Rain whipped in our faces, the land was light as though a bush fire was raging — we behaved like two children let loose in the thick of an adventure — laughed and shouted to each other, and came back to the whare to find the kid already bedded in the counter of the store. The woman brought us a lamp. Jo took his bundle from Hin, the door was shut.
“Good night all,” shouted Jo.
Hin and I sat on two sacks of potatoes. For the life of us we could not stop laughing. Strings of onions and half-hams dangled from the ceiling — wherever we looked there were advertisements for “Camp Coffee” and tinned meats. We pointed at them, tried to read them aloud — overcome with laughter and hiccoughs. The kid in the counter stared at us. She threw off her blanket and scrambled to the floor, where she stood in her grey flannel nightgown rubbing one leg against the other. We paid no attention to her.
“Wot are you laughing at?” she said uneasily.
“You!” shouted Hin. “The red tribe of you, my child.”
She flew into a rage and beat herself with her hands. “I won’t be laughed at, you curs — you.” He swooped down upon the child and swung her on to the counter.
“Go to sleep, Miss Smarty — or make a drawing — here’s a pencil — you can use Mumma’s account book.”
Through the rain we heard Jo creak over the boarding of the next room — the sound of a door being opened — then shut to.
“It’s the loneliness,” whispered Hin.
“One hundred and twenty-five different ways — alas! my poor brother!”
The kid tore out a page and flung it at me.
“There you are,” she said. “Now I done it ter spite Mumma for shutting me up ’ere with you two. I done the one she told me I never ought to. I done the one she told me she’d shoot me if I did. Don’t care! Don’t care!”
The kid had drawn the picture of the woman shooting at a man with a rook rifle and then digging a hole to bury him in.
She jumped off the counter and squirmed about on the floor biting her nails.
Hin and I sat till dawn with the drawing beside us. The rain ceased, the little kid fell asleep, breathing loudly. We got up, stole out of the whare, down into the paddock. White clouds floated over a pink sky — a chill wind blew; the air smelled of wet grass. Just as we swung into the saddle Jo came out of the whare — he motioned to us to ride on.
“I’ll pick you up later,” he shouted.
A bend in the road, and the whole place disappeared.
— 1912 —
Pearl Button swung on the little gate in front of the House of Boxes. It was the early afternoon of a sunshiny day with little winds playing hide-and-seek in it. They blew Pearl Button’s pinafore frill into her mouth, and they blew the street dust all over the House of Boxes. Pearl watched it — like a cloud — like when mother peppered her fish and the top of the pepper-pot came off. She swung on the little gate, all alone, and she sang a small song. Two big women came walking down the street. One was dressed in red and the other was dressed in yellow and green. They had pink handkerchiefs over their heads, and both of them carried a big flax basket of ferns. They had no shoes and stockings on, and they came walking along, slowly, because they were so fat, and talking to each other and always smiling. Pearl stopped swinging, and when they saw her they stopped walking. They looked and looked at her and then they talked to each other, waving their arms and clapping their hands together. Pearl began to laugh.
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