Stranded3 in Brisbane without a cent I slept down on the wharfs5 and sometimes curled my half-starved body up by the warm funnel6 of the deep-sea tramp boats. I will not weary you with the details of those days and nights, excepting to tell you that hundreds of English boys, and the pluckiest boys of your country too, go through all that I went through in the land of the Golden Fleece. I was soon in rags, sunburnt and miserable7. I mixed with English and Colonial tramps, some good men and some no good; most of them wore shaggy beards and others tried to keep shaved and had forgotten their names in the attempt to lose their identity—sad “ne’er-do-wells” of the civilised world, who had hurried across the world to save their necks or preserve their liberty!
It is wonderfully easy to sink into the depths of Failure’s Hell. The human relics8 that make up the sad side of existence are fascinating folk, full of sarcastic9 wit and most of them of a sentimental10 turn of mind, and strange as it may seem, deep in their hearts better men than those who climb the heights of ambition on one leg—instead of crawling up on all-fours and dying of old age half-way up.
23I remember one night while we were all sitting huddled11 in our rags round the funnel of the English Mail Boat, one old chap (at least he seemed old to me as I was only fifteen years of age) would sit by moonlight reading and writing poetry. He had fine eyes, and he and I got interested in each other, and I found out gradually that he was a University man, who in a moment of mental aberration12 had signed a cheque and passed it. He had travelled the South Seas, lived in Fiji, Samoa and Tonga, could quote all the poets and as far as I was able to judge wrote beautiful poems. When he read one of them to me, inspired by memories of his boyhood, I was quite touched and he noticed it by my eyes, and I with my impulsive13 temperament14 could have kissed that sad old mouth as the beautiful words trembled out of it and his face lit up to find that at last in the cold old world he had found an appreciative15 listener. Out of the big tail pocket of his ragged16 coat he pulled a dirty old bundle which was all of his poetic17 work. He read all the poems to me; the longer ones I could not understand, as they were on Greek subjects, but nevertheless I listened attentively18, and now that I am older I thank God that I did. We slept for nights and nights in a wharf4 dust-bin together, and one night I waited and waited and he never came. I know he would have come if he were able to. I never saw him again; he and his poetry left me for ever—God bless him wherever he is.
After that I spent days and days trying to get a 24berth on one of the homebound ships, but there were so many looking for the same post that I gave it up as hopeless and eventually got a job in a tanning yard where they cured sheep and cow skins. Even after all these years I can still smell that yard under the tropic sun and the terrible odours of advanced putrefaction19. My wages were thirty-five shillings a week. I stayed just three weeks, got my violin out of pawn20 and started fiddling21 on the public streets. After the second day I chummed in with an Italian harp-player. He taught me a lot of fine Italian melodies, and in a week we were the talk of Queensland capital. I used to stand by his side at night when all the streets were lighted up and put my whole soul into my playing as I thought of my proud old father and my sisters, and then with my big-rimmed Australian hat in my hand bowed to the street audience as they shied in the silver pieces. In two weeks I had eight pounds in my pocket, and as it always does happen, and will happen till the world ends, when I went to the post office there was a letter from home with four five-pound notes in it! How I would have jumped to get that a week before; but my heart was touched nevertheless by those kindly22 hands and tender thoughts across the world, heedful of my welfare.
Bidding my wizened23 dark-eyed old Italian harpist “Good-bye,” I made for the bush, and travelled north. I had a comrade with me. He was not a bad fellow—hailed from the East End of London, 25was utterly24 devoid25 of romance, and swore fearfully. As we slept out in the bush at night I cheered him up by playing the fiddle26, till we both lay down side by side, our feet towards the camp fire, and slept.
I shall never forget that bush tramp. For three weeks we toiled27 along, our swags on our backs, from steep to steep, and from plain to plain, nothing but vast solitude28 and sweltering silence broken at intervals29 by the fleets of large parrots migrating across the tropic skies; as they passed overhead we would hear their dismal30 mutterings, till their curling wings faded away over the gum clumps31 on the everlasting32 skylines of the oceans of hills and plains around us.
Brisbane was about one hundred miles away. Day after day we continued our voyage across those everlasting seas of grey scrub and rock. The tropic sun belching33 down with full vigour34 raised blisters35 as big as soap bubbles on our bare necks; they would often burst and bring us great relief. Our supplies were running short, and we had got off the track and were completely bushed! The stiff bush grass tore the ends of our trouser legs completely away, and we looked terrible scarecrows, and got thin too. Often we would climb the highest steeps and gaze around in the hope of seeing some sign of human habitation. We were indeed two sad castaways on seas of desolation, moving slowly onward36 on sore feet under the tropic sun. As we sat by our camp fire at night my comrade would curse me for bringing him to such a God-forsaken country, indeed all my own valour vanished as we lay curled 26together in the darkness of that endless bush and heard the dingo’s wail37 as its creeping feet explored the waste far away.
One night, over the hills far off on the skyline, regiments38 of ragged gum-trees suddenly burst into view, as up crept the white Australian moonrise. We sat up and stared into each other’s eyes for company. I shall never forget the terror that made our teeth chatter39. I gripped my revolver (I had bought it and a tin of one hundred cartridges40 before starting off from Brisbane). There far away on the steeps, like a monstrous42 human shadow, moved something, leaping from steep to steep like some ghastly spring-heeled Jack43. The perspiration44 rolled down our faces. We were both speechless as we stood up and gazed at that terrible sight. Instinctively45 we clutched each other, as that terrible Aboriginal46 came towards us; up went our trembling hands in the moonlight. We shook visibly as we leaned against each other for support, and fired the six chambers47 of our revolvers in rapid succession. The hills echoed and re-echoed that cannonade; the enemy fell and we fainted! I poured some water down my comrade’s throat and half raised him up.
At daybreak, crestfallen48 and miserable that we had killed it, my chum and I buried the fallen enemy, a poor old man kangaroo!
Forest Track, “out-back”
Two days after that incident we were both hard at work pulling pumpkins49 and stacking straw on the cleared bush ground of a shanty. The stockman was a good fellow, he treated us kindly and rigged us 29both out in decent trousers. I had fine times at that lonely bush homestead. The stockman’s wife took a great fancy to me, and they would sit together by their shanty door, after the day’s work, and listen to my playing on the violin as though an angel had fallen from the clouds specially50 to entertain them. They had three little girls, plump little sunburnt girls too. They all loved me. How they romped51 with me, and how they cried when I went away! The stockman’s wife shed tears, and the old fellow’s voice sounded husky as he wished me “Good luck,” and those three little girls, with their bright eyes, wet with tears, are still looking up into my boyish sunburnt face, and their dear little hands still wave on the ridge41 of the steep as I ride away for ever, fading from their sight.
My companion got work on another station and found another comrade more suitable to his temperament than I. He swore that I was mad.
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1
bushed
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| adj.疲倦的 | |
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shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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wharfs
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| 码头，停泊处 | |
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funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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putrefaction
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| n.腐坏，腐败 | |
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pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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31
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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belching
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| n. 喷出，打嗝 动词belch的现在分词形式 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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blisters
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| n.水疱( blister的名词复数 )；水肿；气泡 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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40
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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47
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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48
crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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49
pumpkins
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| n.南瓜( pumpkin的名词复数 )；南瓜的果肉，南瓜囊 | |
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50
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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51
romped
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| v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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