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Rudd, Steele (A. H. Davis) (1868-1935)

We gradually became conscious through our teen years that mum was different. We were buying groceries and she probably wouldn't understand something the check out person was saying. You get embarrassed by your mother and because she can't communicate properly so you jump in and speak for her. Her understanding of the world broadened. She became quite independent of Malcolm. The time period when we worked out that mum and dad were drifting apart was pretty tough. We were sort of wondering why both parents are not in the house.

When Malcolm left I just die inside, but I have to live for my boys. That's what I promise myself, whatever happens I have to live, look after my children. When you're younger you make decisions that you probably wouldn't make if you were older and wiser. So I acknowledge the difficulty particularly for my boys and I remain sad about it.

My mother was angry with Malcolm because her view was you just didn't do that. You didn't leave your wife and your children. My mum mellowed a lot as she got older. I don't that she had much choice with four children, three of them divorced. Van, he's always got in mind what's his dad going to think and hoping he'll say that's really great and I'm proud of what you're doing.

So I think that is something that he does search for.

Rudd, Steele (A. H. Davis) (1868-1935)

Malcolm's interest in Vietnam and in becoming more and more skilled in the language, I'm sure he's brilliant actually, is out of love for his sons. He'd would want them to know his pride in their country, his love for their country, for the other half of who they are and be able to contribute to that. All of our family has ended up at least intellectually interested in what's happening around us.

Upon reflection the discussions at my grandmother's dinner table were Labor centric. Most stories that we talked about were based on people who struggle in different parts of the world to make a living. That's what I gathered from all of my uncles and aunties at once. I had developed a big fascination in Russia. I sensed from my own marriage experience feeling locked up for 12 years and people considering me very evil for wanting to leave, that I had some empathy for a whole nation that was locked up and had been regarded evil. To me they're people and I think in our family it's the people that matter.

I can't explain Kevin's interest in China other than I have no doubt it's something similar. His thesis was on one of the brave people within the regime that dared to speak out because people were suffering. I started to gain a different political perspective when I met Tania my current partner in We've made a small family out of that now. What I found very interesting about Tania was her political convictions.

In this day and age it's certainly rare to find that in anybody let alone women. Her family came from Chile after the Pinochet dictatorship and so there was this political context and it immediately it made me think of my own being the Vietnam war. So basically it was the floodgates open. Here in Melbourne the City Council stands accused of censoring art after it removed a painting with an anti-China theme from an exhibition. The painting is by Kevin Rudd's nephew. I'm sure it must worry the whole family what impact Van's art work might have on Kevin politically, obviously because a lot of his art work is quite a challenge to a lot of the beliefs Kevin might have.

The government is standing by its decision to delay processing new claims from asylum seekers from Afghanistan and Sri Lanka, despite a barrage of criticism. Police have fined Kevin Rudd's nephew after an anti-racism protest outside the Australian Open Tennis today. It was Van's idea to do an action at the tennis centre, to use the KKK costumes as a way of portraying how we felt about the government's policies.

My eldest son, my police officer son, rang me. He said, I hope you're ready for this but Van has just been arrested for wearing a Klu Klux Klan outfit at the tennis. If Malcolm had a choice he'd prefer Van to not do things that were so provocative. I'm sure it must worry the whole family. Families are complex businesses as I think everyone knows. We choose our friends laughs. It's a free country.

But I disagree with his views and I disagree fundamentally. I didn't worry about it. I looked at it. I thought my goodness Van's certainly getting a high profile with this. I saw no depth in it. If Van were to go and work in something totally different to his present experience for a year, two years and then continue with his artistic expression, his art would be richer. There's certainly is stigma attached to being on welfare benefits. I've gone on and off it for many years and it almost become part and parcel of being an artist.

We do find it hard to make ends meet, you know we just get by fortnight to fortnight. We don't want to go down that road of being away from our kids a lot and we want more fulfilling jobs and we feel like the service we give to society is much bigger than say if I was to go to a factory and create more soaps that are out there in their billions already. As with any parent, I'd probably wish that all my boys would find the perhaps mythical modestly or well paid satisfying career, buy a house and live happily ever after.

I suspect that may not happen. On many occasions I have put to them that if you don't know what to do with our life, there's a lots worse to do than putting in four years in one of the services. My brother Rad and I at the time, when we were living together in Melbourne, had carried on a very similar political view.

But Since I've joined the military Van and I have grown apart. His ideology denounces military activities and I feel it's a personal attack when it's not. I have no trouble defending Van because his mind is not radically different from mine. I'm still proudly left, and I, in our family, I might be the most left, but I personally would find it difficult to be a politician. I had the choice of being an artist but a silent one, so do I stay silent or do I speak up?

The fact that there's an election on this year, my political party thought it would be a great opportunity to voice our opinions and our campaigns. So I will be running in this year's election in the seat of Lalor against Julia Gillard. The fact that Van shares a name with Kevin Rudd was certainly one factor in us deciding that he should be the candidate.

I think Van doesn't really understand the political process. I think he has strong views and I think other people behind the scenes, those people perhaps exploiting the Rudd name asking him to step forward. I think they understand the political process.

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Dave wasn't away a week when everything was going wrong. Three cows burst on the lucerne, a mare and foal were lost, the chaff-cutter smashed in two places, and every ounce of a bullock that Dad salted went bad and was thrown out.

A hot day at Delaney's. He had scraped the plough and was standing, reflecting. He felt lonely--it was the first time he had ever been away--and couldn't help thinking of home and Mother--crying on the veranda--and of Joe and Sarah at home. It seemed like old times to Dave to see Dad, though it was only eight days since they had parted. Then there was a dead silence. Even the birds and the horses' tails kept still. Dave played with some mud he had scraped from the plough, Dad with his trouser-pocket.

An' goodness on'y knows, if ever y' want t' go t' town, or enerwhere, yer can always take a day, or two days, or a week for that matter--can't y'? Ploughing and sowing all over. A hundred acres of the plain-land under wheat and light showers falling every week. Dad's good luck was continuing. Yet we were sharing other misfortunes freely enough. The children were all down with measles, Sarah with face-ache, Joe with a broken rib--a draught-horse broke it for him Joe had sandy-blight, and one morning approached the wrong end of a horse with the winkers , and Dave was the victim of a fatal malady.

Dave was always the unlucky one. When he wasn't bitten by a snake or a dog he was gored by a cow or something. This time it was a woman. Dave was in love. We could see it working in him like yeast. He became affable--smiled all day long and displayed remarkable activity. He didn't care how hard he worked or whose work he performed.

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He did anything--everything, and without help. He developed a passion for small things--trifles he had hitherto regarded with contempt, purchased silk handkerchiefs and perfume and conversation-lollies at the store, and secreted them in the pockets of his Sunday coat, which he left hanging in his room.

Sarah would find them when dusting the coat and hawk them to Mother, and they'd spend an hour rejoicing and speculating over the discovery. Sarah never allowed any dust to settle on Dave's Sunday coat. Dave went out every night. He would be on pins and needles till supper was ready, then he'd bolt his food and rush off to saddle a horse, and we wouldn't see him again till breakfast-time next morning. For more than a year Dave rushed off every night.

Then he'd think hard, and begin again when he met Mother. What the devil the fellow wants chasing round the country for every night I don't know, I'm sure. She was twenty, dark, fresh-complexioned, robust and rosy--a good rider, good cook, and a most enterprising flirt. And young Cowley climbed into a loft one night and would have hanged himself with the dog-chain because of her inconstancy, only a curlew screeched "so awfully sudden" just outside the door that he rushed out and fell down sixteen steps and "injured himself internally".

Fanny Bowman was a dairymaid--mostly neat and natty and nice. But there were times when she didn't look so nice. She had frequently to go into the yard and milk fifteen and twenty cows before breakfast; and a glimpse at her then--especially in wet weather, with a man's hat on, her skirts gathered round her waist, bare-footed, slush over her ankles, slush on her arms and smeared on her face--wasn't calculated to quicken a fellow's pulse. But then it wasn't at such times that Dave passed judgment on her, any more than the city swell would judge his Hetty while her hair was on the dresser and her teeth in a basin.

Some Sundays Dave used to bring Fanny to spend the afternoon at our place, and Jack Gore very often came with them. Jack Gore was Bowman's man--a superior young fellow, so Bowman boasted--one that could always be depended upon. He took his meals with the family and shared the society of their friends; went to church with them, worked his own horse in their plough, and was looked upon as one of the family. Dave didn't look upon him as one of the family, though. He was the fly in Dave's ointment.

Dave hated him like poison. When it was time to leave, Dave had almost to break his neck to reach Fanny's side in time to lift her into the saddle. If he were a moment late, Gore would lift her. If he were slow at all in mounting his horse, Gore would coolly ride off with Fanny.

If he didn't happen to be slow in mounting, Gore would ride on the near side of her and monopolize the conversation. He monopolized it in any case. Dave's an old fool to bother about her at all, if y' arsk me! Jack Gore left Bowman's service one morning. He left it suddenly.

Bowman sacked him, and Mrs. Bowman talked to the neighbours about him with the wrath of an insulted mother. Why, we wouldn't have kept him a day if we'd thought--if we'd even dreamt. But she spoke highly of Dave. She moved Mother to tears of admiration for him. And Mother couldn't resist telling Dave all that was said. Dave went to Bowman's a little earlier that night--but returned quite unexpectedly and went to bed in a bad humour. A change came over Dave. He ceased to smile, and scarcely did any work, and never brought Fanny to see us on Sundays.

At last Dave met Fanny on her way to the railway station one day, and when he came home he went straight to the album and took out her photo and jumped on it. Jack Gore had been away from Saddletop for several months, when--"Girls are more of a trouble than boys," Mrs. Bowman said despondingly to Mother one evening, at the gate. But girls--" And she shook her head. Jack Gore returned to Bowman's one day and neither Bowman nor Mrs. Bowman attempted to chase him away. Work was suspended for twenty-four hours, and at midday, a tired, dust-covered parson came to their door astride a poor horse and got down and married Jack Gore to Fanny.

When they heard of it Mother and Sarah whispered things to one another, and Dad thought of Dave. Talty stood at the door of her humpy looking out. She was watching Dad and Cranky Jack, on their way to the railway yards with fat pigs, about to camp for dinner in the Gap near Talty's. Dad rode across to the humpy, got off, and asked for a billy of hot water to make tea with.

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Talty filled the billy, and would have handed it up when he was mounted, but Dad did not allow that--he always refused assistance in such small things. So he waved her off, and, seizing the billy, held it with the reins in his left hand. Scrambling up clumsily, he spilt the water over the mare's neck, scalded her badly, and made her buck right on to Mrs Talty. Then he fell off, and made a fool of himself.

Dad was very bad--bruised all over, and the pain made him groan all day long, and whenever Mother smeared oil on him he yelled till he could be heard over at Regan's. If any of us poked a head into his room and asked meekly how he was, he bellowed, "Clear out! And when we didn't go in to ask how he was, he roared out to know where the devil we all were, and accused us of having no more sympathy in our compositions than a lot of blackfellows.

He said we were only hanging round, waiting for him to die. Dad was a difficult old man to please when he wasn't well. Joe reckoned if he put the same energy into prayer that he put into profanity he would never be sick. Nearly every female in the district called to inquire how Dad was. At least they made that their excuse. They didn't care how Dad was. It mattered little to them whether he lived or died. They came only to yarn and drink tea, and tell lies about themselves, and libel absent friends. Women always make themselves ugly when they wish to appear sympathetic.

It's a way they have of carrying conviction. None ventured into the room, though, to see Dad. They questioned Mother, then sat down and sighed and took their handkerchiefs out. Fifty times and more Mother had to relate how the accident happened, and every time she came to the "bucking off" part Dad's voice would break through the wooden wall, "Dammit, I tell y' again I wasn't bucked off!

Wasn't on the mare"--and Mother would get confused, and turn all colours. And some of the ladies would smile, and some wouldn't. Then rounds of heavy groans would come from Dad, and Mother would shiver on the verge of nervous collapse lest he should break out in a passion and yell violence at the company.

She wished the visitors had stayed away. But they didn't notice her discomfiture. They sipped tea, and ate up all the scones and cake Sarah carried in, then became boisterously convivial--screamed and took possession of the house. They forgot there was a suffering invalid on the premises, and no one heard Dad groan any more--no one heard him growl savagely, "Blarst them--blarst, why th' devil don't they shut up and go home? And she ran in to pacify him. The bedlam eased off a little, and a political discussion commenced on the general election that was approaching.

Brown asked Mother whom Dad intended voting for, and, without waiting to hear an answer, Mrs McFluster, a crane-necked, antagonistic old aunt of Mary Gray's, said her man meaning McFluster didn't believe in Griffith at all. McFluster's own sinewy opinion he was of no account. She was proceeding to make remarks about him when Dad's voice fairly shook the partition. Dad believed in Griffith as he did in milk. He was Dad's political god. Higgins and some more tugged at Mrs. McFluster's skirts to induce her, in the interests of peace, to desist.

McFluster, struggling to disengage herself from the clutches of her scared niece and Mrs. Higgins, lost the thread of the argument. Encouraged by the lady's silence, Dad got fairly on his mettle. Forgetting his bruised back, he bounded clean out of bed and grabbed his trousers. McFluster with a wild eye to keep her to the point --"of your McIlwraith's that was ever any good to the country.

McFluster screeched, flying at Dad like a wild cat. And when she reached the door she turned and cast another glance of reprobation at Dad, then, passing the window, outside, looked in once more to satisfy herself that she wasn't doing him an injustice after all. McFluster saw nothing wrong. She stood up to Dad and stamped her foot and squealed out, "It's a lie!

Dad ceased yelling and calmed down, and was taking kindly to a basin of gruel Mother brought him when someone knocked at the door again. Mother answered the call. It was Mr Macfarlane, the minister. He smiled and squeezed Mother's hand, then his face changed its expression. He became solemn as a death sentence. He had heard Dad was in a high fever, and spoke in a low anxious tone about him. He wouldn't see Dad--he thought it well he shouldn't be disturbed--and he suggested a short prayer for his recovery.

Sarah came, and Mother sent her to call the boys. Then Dave, who did know, went away to close the slip-rails in the seventeen-acres. He took till night to close those slip-rails. The minister was proceeding in soft, solemn tones to pray when Dad's voice broke in upon the service. Inside--close, suffocating, outside--calm, tranquil, not a sound, not a sign of life. The bush silent, restful.

Dad on the veranda, in his easy chair, thinking; Dave, Joe and Bill stretched on the grass near the steps, dreamily watching the clustering stars. Close to the house the eerie note of a night bird suddenly rang out. Joe and Bill turned over to locate it. Dad and Dave took no notice. The moon came slowly over the range, weird shadows fell before her and crept over the earth, and Budgee plain was a dim expanse in the hazy, languid light.

Then he dragged his chair nearer the steps and spoke softly. Next morning Dad repeated his instructions to Dave to turn all stock off Lawson's selection, and started for town in the sulky. At the Lands office he was told that Lawson's selection was in the Ipswich district, and late in the day he left for home, intending to take train to Ipswich the following morning.

Dad pulled up at a wayside pub. Several men were leaning on the bar, their empty glasses before them. Dad invited them all to drink. Dad lingered awhile and chatted sociably and grew very enthusiastic about dairy farming. He exaggerated his interest and spoke of Saddletop as though he owned it all. The men became interested, one in particular. He was a Carey, and Dad in his exuberance failed to recognize him. Carey's horse had got away and he was walking home.

He had twelve miles yet to tramp, and when Dad asked the company if any of them wanted work, Carey said he did. Carey climbed in, and Dad drove off. All the way along he boasted of his possessions and prospects.

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Carey was an attentive listener and encouraged Dad to talk. Dad took a fancy to his companion, and in a lowered voice, in case some of the trees or fences concealed a pair of ears, became confidential. He revealed all he knew of Lawson's selection and his intentions regarding it, and, approaching Carey's own place, he whispered, hoarsely, "Nice set of scoundrels live there!

The "man" went home chuckling. Dad explained and hobbled off to the barn. The man wasn't there. Dad returned to the yard, swearing. Plenty of his sort about. Bill, bailing up, stood and laughed. Bill's hilarity always annoyed Dad. He chased Bill out of the yard, then roared to him to come in again. He dropped his head and turned the whites of his eyes on Dad. Bill moved sideways to the rails, then judged his distance and dived. His head struck the bottom rail and he rebounded, and Dad got in his kick and grinned, and forgave the man who had taken him in the night before. Dad reached Ipswich at night and strolled about till he found a place to put up.

Then he went into the streets again and gaped at things. But he didn't see many sights. There was a large store with the shutters up. The pallid light of a few flickering gas-jets revealed the outline of an old, weird weather-worn fountain, around which "the Army" crouched and yelled for the salvation of souls--and a church fence--and a policeman, motionless. At regular intervals a huge clock broke the silence. It had a sad, unhealthy note, and seemed to toll a requiem for the dead. Dad stared up at it and wondered. Dad halted at the foot of the Lands office steps and stared in surprise.

Old Carey was feeling his way down them with a stick. Carey saw Dad and grinned. Dad went into the office and came out breathing heavily. He went down the street and searched for Grey till he missed the train. Dad gave no reason. He sat down and thought, and we all stood round waiting as if something was going to happen.

Dad yarned to a man passing with horses from New South Wales and invited him to dinner. An interesting man, well-informed, acquainted with Tyson and Bobby Rand; knew the Queensland and New South Wales bush through and through, and told Dad where some good grazing land was to be selected. Dad always let the neighbours know when he had made a profitable investment; it helped to keep their hearts up. Dave fed her, and raced her at Pittsworth, and was promptly "taken up" on the course as soon as she won.

Then the neighbours chuckled. They always liked to remind Dad of any bad bargains he had made. It helped to keep his pride down. Newspapers gave full accounts of the arrest of Palmer, alias "Whistler" Smith, on the Border. A constable from Toowoomba waited on Dad with a handful of legal documents and a cheque for fifteen pounds, to solicit his attendance at Maree Circuit Court as witness against Whistler Smith.

He explained that the law couldn't compel Dad to cross the Border, but if he could see his way to make the sacrifice he the Law was certain of a conviction. He paced about, thinking the matter out. An' I'd advise y', meself, to put a revolver in your pocket--it won't be any load, an' y' might want it. Wot wud I be doin' with firearms? Haven't I travelled the country long before you were born? An' see"-- Dad paused before the constable, and raising his hands, punched his own left palm hard with his right fist --"see here!

An' though I'm saying it meself, never yet did I see the man"-- Dad tapped his palm gently --"never yet did I see the living man"-- Dad raised his right hand above his head --"I was afeared"-- elevating his voice --"to take me shirt off to! Mounted on his old brown mare, Dad started one Friday for Maree, and how anxious Mother became the moment he disappeared from view! Maree was three hundred miles off on the New South Wales side, and most of the track and the country were new and unknown to Dad.

Yet we were sanguine enough about him. Dad had always been a wonder and an object lesson to us in the way of courage and endurance. Floods, fires, droughts--nothing ever stopped him, and for anything the bush contained in the shape of beast or being he never held a dread. But a drought was upon the land. Grass round Saddletop withered, stock poor, water scarce; and as Dad travelled on, covering mile upon mile, plain after plain, ridge after ridge, things got worse and worse.

All was parched, perished; nothing but dust and desolation. The mighty bush was a vast sorrowful waste--cracked, burnt, baked. Shapeless, blear-eyed, loony bullocks--grotesque caricatures, staggered pathetically by the way. All day a foul, fetid air filled his nostrils; hateful crows flocked from carcass to carcass, clamouring in fiendish exultation. And skeletons--skeletons and bones lay everywhere. At intervals Dad met pairs of grim, sullen souls along this infernal avenue--mates on the terrible track--strong, able-bodied men--men with bright, clear intellects, not loafers, not liars--British men, Australian men--shouldering their swags, almost bootless in the blistering sand, plodding through sickening, thirst-provoking heat in search of a job.

Dad left Goondi with a fresh horse, a water-bag, tucker, a head full of directions, and a revolver. The latter the sergeant had pressed on him, and Dad finally took it, saying, "Perhaps it'll be company. The fourth day Dad penetrated a dense scrub, emerged on the bank of a creek, watered his horse, and, throwing the reins on the ground as with his own old mare, left him standing on the bank while he filled the water-bag.

The brute made off. Dad tried to catch him, but the old moke was as knowing as a detective. He trotted when Dad ran and walked when Dad pulled up. Dad was in a mess. Determined not to lose sight of the horse, he followed at its heels, sweating, swearing, tripping over ruts and sticks--followed till it got dark and he could see the fugitive no longer. Weary and hungry, Dad rested at the foot of a gum-tree and thought of home and Mother and us, and called himself a darned fool, and wondered if, after all, convicting horse thieves was worth the candle. In the morning Dad's horse was only a few hundred yards away, standing, its hind-leg fast in the bridle.

Dad's heart thumped till he placed his hands on the brute and was in the saddle again. He was never so proud of a horse before. He leant over and patted it on the neck. Any other time Dad would have tugged its mouth and belted its ribs with a waddy. The sky a great flaming oven. A hot wind blowing. Sandy, wretched, waste land to the right, the same to the left. Never a soul had Dad seen for forty miles but one solitary horseman, and he, at the sight of Dad's revolver, had galloped away.

The sun went down a ball of fire. A swamp with water and ducks in it showed itself, then off the road a public-house--a dusty, tumble-down old rookery. A couple of saddle-horses outside, fastened to trees. Four persons lounged on the veranda, two with beards, strapped trousers, and spurs, the other two scarcely more than youths--one a half-caste.

Behind the bar, hurriedly scrubbing a glass with a dirty towel in anticipation of trade, stood a lame, one-eyed warrior with scars on his head. Dad was wondering whether he would answer or not when a horseman of the flash bush type reined up at the door. He spoke to those outside, then called out--"Riley! Dad stepped out, and, clearing his throat, fixed the man on horseback with both eyes.

Every eye was upon Dad in an instant.

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For a moment a dead silence. Dad squared himself and stood up to it, hasty, haughty-looking. He dismounted and approached Dad, smiling. The man said he had been to Dad's several times. He spoke well of it and told Dad he was a nephew of old Gray's. Gray's "nephew" chuckled also. The moon shone fitfully and lit up the belt of cabbage gums; from the swamp came the trumpet note of wild geese; owls on noiseless wing were hunting round; a dim, sickly light flickered at the pub. Two horsemen rode away from it through the trees, leading a horse with a saddle on.

From a back room a voice kept calling, "Dorgsh! The principal witness for the Crown failed to attend, and the case against Palmer, alias Smith, broke down. Verily, Saddletop was going ahead. A new church and an old public-house went up, the public-house that used to be at the Gap. A camp of men came along with a tent and some tools, and dug a new government dam; some more cleared the lanes of timber and trees, felled them and chopped them up and left them stacked in heaps on the roadway to frighten horses and make them bolt. A lot of new selectors came and brought large families with them and murmured like the Israelites because the school was six miles from them.

Dad became their Moses. He couldn't see what they had to grumble about, but Dad always listened to people with a grievance. He went to work and agitated earnestly for a new school at our end of the district. Dad worked night and day to get them that school, and when at last it was granted and the building went up they murmured more because it was erected within a few feet of Dad's land. One day, a young man, overwhelmed with a collar--a lean stripling of a man, with no more hip than a "goanna," a clean face, a "haw" in his voice, a cane in his hand, and a gorgeous band on his straw hat--mounted the veranda and announced himself to Dad as the teacher of the new school.

Dad scarcely heard him. He stared and couldn't think of anything to say. Had the Angel Gabriel, or the hangman, suddenly appeared before him, Dad's equanimity couldn't have been more disturbed. Dad was never himself in the presence of leading people, and the prig-pedagogue and the sage were one and the same to him.

The teacher bowed and said he believed Dad was Mr Rudd. His own name was Wood-Smyth--Mr Philip Wood-Smyth--and he handed Dad a card, and, sitting in an easy chair, began to talk of schools and curriculum in an earnest and learned manner. He believed in teaching a boy mathematics, and mentioned Napoleon Bonaparte and others whom Dad hadn't heard of, but he condemned classics and the dead languages. Mother found her way to the veranda and Dad told the teacher she was Mrs. They shook hands, and when Mr Wood-Smyth looked round to address Dad again he was gone.

The new teacher was a polite man and enjoyed society. Never before had there been anyone like him at Saddletop. Whenever he met Miss Wilkins or Gray's daughters or Sarah he would smile and take off his hat and strike his knees with it. And it didn't matter how far off they were, whether on a veranda a mile away or on horseback or carrying in sticks, he smiled and took his hat off just the same. Dave regarded Mr Wood-Smyth with disfavour. The polish of him and his attention to girls annoyed Dave.

Sarah stood up for the ways of the pedagogue. She thought it proper such respect should be shown to her sex. An' who wants t' wear a hat out swingin' it about as if he wanted t' block a cow? Mr Wood-Smyth was a frequent visitor at our place, and if he chanced to remain for a meal any time Dad would become agitated. He would lose his head and at the table make all kinds of mistakes. When he didn't pass meat to someone who didn't want any, he dropped the plate and spilt gravy about or mutilated his fingers with the carver. But Dad usually contrived to avoid Wood-Smyth's society.

Dad had never received a great education himself, and the presence of so much learning annoyed him. But always when the teacher had left Dad talked favourably of him. Once Mother asked how much salary he thought Mr Wood-Smyth received, and Dad reckoned he would get "at least a thousand. Politeness was the broad plank in Wood-Smyth's curriculum and he hammered it hard into his pupils.

One day Dad was riding on the road and met the scholars returning home. Several raised their hats to him. Dad stared and went on. Then Tom limped along, swinging a lizard by the tail. A party at our place--Sarah's party. Every soul on Saddletop must have been present--everyone except the Careys. And the display of lights and lanterns would have almost blinded you.

The verandas right round were hung thick with them. Two accordeon-players and a violinist were in attendance, and to hear the music they made when you reached the gate would make your heart jump. Sarah flew about everywhere, met her female friends at the steps and hugged them, and escorted them in and took their hats and things and found sleeping places for the babies.

Joe looked after the men for her--warned them of the dog and the barbed wire, showed them where to put their horses, and conducted them to the ballroom and introduced them to any young ladies they didn't know. Dancing about to commence. He came late and McGregor, a very old mate of Dad's, strolled in about the same time. Dad hurried forward and seized McGregor by the hand and welcomed him boisterously. Dad hadn't seen McGregor for a number of years and the pair sat together at a table and talked of old times. They talked for hours. The room containing Dad and McGregor became crowded and cake and coffee were being handed round.

A lull in the clatter of tongues. McGregor turned to Mr Wood-Smyth, who sat near him sipping coffee, and in a loud sonorous tone said, "N' hoo's th' auld mon--quite weel, Phil? He blushed and fidgeted, then forced a smile and answered, "He's--ah--pretty well, indeed. Mr Wood-Smyth fidgeted more. He wished someone would come to the door and call him. The company appeared interested.

Dad drew himself up like a cockatoo, aroused. An' wus nae auld Micky a brither o' Jem's? And turning to the company, who, to the discomfort of the teacher, were all grinning, he said, with a ring of pride in his voice: Dad burst into a loud laugh at mention of the "bannocks. He only smiled, but his face was very red. Dad gave a tremendous roar.

The whole house exploded, and it was minutes before Joe's voice could be heard yelling:. Dave and Joe and Bill carting barley off the house-paddock. Dad poking round on his old mare annoying the cows. Dave, in the act of heaving a sheaf into the dray, paused and looked up: Joe, from the top of the load, stared in the direction of the house.

Bill, on the opposite side to Dave, walked round and took observations. Bill, always dog-tired, never lost an opportunity to recover. Dave disliked the clergy. Their presence always made him unhappy, and one of them in the house would almost drive him from home. And parsons were never in any hurry to leave our place now. Different from Shingle Hut. It was rarely that they remained there for a meal; never when there was a well-butchered leg of a kangaroo hanging under the veranda; Dad mostly saw that one was dangling there whenever a parson was reckoned to be due.

And he would tear it down and heave it into the grass the moment the pilot had left. Dad was a wise man, though he is not mentioned in Proverbs. Bill laughed a stiff, ready-made laugh--to encourage the conversation and prolong the "recovery". But Dave wired in with the fork in silence. Had it been anyone else Dave might have committed some violence.

But he always got on well with Bill. He only turned his eyes on him in forgiveness. The stranger, wagging his head and working his hands and arms like a temperance orator, was walking between Mother and Sarah--both hatless and holding newspapers above their heads, towards the house. They seemed to know him, and listened eagerly to things he had to say. Joe couldn't make him out. Bill volunteered to run up and see what he was. He remembered when he had been like Bill. The stranger tossed a greasy bundle he had taken from his saddle on to the veranda, and the next moment was striding over the stubble towards the dray.

He carried his head high, his hat well back, and walked like a person not afraid of trespassing. Within four years 20, copies had been printed. It afterwards appeared in numerous cheap editions and by the number of copies sold had reached , A reviewer in The Queenslander , after pointing out that the author was a Queenslander and that the stories were set in Queensland, was very impressed with the work: No review of the book would be complete without a reference to the excellent illustrations which enliven its pages.

Men in the front rank of Australian artists, like Vincent, Fischer, Lambert, Mahoney, Fullwood, and Leist, have lent their beat energies to catching the author's method, his moods and his types. Usually illustration hinder rather than help the text, but in this case the reverse is the order, and it is doubtful whether anybody could fully understand the personality of Dad, Mother, and the others without Vincent's delightful pen-and-ink sketches. A reviewer in The Western Mail Perth called the collection "really admirable" and went on "As the title implies, the story—or rather the series of sketches—deals with the duties of a family on a New South Wales selection.

Anyone reared in the bush in Australia must admit the truthfulness of the study, with its manifold parings and scrapings, its many attempts to evade the miseries of the moneyless, and the vain attempts to make profits on a selection which was, to say the least of it, very unwilling to provide even a living for "Dad" and the rest of them.

The stories have also been the basis of a play and several films. The play was first produced by his company on 4 May at the Palace Theatre, Sydney. The play version deviated from the original version by the addition of subplots involving murder and a love triangle. In , Davis sold the film rights to the stories to producer E. Carroll did not have the rights to Bert Bailey's play adaptations, so the plot was based directly on the original work. Raymond Longford directed the silent film version of On Our Selection.

In , Bert Bailey's stage version was filmed in a talking film version of the stories. Hall , who also co-wrote the script with Bailey.