By Henry Lawson
You remember when we hurried home from the oldbush school how we were sometimes startled by a beardedapparition， who smiled kindly down on us， and whom ourmother introduced， as we raked off our hats， as “An old mateof your father’s on the diggings， Johnny.” And he would patour heads and say we were fine boys， or girls—as the casemay have been—and that we had our father’s nose but ourmother’s eyes， or the other way about； and say that the babywas the dead spit of its mother， and then added， for father’sbenefit： “But yet he’s like you， Tom.” It did seem strange tothe children to hear him address the old man by his Christianname—considering that the mother always referred to him as“Father.” She called the old mate Mr So-and-so， and fathercalled him Bill， or something to that effect.
Occasionally the old mate would come dressed in thelatest city fashion， and at other times in a new suit of reachme-downs， and yet again he would turn up in clean whitemoleskins， washed tweed coat， Crimean shirt， blucher boots，soft felt hat， with a fresh-looking speckled handkerchief roundhis neck. But his face was mostly round and brown and jolly，his hands were always horny， and his beard grey. Sometimes hemight have seemed strange and uncouth to us at first， but the oldman never appeared the least surprised at anything he said ordid—they understood each other so well—and we would soontake to this relic of our father’s past， who would have fruit orlollies for us—strange that he always remembered them—andwould surreptitiously slip “shilluns” into our dirty little hands，and tell us stories about the old days， “when me an’ yer fatherwas on the diggin’s， an’ you wasn’t thought of， my boy.”
Sometimes the old mate would stay over Sunday， andin the forenoon or after dinner he and father would take awalk amongst the deserted shafts of Sapling Gully or alongQuartz Ridge， and criticize old ground， and talk of pastdiggers’ mistakes， and second bottoms， and feelers， and dips，and leads—also outcrops—and absently pick up pieces ofquartz and slate， rub them on their sleeves， look at them in anabstracted manner， and drop them again； and they would talkof some old lead they had worked on： “Hogan’s party was hereon one side of us， Macintosh was here on the other， Mac wasgetting good gold and so was Hogan， and now， why the blankyblank weren’t we on gold？” And the mate would always agreethat there was “gold in them ridges and gullies yet， if a manonly had the money behind him to git at it.” And then perhapsthe guv’nor would show him a spot where he intended to putdown a shaft some day—the old man was always thinking ofputting down a shaft. And these two old fifty-niners wouldmooch round and sit on their heels on the sunny mullock heapsand break clay lumps between their hands， and lay plans forthe putting down of shafts， and smoke， till an urchin was sentto “look for his father and Mr So-and-so， and tell ’em to cometo their dinner.”
And again—mostly in the fresh of the morning—they wouldhang about the fences on the selection and review the livestock： five dusty skeletons of cows， a hollow-sided calf or two，and one shocking piece of equine scenery—which， by the way，the old mate always praised. But the selector’s heart was not infarming nor on selections—it was far away with the last newrush in Western Australia or Queensland， or perhaps buried inthe worked-out ground of Tambaroora， Married Man’s Creek，or Araluen； and by-and-by the memory of some half-forgottenreef or lead or Last Chance， Nil Desperandum， or BrownSnake claim would take their thoughts far back and awayfrom the dusty patch of sods and struggling sprouts called thecrop， or the few discouraged， half-dead slips which comprisedthe orchard. Then their conversation would be pointed withmany Golden Points， Bakery Hill， Deep Creeks， MaitlandBars， Specimen Flats， and Chinamen’s Gullies. And so they’dyarn till the youngster came to tell them that “Mother sez thebreakfus is gettin’ cold，” and then the old mate would rousehimself and stretch and say， “Well， we mustn’t keep the missuswaitin’， Tom！”
