Such Is Life Joseph Furphy (ebook reader screen .TXT) đ
- Author: Joseph Furphy
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There several shapeless forms, some white, and others of neutral hue, seemed to be moving slowly and silently amongst the dwellings of the dead, as if holding what you could scarcely call a carnival, in their own sombre way. The time, the place, the supermundane conditions, acting together on a half-drowned mind, gave to the whole scene a weird reality which writing cannot convey; so, after pinching myself to make sure I was awake, and doing a small sum in mental arithmetic to verify my sanity, I advanced toward the perturbed spirits, got them against the sky, and identified them as cattle, greedily stevedoring the long, dry grass.
It seemed a pity to turn the poor hungry animals out; yet I knew that somebody would have to suffer for it if Montgomery knew of anything trespassing here. But how had they got in, through seven wiresâ âthe upper one barbedâ âwith rabbit-netting along the bottom?â â
âEveninâ, Collins.â
âEvening, Priestley. Working the oracle?â
âInclininâ that road. Dangerousâ âainât it? Good job itâs onây you. Nobody else stirrinâ?â
âNot a soul. Theyâre as regular as clockwork on this station. How did you get in?â
âTook the hinges off oâ the gate with my monkey-wrench. Iâll leave that all straight. Course, theyâll see the tracks by-ânâ-by, anâ know who to blame; but Iâll be clear by that time; anâ I must guard agen cominâ in contract with Runnymede till the stâ âžșâ nk blows off oâ this transaction. Natural enough, Magomeryâll buck; but the ration-paddickâs as bare as a stockyard; anâ I canât ast the bullocks to die oâ starvation.
âCertainly not, Priestley. Mind, itâs only four hours till daylight. Good night.â
âGood night, ole man.â
My way led me past a small, isolated stable, used exclusively for the bossâs buggy-horses. Nearing this building, I heard a suppressed commotion inside, followed by soothing gibberish, in a very low voice. This was bad. Priestleyâs bullocks were within easy view; and Jerry, the groom, was a notorious masterâs man. I must have a friendly yarn with him.
âWhatâs up with you this hour of the night, Jerry?â I asked, looking through the latticed upper-wall. âUneasy conscience, I bet.â Whilst speaking the last words, I distinguished Montgomeryâs pair of greys, tied, one in each back corner of the stable, whilst Pawsomeâs horsesâ âa white and a piebaldâ âwere occupying the two stalls, and voraciously tearing down mouthfuls of good Victorian hay from the rack above the manger. Pawsome, silently caressing one of the greys, moved to the lattice on hearing my voice. âSleight-of-hand work?â I suggested, in a whisper.
âSort of attempt,â replied the wizard, in the same key. âYou gev me a start. All the lights was out two hours ago, anâ I med sure everybody was safe.â
âSo they are. Iâve only been down for a swim. Good night, Possum.â
âI say, Collinsâ âdonât split!â
âIs thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing?â
âSecond Kings,â whispered the poor necromancer, in eager fellowship, and displaying a knowledge of the Bible rare amongst his sect. âGod bless you, Collins! may we meet in a better world!â
âIt wonât be difficult to do that,â I replied dejectedly, as I withdrew to enjoy my unearned slumber.
Now the night, replete with such sphere-music, was past, and the cares that infest the day had returned to everyone on the station, except myself and two or three equally clean, useless, and aristocratic loafers in the bossâs house. Toby, the half-caste, was cantering away toward Clarkeâs, for the weekly mail. Priestley, at his wagon, was bullocking even more desperately than usual, with a view to getting out of sight of the station as soon as possible. Pawsome, repairing a sidesaddle, on his extemporised bench, was softly crooning a familiar hymn, the sentiment of which seemed appropriate to himself, whilst the language breathed the very aroma of his social atmosphere:â â
Must I be carried to the skies
On flowery beds of ease,
While others fought to gain the prize,
And sailâd through (adj.) seas?
In the veranda of the house, Mr. Folkestone, a young English gentleman of not less than two hundredweight, lolled on a hammock, smoking a chibouque, and reading a magazine; while straight between us two aristocratic loafers, Vandemonian Jack, aged about a century, was mechanically sawing firewood in the hot, sickly sunshine. This is one of the jobs that it takes a man of four or five score years to perform ungrudgingly; and, to any illuminated mind, the secret of these old fellowsâ greatness is very plain. Bathing, though an ancient heresy, has been of strictly local prevalence, and, for the best of reasons, of transient continuance. Our relapse belongs to the present generation. Though our better-class grandsires understood no science unconnected with the gloves, a marvellous instinct taught them the unwholesomeness of sluicing away that panoply of dirt which is Natureâs own defence against the microbe of imbecility, and which, indeed, was the only armour worn by the formidable Berserkers, from whom some of them claimed descent. We have done it however (at least, we say so), whilst our social inferiors have held on to the old-time religion (at least, we say so, here again); whereforeâ â
âI say, Mr. Collins,â faltered Ida, breaking in on my reflections, âI picked up this little buckle aside oâ your bâ âžșâ d; itâs come off oâ the back oâ your trâ âžșâ rs. Iâll sew it on for you any time, for I notice youâre bothered with them slippinâ down. O, Mr. Collins!ââ âand the poor unlovely face was suddenly distorted with anguish and wet with tearsâ ââainât Mrs. Bodyzart wicked to put a slur on me like that? There ainât one word oâ truth in it; Iâd say the same if I was to die tonight; anâ you may believe me or believe me not, but Iâm tellinâ the truth. Far be it, indeed!â
âHush! Stop crying, Ida! Donât look roundâ âMrs. Beaudesartâs watching you from the window, over there. You poor thing! you shouldnât trouble yourself over what anybody
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