Australian Tales - Setis

extra smart, and putting (with his master's permission) a large bunch of
turnip radishes and some prime young cucumbers into the gunny bag, off
he set with hasty steps towards the dairyman's house. As he approached
it, he saw his precious Phoebe, with a bucketful of frothing new milk,
walking from the stock-yard to the dairy, and looking like a bright star in
the “Milky Way.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sprouts,” was Phoebe's cheerful salute as he
drew near, ruddy with health and the effect of his quick march across the
swamps, with the bag on his back.
“Good afternoon, Miss Phoebe, — I bean't used to be called Mister,
and it sounds queer loike. I do wish thee'd call me Jonathan, stead of
Mister Sprouts.”
“Do you? Very well, then, I'll call you Jonathan,” said Phoebe, with a
smile and a blush, “it's a very nice name.”
Jonathan was just about to begin his prepared address, but checked
himself by the recollection that it would be premature: he must trim up
her garden-beds before she would see the full force of the grassy figure,
with which he hoped to strike her into yielding tenderness, and ease his
own breast at the same time. So, after presenting her with the contents of
his sugee bag he offered — if she would furnish him with a hoe and a
rake — to trim up her bit of garden, while she was gone into town with
her milk. After a pleasant interchange of protests, against giving trouble,
and taking trouble, Phoebe brought the hoe and rake, and Jonathan went
to work with a will, among the marigolds, sunflowers, and other flowers,
which were sadly overrun with weeds and couch-grass. Phoebe looked
admiringly on for a minute or two, and then went into the dairy to
prepare her milk for market; which process I am not able to explain.
About five o'clock — nearly an hour earlier than usual — Phoebe
returned, with the old white horse covered with lather and bruises, and
her brother Bob looking quite fatigued with his exertions. Jonathan had
wrought a surprising change in her garden during her absence, and was
still busy weeding, when she walked up the centre path, and expressed
her satisfaction at his handiwork.
“Now's my time,” thought Jonathan, who had been muttering his
prepared address all the afternoon. “Now's the time to clinch the nail.”
“Phoebe, dos't thee see this couch-grass!” he asked, striking his rake
vehemently into a heap of weeds just beside him; “dos't thee see this
tough wiry stuff, lass?”
“Ye — yes — Jonathan,” said Phoebe, rather puzzled at his sudden
change of manner, “I see it,” of course, she replied, gazing at him,
inquiringly. “What is the matter with it?”
“Couch-grass, is — is a — wiry weed — my — stom — no — my
breast is chock full of it — no, no, I don't mean that, burn it! It's nation
ugly stuff: a — a — choke a pig — a — couch-grass — um — aw.