Australian Tales - Setis

they would change their opinion if they could have seen his excited phiz
the other evening, when I put the following question to him: —
“May I ask you, Mr. Wobble, if you have a distinct recollection of your
feelings when you heard the introductory little chirping cry of your firstborn
child?”
The old man's alley marble eyes blazed up like policemen's lanterns at
the question, and he replied with a volubility almost startling.
“Recollect it, sir? Pooh! Ask a boy if he recollects his first pair of
knickerbockers. Ask a young parson if he recollects preaching his first
sermon. Ask a young lady if — but never mind that. Recollect it, sir?
Humph! pap pots and puff boxes! Do you really suppose I could forget
such a thrilling event as that?
“And what a mistake to call that a cry which was the softest, sweetest
music I ever heard in my life; and I have heard a variety; more than was
charming too. I have sat in wrapt enjoyment whilst listening to soprano
voices, enchanting as the melody of a grove full of blackbirds. I have
also heard deep, bass voices, full and grand as the chords of St. Paul's
organ.
“I have heard a disciple of the great Paganini fiddle a sonata on one
little string. I have been astounded at hearing Herr von Joel (in a saloon
near Covent Garden) draw syren-like strains from my blackthorn
walking-stick, which was as mute as a pitchfork handle to all my after
attempts to make it emit even a single note. Yes, sir, I have heard music
of all sorts, natural and artificial, from the most pathetic strains, gentle
enough to melt a miser's heart, to the horrifying opposite; as displayed in
the surprisingly elongated howls of the well-known Sydney Tinker, and
the dismal chanter of cows' heels.
“But if it were possible to concentrate the sweetness of all the music I
have ever heard — throwing away the tinwa-a-a-a-are, of course — into
one grand symphony, it could not produce such an enrapturing tickle on
my tympanum as did that first silvery treble which assured me that I was
the fortunate father of a living child, and filled my heart with gratitude
and pride. Aye, sir, that was music, indeed, which I can no more forget
than adequately describe.”
The old gentleman here paused to recover breath after his excited
rhapsody, when seeing that I had broached a subject upon which he
could be amusingly eloquent, I by degrees led him fairly on to it, and
listened to his animated narration till he had run himself down.
“You see, I am now like an old man kangaroo with his tail chopped off,
not much spring in me,” said Mr. Wobble, “but I was an active young
man at one time, Mr. Boomerang, many years ago though, as these grey
hairs and wrinkles will signify. It was in those green, young days, when I
first got a delicate hint that I might expect to see a “little stranger” in my
home, before I was half a year older. I really fancied that this news had a