The Missus, Of Course, Had One Of The China Cups, And The Guests Enamel
Ware; And The Flies Hovering Everywhere In Dense Clouds, Saucers Rested
On The Top Of The Cups By Common Consent.
Bread, scones, and such thing
were covered over with serviettes throughout all meals while hands were
kept busy "shooing" flies out of prospective mouthfull.
Everything lacked conventionality, and was accepted as a matter of
course; and although at times Sam sorely taxed my gravity by using the
bed for a temporary dumb waiter, the bushmen showed no embarrassment,
simply because they felt none, and retained their self-possession with
unconscious dignity. They sat among the buzzing swarms of flies,
light-hearted and self-reliant, chatting of their daily lives of lonely
vigils, of cattle-camps and stampedes, of dangers and privations, and I
listened with a dawning consciousness that life "out-bush" is something
more than mere existence.
Being within four miles of the Overland Telegraph - that backbone of the
overland rout - rarely a week was to pass without someone coming in, and
at times our travellers came in twos and threes, and as each brought news
of that world outside our tiny circle, carrying in perhaps an extra mail
to us, or one out for us, they formed a strong link in the chain that
bound us to Outside.
In them every rank in bush life was represented, from cattle-drovers and
stockmen to the owners of stations, from swag-men and men "down in their
luck" to telegraph operators and heads of government departments, men of
various nationalities with, foremost among them, the Scots, sons of that
fighting race that has everywhere fought with and conquered the
Australian bush.
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