Australian Tales - Setis

had a big, boiling hot cabbage inside his breast pocket. It is difficult to
conjecture what the consequence would have been, had not the wheel of
fortune suddenly turned in his favour, in a way which I shall briefly
relate.
One very warm afternoon, Jonathan was returning home from Sydney
market, sitting on his cart laden with stable refuse, whistling “The maid
with her milking pail,” and thinking as usual about pretty Phoebe
Skimmer and the probability of her one day being Phoebe Sprouts. When
as he rose to the top of a little hill in the road, he saw the well-known
yellow cart coming towards him, with his charmer in her straw hat and
cream-coloured ribbons, sitting beside her brother Bob, who was beating
the old white horse with the butt end of the whipstick, in full assurance
that there were no friends of animals near to remind him of “Martin's
Cruelty Act,” or to give him in charge to a constable, to be punished as
all such savages deserve to be. As the milk cart rapidly drew near,
Jonathan's practised eye saw in an instant, by the eccentric rotation of the
off wheel, that the linchpin was broken; consequently he judged that the
wheel would soon be off altogether, and his beloved Phoebe would
probably be upset, and her milk cans too. With a promptness which love
alone can stimulate in such an emergency, Jonathan shouted at the top of
his voice: “whoa! stop! Dang it young un! hould hard cant ee? Doan't ee
see yer off wheel a wobbling about loike an old grindstone?” at the same
time he slid down from his perch on the load of litter, as hastily as if it
had suddenly become dangerously hot, or he had just discovered a nest
of soldier ants beneath his seat. The boy Bob, however, mistook the
meaning of the friendly outcry, and under the impression that Jonathan
had some felonious design upon the milk cart and its passengers, instead
of stopping or holding hard, he whipped the white horse into a gallop, in
order to escape from the supposed bushranger.
“Drat thee emperence! Thee art be-wattled, I do believe!” grumbled
Jonathan, as he left his own horse standing in the road and ran after the
yellow cart, throwing out his arms to denote danger, like an excited
signal master, and shouting “whoa! stop! hould hard!” but with no other
effect than to make the terrified Bob beat his horse harder. Presently the
off-wheel parted company with the cart, and rolled into a dyke by the
roadside, and simultaneously Jonathan saw, to his great dismay, the
vehicle itself descend to the ground, and the next moment his charming
Phoebe and her savage brother Bob were sprawling in a pool of spilt
milk.
With his blushing countenance covered with pity and perspiration,
Jonathan ran to the rescue; gently raised the prostrate maiden, and
stammeringly inquired whether she had hurt herself.
“Not at all, thank ee,” said Phoebe, while her rosy face, bedewed with
new milk, looked as glowing as her bashful lover's red plush waistcoat,