Old Jim ‘the Hatter” lay in bed half asleep. At least he reckoned himself half asleep, although he knew well enough that it was Christmas morning and time to get up. But he had dreamt such a wonderful dream and the illusion, the charm of it, so persisted that he hated to open his eyes.

Such a wonderful dream, and even now he still fancied that somewhere a bell was tolling, just such a bell as had tolled when he had been a boy long, long ago. Of course, there was no bell, there couldn’t be! It was only part of his dream, an echo still ringing in his ears, part of the unreality that had seemed so real. One of the queer things he fancied at times, queer fancies that came to an old man who lived always alone, with no one to talk to except his dog. So he lay listening to the dream bell, fearing to open his eyes lest the drabness of reality should shatter the wonder of illusion. Old Jim was a dryblower, the last on the long worked out Taurus Rush. A solitary old man who lived in a tattered canvas humpy by the roadside. A trifle mad, they said; the thoughtless laughed at him; the kindly pitied him.

He wore corks around his hat!

But once he had been brave and strong, massive of frame and with an eye like an eagle. He had done gallant things in his time given his last pint of water to a perishing stranger on the track; his last pound note to a mate with a sick wife, and once had trudged the bush for days seeking a lost child and, when all hope had gone, had found it, barely alive, and in his strong arms had carried it back to its half-demented mother.

Brave and strong: to the weak, tender as a woman.

But men had forgotten, and now, as he sat at his door by the seldom travelled road, such as passed nodded at him lightly – Old Jim the Hatter! But Old Jim went his ancient ways, digging and sifting, finding a little gold here, none at all yonder, yet always hoping to find a pocket, the something big he had spent his life searching for!

“But you’ll never find it!” someone cruelly had told him. “You’re too old now.”

Too old! He knew that! But still he must keep on searching: it was his life: his tattered bag humpy was home and where else could an old man go who had no friends. Old mates all were dead. So he had gathered his few grains of gold and had tramped five miles to the nearest store to buy such few things as would carry him over the Christmas season. Maybe he’d have a drink, for there was a hotel by the store. No matter; it’s a poor heart that never rejoices. Five miles there and five back! It must have been sheer weariness that made him fall asleep as he sat at his door watching the road where now men so seldom came.

It had been a busy road once upon a time. Thousands had hurried along it, men on horse back, on bicycles, in carts and drays, on foot. Afghans, too, had been there, and camels, long strings of the patient beasts, as alien to Australian soil as their drivers. And all had been off to the great gold rushes of the hinterland. Jim had gone with them, played his part. Now he was back, old and bent, back to the Taurus, his first love, where gold had once been his by the handful.

But now the gold was gone, while along the road men on horseback seldom passed, Afghans and camels never: only once in a while a car, a whirling cloud of dust that in an instant was gone. Sitting at his door, Jim watched them go, motor cars, part of another world, a world that had left him far behind. Yet it had been in a car that his dream ladies had come, in a splendid car that had reflected the afternoon sun. But when it had stopped at his door he knew that it wasn’t a car at all, only a dream.

Two ladies had stepped out, so beautiful, so charmingly dressed that they seemed faerie. “Oh, Jim!” the elder one had cried, “I know you even now, in spite of your white hair.” He knew that she was wrong. How could she know him, Old Jim the hatter? But he had let it pass. Then they had gone into his camp, laughing their delight at having found him, and patting Lassie, who fawned upon them. He had liked that, their taking so kindly to Lassie and she to them.

Then they had said, “Now, Jim, you must come with us; we’re going to give you a wonderful Christmas.” “But I have no clothes!” he had protested, though he longed to go with them. They would take no denial. “Just as you are will do!” So he had got into the car, Lassie too, both with a big rug around them. Then had come the long delightful ride. How swiftly they had travelled! Past deserted camps, through busy townships, past worked out mines, through belts of scrub and forest: on until, close to sunset, they had arrived at a big town. “Kalgoorlie,” the elder fairy had said. And the car had stopped at a fine hotel that stood in the fine wide street.

Of course it was a bit muddled and mixed, as dreams are when we try to remember them. “We get out here!” He had felt a bit timid about getting out: such a lot of people seemed to be about and some stared to see the old unkempt dryblower in the car with two fine ladies. But his fairies hadn’t cared about the people. “Come on. Jim!” And they had helped him out. Then through a big door, up a broad flight of stairs to a landing with palms and flowers and beautiful lights.

Then he had found himself in a bathroom, all tiles and enamel and nickel. As a general rule he was a bit shy of baths, having lost the habit through being so long away from the water. But this! And the water was so pleasantly warm. It made him feel a new man. Then a barber had come in with a bathrobe and scissors. And new clothes had appeared from somewhere, everything, including a suit of serge that fitted as though he had been measured for it.

Outside the two fairies had been waiting, and when they saw him so trim and clean the elder had thrown her arms around him and kissed him: him, Old Jim the hatter! Then the younger one, her daughter, it seemed, had given him a demure little peck. After that they had taken tea on the balcony, where one could look down and see hundreds of people passing, and bright lights, and tramcars, and even hear a band playing. So different to the night silence of his lonely camp. Then, with tea over, they had left him-to go shopping, they said. After that he had watched the scene below until at last the lights had dazzled him and he had started to fall asleep.

Then someone had come to him and shown him into a bedroom, where everything had seemed white – roof, walls, sheets, blankets. Lassie had been there, too, coiled up on a rug. He had felt uneasy in that bed at first: it had been too soft, But soon everything had faded. And that had been the end of it, his strange and wonderful dream!

He was wide awake now, but he kept his eyes shut just to preserve the illusion a little longer How beautiful it had seemed, and how well he retained the memory of it, even to the echo of that bell which somehow still tolled. But he knew that when he opened his eyes he would hear nothing; would see not the white bedroom, but the old smoke-stained roof of his humpy, with its sapling ridge pole and the hole by the chimney that he must mend before winter came.

So he kept his eyes shut: he wanted his dream the wonder and sweetness of it. He was too old for the Taurus now, too old ever to find his Eldorado. He hated to go back: he must dream just a little longer. A smooth hand caressed his hair. “Jim, wake up!” It was the voice of the elder fairy. He still dreamed!

“Wake up! Are you going to sleep all this lovely Christmas Day?” He opened his eyes. “It isn’t real!” he faltered.

She laughed merrily. “But it is, Jim. I’m your little sister, your tiny sister, ever so much younger than yourself, whom you placed in a boarding school with enough money to keep her until she grew to be a woman. I am that woman. But, oh what a long time it has taken me to find you, my dear old brother Jim.”

by W Charnley.

Old Jim the “Hatter” lay in bed half asleep. At least he reckoned himself half asleep, although he knew well enough that it was Christmas morning and time to get up. But he had dreamt such a wonderful dream and the illusion, the charm of it, so persisted that he hated to open his eyes.

Such a wonderful dream, and even now he still fancied that somewhere a bell was tolling, just such a bell as had tolled when he had been a boy long, long ago. Of course, there was no bell, there couldn’t be! It was only part of his dream, an echo still ringing in his ears, part of the unreality that had seemed so real. One of the queer things he fancied at times, queer fancies that came to an old man who lived always alone, with no one to talk to except his dog. So he lay listening to the dream bell, fearing to open his eyes lest the drabness of reality should shatter the wonder of illusion. Old Jim was a dryblower, the last on the long worked out Taurus Rush. A solitary old man who lived in a tattered canvas humpy by the roadside. A trifle mad, they said; the thoughtless laughed at him; the kindly pitied him.

He wore corks around his hat!

But once he had been brave and strong, massive of frame and with an eye like an eagle. He had done gallant things in his time given his last pint of water to a perishing stranger on the track; his last pound note to a mate with a sick wife. And once had trudged the bush for days seeking a lost child and, when all hope had gone, had found it, barely alive, and in his strong arms had carried it back to its half-demented mother. Brave and strong: to the weak, tender as a woman.

But men had forgotten, and now, as he sat at his door by the seldom travelled road, such as passed nodded at him lightly – Old Jim the Hatter! But Old Jim went his ancient ways, digging and sifting, finding a little gold here, none at all yonder, yet always hoping to find a pocket, the something big he had spent his life searching for!

“But you’ll never find it!” someone cruelly had told him. “You’re too old now.”

Too old! He knew that! But still he must keep on searching: it was his life: his tattered bag humpy was home and where else could an old man go who had no friends. Old mates all were dead. So he had gathered his few grains of gold and had tramped five miles to the nearest store to buy such few things as would carry him over the Christmas season. Maybe he’d have a drink, for there was a hotel by the store. No matter; it’s a poor heart that never rejoices. Five miles there and five back! It must have been sheer weariness that made him fall asleep as he sat at his door watching the road where now men so seldom came.

It had been a busy road once upon a time. Thousands had hurried along it, men on horse back, on bicycles, in carts and drays, on foot. Afghans, too, had been there, and camels, long strings of the patient beasts, as alien to Australian soil as their drivers. And all had been off to the great gold rushes of the hinterland. Jim had gone with them, played his part. Now he was back, old and bent, back to the Taurus, his first love, where gold had once been his by the handful.

But now the gold was gone, while along the road men on horseback seldom passed, Afghans and camels never: only once in a while a car, a whirling cloud of dust that in an instant was gone. Sitting at his door, Jim watched them go, motor cars, part of another world, a world that had left him far behind. Yet it had been in a car that his dream ladies had come, in a splendid car that had reflected the afternoon sun. But when it had stopped at his door he knew that it wasn’t a car at all, only a dream.

Two ladies had stepped out, so beautiful, so charmingly dressed that they seemed faerie. “Oh, Jim!” the elder one had cried, “I know you even now, in spite of your white hair.” He knew that she was wrong. How could she know him, Old Jim the hatter? But he had let it pass. Then they had gone into his camp, laughing their delight at having found him, and patting Lassie, who fawned upon them. He had liked that, their taking so kindly to Lassie and she to them.

Then they had said, “Now, Jim, you must come with us; we’re going to give you a wonderful Christmas.” “But I have no clothes!” he had protested, though he longed to go with them. They would take no denial. “Just as you are will do!” So he had got into the car, Lassie too, both with a big rug around them. Then had come the long delightful ride. How swiftly they had travelled! Past deserted camps, through busy townships, past worked out mines, through belts of scrub and forest: on until, close to sunset, they had arrived at a big town. “Kalgoorlie,” the elder fairy had said. And the car had stopped at a fine hotel that stood in the fine wide street.

Of course it was a bit muddled and mixed, as dreams are when we try to remember them. “We get out here!” He had felt a bit timid about getting out: such a lot of people seemed to be about and some stared to see the old unkempt dryblower in the car with two fine ladies. But his fairies hadn’t cared about the people. “Come on. Jim!” And they had helped him out. Then through a big door, up a broad flight of stairs to a landing with palms and flowers and beautiful lights.

Then he had found himself in a bathroom, all tiles and enamel and nickel. As a general rule he was a bit shy of baths, having lost the habit through being so long away from the water. But this! And the water was so pleasantly warm. It made him feel a new man. Then a barber had come in with a bathrobe and scissors. And new clothes had appeared from somewhere, everything, including a suit of serge that fitted as though he had been measured for it.

Outside the two fairies had been waiting, and when they saw him so trim and clean the elder had thrown her arms around him and kissed him: him, Old Jim the hatter! Then the younger one, her daughter, it seemed, had given him a demure little peck. After that they had taken tea on the balcony, where one could look down and see hundreds of people passing, and bright lights, and tramcars, and even hear a band playing. So different to the night silence of his lonely camp. Then, with tea over, they had left him-to go shopping, they said. After that he had watched the scene below until at last the lights had dazzled him and he had started to fall asleep.

Then someone had come to him and shown him into a bedroom, where everything had seemed white-roof, walls, sheets, blankets. Lassie had been there, too, coiled up on a rug. He had felt uneasy in that bed at first: it had been too soft, But soon everything had faded. And that had been the end of it, his strange and wonderful dream!

He was wide awake now, but he kept his eyes shut just to preserve the illusion a little longer How beautiful it had seemed, and how well he retained the memory of it, even to the echo of that bell which somehow still tolled. But he knew that when he opened his eyes he would hear nothing; would see not the white bedroom, but the old smoke-stained roof of his humpy, with its sapling ridge pole and the hole by the chimney that he must mend before winter came.

So he kept his eyes shut: he wanted his dream the wonder and sweetness of it. He was too old for the Taurus now, too old ever to find his Eldorado. He hated to go back: he must dream just a little longer. A smooth hand caressed his hair. “Jim, wake up!” It was the voice of the elder fairy. He still dreamed!

“Wake up! Are you going to sleep all this lovely Christmas Day?” He opened his eyes. “It isn’t real!” he faltered.

She laughed merrily. “But it is, Jim. I’m you little sister, your tiny sister, ever so much younger than yourself, whom you placed in a boarding school with enough money to keep her until she grew to be a woman. I am that woman. But, oh what a long time it has taken to find you, my dear old brother Jim.”

Mrs Aeneas Gunn’s Epic Story
of an Australian Bush Christmas

‘There never was such a Christmas as the Christmas on the Elsey Station, and there never will be another like it,’ said ‘The Quiet Stockman from ‘We of the Never Never’ today. Outside of Mrs. Aeneas Gunn’s memorable Australian bush yarn, the stockman is Mr J. McLeod, who has long since given up stock riding and taken to a garage at Angaston, where he was referring to the mighty Christmas dinner described by Mrs Gunn on the Elsey Station. Not many remain today to tell the tale of that great feast out in the bush. In South Australia, they are ‘The Quiet Stockman,’ ‘The Dandy’ (Mr H. Bryant, also of Angaston), and ‘Mine Host’ (Mr T. Pearce, of Aidgate). Mrs. Gunn is in Victoria, and Tip in Pine Creek, ‘Irish Mac,’ 70 years of age, is prospecting for gold.

Cheon, the cook, who served the Christmas sausages without their skins, went back to his native China to die. ‘Scotch Mac’ (Mr. J. McLennan) is dead, ‘Tam O’Shanter’ (Mr. Jack McPhee) died of thirst in the bush, and ‘The Maluka’ (Mr. Gunn) is buried on the Elsey. But the memory of that far-away Christmas dinner in the bush is still fresh to the survivors, and as fragrant as Cheon’s plum pudding with its 48 eggs, its dancing lights, and crown of red mistletoe. Here is the story just as ‘the little Missus’ (Mrs. Gunn) set it down many years ago, when all on the Elsey Station were young and Christmas was Christmas, even out in the big bush: —

At earliest dawn we were awakened by wild, despairing shrieks, and were instinctively groping for our revolvers, when we remembered the fatted fowls and Cheon’s lonely vigil, and, turning out, dressed hastily, realising that Christmas had come and the pullets had sung their last ‘sing-out.’ When we appeared the stars were still dimly shining, but Cheon’s face was as luminous as a full moon, as

greeting each and all of us with a ‘Melly Clisymus,’

he suggested a task for each; and all. Some could see about taking the vealer down from the gallows, six native women were gathered for the plucking of the pullets, while the rest of us were sent out, through wet grass and thicket, into the cold, grey dawn to gather in ‘big mob bough and mistletoe’ for the beautifying of all things. How we worked ! With Cheon at the helm everyone was of necessity enthusiastic. The vealer was quartered in double quick time, and the first fitful rays of sunlight found their way to the creek crossing to light up an advancing forest of boughs and mistletoe clumps that moved forward on nimble legs. In gleaming, rustling procession the forest of green boughs advanced, all crimson-flecked with mistletoe and sunlight, and prostrated itself round us in mighty heaps.- at the head of the homestead thorough fares.

 

High above the roof rose the greenery, and over the edge of the verandah, throughout its length, hung a deep fringe of green, reaching right down to the ground at the posts, everywhere among the boughs trailed long strands of bright red mistletoe, while within the leafy bower itself, hanging 4ft. deep from the centre of the high roof, one dense, elongated mass of mistletoe swayed gently in the breeze, its heaped up scarlet blossoms clustering about it like a swarm of glorious bees. Cheon interrupted the decorations with a call to ‘Bressfass’. Duck cully and lice,’ he sang boldly, and then followed in a doubtful, hesitating quaver, ‘I think sausage. Must have sausage for Clisymus bressfass.’ He said it emphatically as he ushered us to seats, and we agreed with our usual ‘Of course!’

But we found fried ball of minced collops, which Cheon hastened to explain would have been sausages if only he had the skins to pack them into. ‘Him close up sausage!’ he assured us, but that anxious quaver was back in his voice, and to banish all clouds from his loyal old heart we ate heartily of the collops, declaring they were sausages in all but skins we persuaded him, and, satisfied that we were satisfied, he became all beams once more, and called our attention to the curried duck. The duck discussed he hinted that dinner was the be all and end all of ‘Clisymus.’ and, taking the hint, we sent the preparations merrily forward. Every chair and stool on the run was mustered, two tables were placed end to end beneath that clustering mistletoe, and covered with clean white table cloths — remembering the story of the rags and hobble rings, we refrained from serviettes — the hop beer – was set in canvas water bags to keep it cool and Cheon pointing out that the approach from the kitchen was not all that could be desired, an enormous teut fly was stretched away from the roof of the verandah, extending it halfway to the kitchen, and further greenery was used, decorating it within and without to make it a fitting passageway for the transport of Cheon’s triumphs.

Then Cheon’s kitchen decorations were renewed and added to, and after that further suggestions made and attended to. Everything that could be done was done, and by S o’clock all was ready for Cheon’s triumph, all but our appetites and the time of the day. By 9 o’clock Mac and Tam arrived, and after everything had been sufficiently admired we trooped in a body to the kitchen, obedient to a call from Cheon. Triumph after triumph was displayed, and after listening gravely and graciously to our assurances that already everything was ‘more better’n Pine Creek last year,’ Cheon allowed us a glimpse of the pudding through a cloud of steam, the company standing reverently round the fire trench in a circle, as it bent over the bubbling boiler. Then scuttling away before us like an old hen with a following of chickens, he led the way to the waterbags, and asked our opinion of the hop beer. It looked remarkably still and tranquil, but we hoped for the best, and half an hour later we were back at the waterbags, called thither to decide whether certain little globules were sediment or air bubbles. Being sanguine, we decided in favour of bubbles, and in another half-hour were called back again to the bags to see that the bubbles were bubbles indeed, having dropped in at the kitchen on our wav to give an opinion of veal stuffing and bread sauce, and within another half-hour were peering into the oven to inspect further triumphs of cooking.

Altogether, the morning passed quickly and merrily, any time Cheon left us being spent in making our personal appearance worthy of the feast. Scissors an mirrors were borrowed, and hair cut, and chins shaved, until we feared our Christmas guests would look like convicts. Then the Dandy, producing blacking brushes, boots, that had never seen blacking before, shone like ebony. After that a mighty washing of hands took place, to remove the blacking stain and then the quarters settled down to a general ‘titivation,’ Tam ‘cleaning his nails for Christmas’ amid great applause. By 11 o’clock the Dandy was immaculate, the guests satisfied that they ‘weren’t too dusty,’ while the Maluka in spotless white- relieved with a silk cummerbund and tie, bid fair to outdo the Dandy. Even the Quiet Stockman had succeeded in making a soft white shirt look as though it had been ironed once. And then every native woman being radiant with soap, new dresses, and ribbons, the missus, determined not to be outdone in the ribbons department, appeared in cream washed silk, lace fichu, ribbons, rings, and frivolities — finery, by the way, packed down south for that ‘commodious station home.’

Cheon was enraptured with the appearance of his company and worked and slaved and chuckled in the kitchen as only Cheon could, until at last the critical moment had arrived. “Dinner was Ready”, but an unforeseen difficulty had presented itself. How was it to be announced? Cheon queried, having called the missus to the kitchen for a hasty consultation, for was it wise to puff up the quarters with a chanted summons? A comporise was decided on as the only possible course, after the booming teamster’s bell had summoned the quarters.  Cheon, all in white himself, bustled across to the verandah to call the gentry to dinner by word of mouth. ‘Dinner ! Boss ! Missus !’ he sang — careful to specify his gentry, for not even reflected glory was to be shed over the quarters. Then, moving in and out among the greenery as he put his finishing touches to the table here and there, he glided into the wonders of the Christmas menu :

‘Soo-oup! Chuckie! Ha-am! Roo-oast vealer !’ he chanted.

‘Cauliflower ! Pee-es ! Bee-ene ! Toe-matoes ! (with a regretful ‘tinned’ in parentheses) — ‘Shweet Poo-tay-toes ! Bread sau-cee !’ On and on through mince pieces, sweets, cakes, and fruits went the monotonous chant, the Maluka (Old Man) and the missus standing gravely at attention, until a triumphant paeon of ‘Plum-m-m poo-dian !’ soared upwards as Cheon waddled off through the decorated verandah to his soup tureen. But a sudden, unaccountable shyness had come over the quarters, and as Cheon trundled away, a hurried argument reached our ears of

‘Go on! You go first!’ or ‘No you!’ ‘Here! None of that’ – and then, after a short subdued scuffle, the Dandy, looking slightly dishevelled, came through the doorway with just the suspicion of shove from behind and the ice being thus broken, the rest of the company came forward in a body, and slipped into whichever seat came handiest. As all of us, with the exception of the Dandy, were Scotch, four of us being ‘Macs’, the Maluka chose our Christmas grace from ‘Bobby Burns’ and quietly and reverently our Scotch hearts listened to those homely words —

Some ha’e meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we ha’e meat, and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

Then came Cheon’s turn, and gradually and cleverly his triumphs were displayed. To begin with, we were served clear soup— just to tickle our palates, the Maluka announced, as Cheon, in a hoarse whisper instructed him to serve ‘little-fellow-helps,’ anxious that none of the keenness should be taken from our appetites. All served, the tureen was whisked away to ensure against further inroads, and then Cheon trundled round the table, removing, the soup plates, inquiring of each guest in turn if he found the soup to his liking, and informing all that girls were on guard in the kitchen, lest the station cats should so far forget themselves as to take an unlawful interest in our dinner. The soup finished, Cheon disappeared into the kitchen regions, to reappear almost immediately at the head of a procession of girls, each of whom carried a ‘piece de resistance’ to the feast — Jimmy’s Nellie leading with the six pullets on one great dish, while Bett Bett brought up the rear with bread sauce.

On through a vista of bough and mistletoe came the triumphs — how glad we were the way had been made more worthy of their progress. The girls, of course, were with them, but we had eyes only for the triumphs. The the triumphs ranged themselves into a semi-circle at the head of the table, our first impulse was to cheer, but, obeying a second impulse, we did something infinitely better, for, as Cheon relieved his grinning waitresses, we assured him collectively and individually and repeatedly that never had anyone seen in Pine Creek so glorious as even the dimmest shadow of this feast. And as we reiterated our assurance, I doubt if any man in all the British Empire was prouder or more justified in his pride than our Cheon.

‘Chruckle !’ he sang, placing the pullets before the Maluka and despatching Jimmy’s Nellie for hot plates. ‘Roast vealer for Mac,’ and as Mac smiled and acknowledged the honor, Rosy was dismissed. ‘Boilee ham’ was allotted to the Dandy, and as Bertie’s Nellie scampered away, Cheon announced other triumphs in turn and in order of merit, each of the company receiving a dish, also in order of merit. Tam-O’Shanter contented himself with the gravy boat, while from the beginning the Quiet Stockman had been honoured with the hop beer. Long before the last waitress was relieved, the carvers were at work, and the company was bubbling over with merriment. ‘Have some veal, chaps!’ the Sanguine Scot said, opening the ball by sticking a carving fork into the great joint, and waving the knife in a general way round the company. The higher the plates were piled the more infectious Cheon’s chuckle became, until nothing short of a national calamity could have checked our flow of spirits. Mishaps only added to our enjoyment and when a bottle of hop beer went off unexpectedly as the ‘Quiet Stockman’ was preparing to open it, and he, with the best intentions in the world planted his thumb over the mouth of the bottle and directed two frothing streams over himself and the company in general, the delight of everyone was unbounded — a delight intensified a hundredfold by Cheon, who, with his last doubt removed, danced and gurgled in the background, chuckling in an ecstasy of joy.

But the plum pudding was yet to come, and only Cheon was worthy to carry it to the feast and as he came through the leafy way, bearing the huge mottled ball as big as a bullock’s head — all ablaze with spirits and dancing light and crowned with mistletoe — it would have been difficult to say which looked the most pleased with itself. Cheon or the pudding, for each seemed wreathed in triumphant smiles. We held our breaths in astonishment, each feeling like the entire ‘Cratchit family’ rolled into one and by the time we had recovered speech, Cheon was soberly carrying one-third of the pudding to the missus. The Maluka had put it aside on a plate to simplify the serving of the pudding, and Cheon, sure that the Maluka could mean such a goodly slice for no one but the missus, had carried it off. There were to be no ‘little-fellow helps’ this time. Cheon saw to that, returning the goodly slice to the Maluka under protest and urging all to return again and again for more.

How he chuckled as we hunted for the ‘luck’ and the ‘wealth’ like a parcel of children, passing round bushmen jokes as we hunted. Undoubtedly our Christmas dinner was a huge success — from a blackfellow’s point of view it was the most sensible thing we whites had ever organised, for half the vealer, another huge pudding, several yards of sweet currant ‘brownie,’ a new pipe apiece, and a few pounds of tobacco and gifts for the children had found their way to the camp and although headaches may have been in the near future, there was never a heartache among them.

All the afternoon we sat and chatted as only bush folk can (bush folk are silent only when in uncongenial society). From discussing ‘learning’ we slipped into ‘courtship’ and marriage, and on into life — life and its problems — and chatting,, agreed that, in spite of, or perhaps because of its many acknowledged disadvantages, the simple, primitive bush life is the sweetest and the best of all — sure that although there may have been more imposing, or less unconventional feasts elsewhere that Christmas day, yet nowhere in all this old round world of ours could there have been a happier, merrier, healthier-hearted gathering.

No one was bored. No one wished himself elsewhere. All were sure of their welcome. All were light-hearted and at ease although no one so far forgot himself as to pour his hop beer into the saucer in a lady’s presence. But enamel cups were no hardships to the bush folk, and besides, nothing inconvenienced us that day — excepting, perhaps, doing justice to further triumphs at afternoon tea and all we had to wish for was the company of Dan and Fizzer. To add to the general comfort, a gentle north-east breeze blew all through the day — besides being what Bett-Bett called a ‘shady’ day, cloudy and cool — and to add to the general rejoicing before we had quite done with ‘Clisy-mus’ an extra mail came in — a mail sent out to us by the ‘courtesy of our officers’ at Katherine seeing some of the packages felt like Christmas. It came to us on the verandah. Two very full mail-bags borne by two very empty boys, and in an incredibly short space of time the situation was reversed. There, were two very full boys, and two very empty mail-bags, for the mail was our delayed mail, and exactly what we wanted and the boys had found all they wanted at Cheon’s hospitable hands.

But even Christmas days must come to an end, and as the sun slipped down to the west; Mad and Tam ‘reckoned it was time to be getting a move on, and as they mounted amid further Christmas wishes, with saddle pouches bursting with offerings from Cheon for ‘Clisymus supper’, a strange feeling of sadness crept in among us, and we wondered where we would all be next Christmas.’ Then our Christmas guests rode out into the forest, taking with them the sick Mac, and as they faded from our sight we knew the memory of that Christmas Day would never fade out of our lives for we bush folk have long memories, and love to rest now and then beside the milestones of the past.

THE MEN OF THE NEVER-NEVER MEET — After more than fifty years the four survivors meet in Adelaide. Messrs. J. McCarthy (‘Irish Mac’), T. Pearce (‘Mine Host’), J. McLeod (‘The Quiet Stockman’), and H. Bryant (‘The Dandy’).