Australian Tales - Setis

young soldier. On the whole, he regarded the incident as a fortunate one
for him: the runaway wheel had given a favourable turn to his prospects,
for he now had a reasonable pretext for calling upon Mr. Skimmer, to
inquire if the graze on the white horse's hip was healing, and whether the
hair was beginning to grow over the wound on his boy Bob's head, and to
explain to the dairyman his experienced views of linchpins and leather
washers for cart wheels. At the same time he intended to keep a keen
look out for an opportunity of declaring his love for Phoebe.
Mr. Murphy was one of those good-natured employers who gave their
men Saturday afternoon for recreation; so on the next Saturday after the
above recorded event, Jonathan greased his boots and oiled his hair, and
put on a clean shirt; then shouldering a gunny bag, in which he had put a
newly-cut water melon, nearly as big as a milking pail — a present for
Phoebe — he set off for Mr. Skimmer's farm, which was about two miles
distant across the country.
Mr. Skimmer was sitting on the top rail of a pigsty smoking his pipe,
and watching some snubby-nosed pigs at their supper trough, as Jonathan
drew near with the bag on his back.
“Good evening, neighbour,” was Mr. Skimmer's salute to Jonathan,
with whom he had previously a nodding acquaintanceship.
“Good evening, Master Skimmer,” said Jonathan. “A foine evening
this, only plaguey warm, and the skeeters are real spiteful across the
swamps yonder, they do poke their horns into a fellow loike cranky
young steers. How's the old horse's hip? and how's Bob's head?”
“Nicely, thank ee,” said Mr. Skimmer. “You are the man who picked
my girl up the other day, after she got spilt. She told me all about it, and
I'm much obliged to you.”
“That's naught, measter; doan't ee speak about it,” said Jonathan,
modestly; at the same time he was about to ask if Phoebe was all right,
but his heart suddenly seemed to shrivel up like a sunburnt mushroom, so
he asked how the cows were getting on?
“Capitally! they are as sleek as young rats in a barn,” said Mr.
Skimmer, with a smirk of professional pride, like an encored fiddler,
“there's a nice bit of feed in the paddocks after the last week's rain, and
the cows look uncommonly well; put your bag down and take a look at
them.”
“There,” said Mr. Skimmer, holding up his hands in admiration as they
entered a long shed. “There's as fine a lot of milkers as ever kicked a
bucket. Look at their tails! thin as a stockwhip. There's breed in those
cows, I can tell you. Whoa, Daisy! stand over. Now just look at this;
pretty creature, ain't she? a regular pet, too. She belongs to Phoebe. Get
up, Strawberry! Here now, take a good look at this one's flank, a perfect
picture! She gives close up three barn gallons of milk a day, a regular
gold mine for a poor man, that cow is.”