"Boo, hoo! Ow, ow; Oh! oh! Me'll die. Boo, hoo. The pain, the pain!
Boo, hoo!"
"Come, come, now. Daddy's little mate isn't going to turn Turk like that,
is she? I'll put some fat out of the dinner-bag on it, and tie it up in
my hanky. Don't cry any more now. Hush, you must not cry! You'll make old
Dart buck if you kick up a row like that."
That is my first recollection of life. I was barely three. I can remember
the majestic gum-trees surrounding us, the sun glinting on their straight
white trunks, and falling on the gurgling fern-banked stream, which
disappeared beneath a steep scrubby hill on our left. It was an hour past
noon on a long clear summer day. We were on a distant part of the run,
where my father had come to deposit salt. He had left home early in the
dewy morning, carrying me in front of him on a little brown pillow which
my mother had made for the purpose. We had put the lumps of rock-salt
in the troughs on the other side of the creek. The stringybark roof of
the salt-shed which protected the troughs from rain peeped out
picturesquely from the musk and peppercorn shrubs by which it was densely
surrounded, and was visible from where we lunched. I refilled the
quart-pot in which we had boiled our tea with water from the creek,
father doused our fire out with it, and then tied the quart to the D of
his saddle with a piece of green hide. The green-hide bags in which the
salt had been carried were hanging on the hooks of the pack-saddle which
encumbered the bay pack-horse. Father's saddle and the brown pillow were
on Dart, the big grey horse on which he generally carried me, and we were
on the point of making tracks for home.
Preparatory to starting, father was muzzling the dogs which had
just finished what lunch we had left. This process, to which the dogs
strongly objected, was rendered necessary by a cogent reason. Father had
brought his strychnine flask with him that day, and in hopes of causing
the death of a few dingoes, had put strong doses of its contents in
several dead beasts which we had come across.
Whilst the dogs were being muzzled, I busied myself in plucking ferns and
flowers. This disturbed a big black snake which was curled at the butt of
a tree fern.
"Bitey! bitey!" I yelled, and father came to my rescue, despatching the
reptile with his stock-whip. He had been smoking, and dropped his pipe on
the ferns. I picked it up, and the glowing embers which fell from it
burnt my dirty little fat fists. Hence the noise with which my story
commences.
In all probability it was the burning of my fingers which so indelibly
impressed the incident on my infantile mind. My father was accustomed to
take me with him, but that is the only jaunt at that date which I
remember, and that is all I remember of it. We were twelve miles from
home, but how we reached there I do not know.
My father was a swell in those days--held Bruggabrong, Bin Bin East, and
Bin Bin West, which three stations totalled close on 200,000 acres. Father
was admitted into swelldom merely by right of his position. His pedigree
included nothing beyond a grandfather. My mother, however, was a
full-fledged aristocrat. She was one of the Bossiers of Caddagat, who
numbered among their ancestry one of the depraved old pirates who
pillaged England with William the Conqueror.
"Dick" Melvyn was as renowned for hospitality as joviality, and our
comfortable, wide-veranda'ed, irregularly built, slab house in its
sheltered nook amid the Timlinbilly Ranges was ever full to overflowing.
Doctors, lawyers, squatters, commercial travellers, bankers, journalists,
tourists, and men of all kinds and classes crowded our well-spread board;
but seldom a female face, except mother's, was to be seen there,
Bruggabrong being a very out-of-the-way place.
I was both the terror and the amusement of the station. Old
boundary-riders and drovers inquire after me with interest to this day.
I knew everyone's business, and was ever in danger of publishing it at an
inopportune moment.
In flowery language, selected from slang used by the station hands, and
long words picked up from our visitors, I propounded unanswerable
questions which brought blushes to the cheeks of even tough old
wine-bibbers.
Nothing would induce me to show more respect to an appraiser of the runs
than to a boundary-rider, or to a clergyman than a drover. I am the same
to this day. My organ of veneration must be flatter than a pancake,
because to venerate a person simply for his position I never did or will.
To me the Prince of Wales will be no more than a shearer, unless when I
meet him he displays some personality apart from his princeship--otherwise
he can go hang.
Authentic record of the date when first I had a horse to myself has not
been kept, but it must have been early, as at eight I was fit to ride
anything on the place. Side-saddle, man-saddle, no-saddle, or astride were
all the same to me. I rode among the musterers as gamely as any of the
big sunburnt bushmen.
My mother remonstrated, opined I would be a great unwomanly tomboy. My
father poohed the idea.
"Let her alone, Lucy," he said, "let her alone. The rubbishing
conventionalities which are the curse of her sex will bother her soon
enough. Let her alone!"
So, smiling and saying, "She should have been a boy," my mother let me
alone, and I rode, and in comparison to my size made as much noise with
my stock-whip as any one. Accidents had no power over me, I came
unscathed out of droves of them.
Fear I knew not. Did a drunken tramp happen to kick up a row, I was
always the first to confront him, and, from my majestic and roly-poly
height of two feet six inches, demand what he wanted.
A digging started near us and was worked by a score of two dark-browed
sons of Italy. They made mother nervous, and she averred they were not to
be trusted, but I liked and trusted them. They carried me on their broad
shoulders, stuffed me with lollies and made a general pet of me. Without
the quiver of a nerve I swung down their deepest shafts in the big bucket
on the end of a rope attached to a rough windlass, which brought up the
miners and the mullock.
My brothers and sisters contracted mumps, measles, scarlatina, and
whooping-cough. I rolled in the bed with them yet came off scot-free. I
romped with dogs, climbed trees after birds' nests, drove the bullocks in
the dray, under the instructions of Ben, our bullocky, and always
accompanied my father when he went swimming in the clear, mountain,
shrub-lined stream which ran deep and lone among the weird gullies,
thickly carpeted with maidenhair and numberless other species of ferns.
My mother shook her head over me and trembled for my future, but father
seemed to consider me nothing unusual. He was my hero, confidant,
encyclopedia, mate, and even my religion till I was ten. Since then I
have been religionless.
Richard Melvyn, you were a fine fellow in those days! A kind and
indulgent parent, a chivalrous husband, a capital host, a man full of
ambition and gentlemanliness.
Amid these scenes, and the refinements and pleasures of Caddagat, which
lies a hundred miles or so farther Riverinawards, I spent the first years
of my childhood.
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