big flat bill like a duck and fur on its body like a rat, and it had webbed feet and a long bushy tail. Sandy said it was a beastie and was called a water mole, but we found its nest in a kind of tunnel running from the water's edge under ground, and in the nest were eggs."

"That was a platypus, or water mole," said Mr. McDonald. "He is an animal but lays eggs like the birds. There is another animal in Australia which does too, the spiny ant-eater. He looks like a hedgehog but has a queer, long bill with a long tongue covered with sticky stuff with which he licks up the ants off the ground. He hasn't a nest, but carries his eggs around in a kind of a pocket until they are hatched."

"It certainly is a queer place, with trees that shed their bark every year, pears that have hard wooden rinds, cherries with the stones outside, trees with flowers and seeds growing in the leaves and animals that lay eggs," said Jean.

"And little girls that chatter and ride like monkeys," cried Sandy's teasing voice, as he rode up behind them. "I can pass you!"

"No, you can't!" cried Jean, and she galloped off, her cousin after her, though he did not catch up with her till she rode up to the veranda and jumped off her pony, laughing heartily.

Some weeks later all was hurry and bustle at the station. Shearing was to begin the next day and there was a great deal to be done to make ready for the great event. Shearers were coming in, some riding, some trudging along on foot, carrying their swags. There were huts for them to sleep in, and tents were being spread in the open. Mr. McDonald left all the details of this work to his manager, a young Australian who had been born and raised on a sheep run.

At first Jean was much interested in seeing the shearing and stood in the shed watching, as the engine whistled to begin. The pens were full of sheep who did not at all know what they were there for, but who did know that they did not like it. They baa-ed and bawled, and with the noise of the machinery it was deafening in the sheds. As the machine starts every shearer grabs a sheep from the pen, choosing the one that looks the easiest to shear, he throws it with his knee and rapidly guides the little knife-like cutters of the machine over the fleece, which falls from the animal in one huge piece. The sheep is then released to run, pink and shivering, to the yard again. The "picker up" catches up the fleece and takes it to the wool bin, while the shearer turns to the pen to catch another victim. He has to be quick because the sharp eye of the overseer is upon him. He walks up and down, watching every one. The "penners-up" must not let a single pen be empty, "the pickers-up" must keep the floor clean, the shearers must shear evenly as well as closely. If they cut a ragged fleece the wool will grow badly the next year and some of it will be wasted.

The shearers are paid by the number of sheep they shear, and they work very fast, every man trying to see if he cannot be the "ringer," as they call the man who has sheared the greatest number of sheep at the close of the shearing.

The shearers earn five dollars for every hundred sheep sheared, and an ordinarily good workman will shear a hundred sheep in a day, while extra good ones have sheared three hundred in a day. As the shearers have no expenses, their food and lodging being given them, they can make a good deal of money during the season.

The picker-up takes the fleece to the wool roller, who trims it and rolls it up to be inspected by the classer. He decides as to its quality and puts it in the proper bin. It is then baled, marked with the quality and the owner's brand, and taken by wagon to the nearest shipping station.

The sheep are counted, branded and dipped to prevent their being covered with wood ticks, which bite so fiercely, and then are returned to their paddocks. There is no more attractive sight in the world than an immense flock of the long-wooled Australian sheep, and none more forlorn than the shivering droves of freshly-sheared animals.

Jean watched until she was tired. The smell of the wool, the noise, the heat, the cries of the tormented sheep, all turned her sick, and she fled to the house. There things were little better. Everybody was busy. Aunt Mildred had no time to notice a little girl. Sandy was away, no one knew where, and, worst of all, her mother was laid low with one of her terrible headaches. Jean knew these of old, and that it was no use to expect to even speak to her mother before night. She felt forlorn and lonely and decided to take a ride.

No one was at the stable to saddle Dandy, but she had learned to ride as well without a saddle as with, so she got on the pony's back and rode toward the river.

Away from the noise of the shearing shed, how quiet and lovely it all seemed. The wind swayed gently the branches of the great she-oaks as a mopoke's mournful note came from the gum trees. Flying foxes flapped their wings and she came upon the playground of a satin-bower[8 - This bird makes a play-ground before the tree in which it builds its nest. It has a floor of sticks, and over this is built a little bower into which are woven bright feathers, white shells, etc.] bird, the first she had ever seen, although her uncle had told her about them. She rode farther into the wood than she intended and, feeling tired, she got off Dandy and, throwing the reins over a bush, sat down under a tree to rest.

"I'm so tired," she said to herself, "I think I will take a little nap. This looks just the place for a fairy ring and perhaps the elves will come to dance while I am asleep."

She lay down under the huge tree about which ferns grew so thickly as to form a green curtain. Dandy browsed in the grass near by, every now and then pricking up his dainty ears and working his velvety nose as if something he did not like was near. Then his reins pulled loose from the bush and he wandered away to nibble at a tempting bit of turf a little distance away. Another tempted him and he was soon out of sight, hidden by the great ferns which grew up above his pretty head.

As he disappeared there was a little rustle in the bushes and two eyes peered at the sleeping child. Then a hand reached out and warily touched a fold of her little blue gingham frock. Jean stirred in her sleep and smiled. She was dreaming that her father had come back and that he took her in his strong arms and carried her away, away, and she never wanted him to put her down. The scent of the wild blooms was in her nostrils, and she did not wake when two arms cautiously raised her from the ground and holding her lightly yet carefully, so that no branch might brush against her, carried her far into the deep and lonely wood. It was perhaps an hour that the man carried her and she did not wake. Then she opened her eyes to find herself in the arms of a big Black. She screamed in fright, but he spoke gently to her.

"Missa not 'fraid. Me not bad Black. Take Missa home."

"Where is my pony. I would rather ride him," she cried, struggling, and the Black put her down.