Australian Tales - Setis

Micky Mahony's Mishaps.
Chapter I.
“JOE, my jewel! whisht a minit, while I spake a little bit iv common
sinse; an that's a sort of music you don't hear every day uv yer life, so it
will be a trate to yez. There's no mishtake but it's mighty aisy worrk,
squatting under a tea-tree all day long smoking me dudheen or darning
me duds, and singing ‘Molly Bawn;’ while the sheep are nibbling away
at the green grass, or capering about like young haythins, and my ould
dog Nip is kitchin the flies on his stumpy tail, or scratching them other
teazing things out uv he's curly coat. It's a rale jintleman's life, to be
shure, and not bad pay for it naythir; still an all, I'm gittin as rusty as an
ould pickaxe, for want of a little dacint society — that's a fact; an I'm
afeard I'll forgit all me manners if I don't go into the worrld and exercise
'em a bit. I've bin thinkin' that as my agreement wid the masther is up tomorrow,
an I'll thin be free to go anywhere my two legs 'ill carry me, I'll
be off to the diggins, at daylight; and if I can pick up a few nuggets, only
as big as a lamb's tail, me fortune is made intirely; an I'll have nothing to
do the rest uv me life, but smoke me pipe an ate me rations, which
delicate imployment, 'ill shute my wake constitution illegantly. Yes, Joe,
me bhoy! I'll be off to-morrow morning, and your new chum, Sawney
M'Grim, can take out my flock; an good luck to him. I'll have him my
poor dog Nip, for I dare say rations are dear on the diggins, an Nip wull
be no sarvice to me in my new perfession. Maybe, too, some of them
yellow Johnnies wud ate him, poor cratur, and that wud grieve me
mortally, for poor Nip is the only relation I've got in the colony.”
These remarks were addressed to Joe Griddle, the hut-keeper on a
sheep-station — in the interior of New South Wales — by Micky
Mahony, the shepherd, as they sat down to a hot dish of “bubble and
squeak,” one evening, after Micky's flock had been counted in and
hurdled.
“To the diggings, eh?” quoth Joe, with a sombre grin. “You'll soon be
glad to come back again, Micky, I'll bet you tuppence. Hard work in a
deep claim won't suit your rusty joints, I'm thinkin'; and you'll miss old
Joe Griddle to prepare your supper, after you've bin working all day long,
up to your middle in mud. You'll get no nice hot dishes of Irish stew on
cold days; no roaring fire in your hut when you come home; and maybe