The Irishman

[thestoryteller]

Our first camp out of Barcy was shared with company in the person of one Michael O'Brien. One couldn't be more Irish than that. He had a sulky with an outrigger pulled by two horses with a saddle horse in tow. Michael dealt in animal skins, shooting kangaroos, wallabies and rabbits, then tanned the hides, which he turned into rugs. The trade treated him well and he too was working his way north.
"You lads have come all this way," he said, "and you don't even own a rifle. How the dickens do you survive?"
Not wishing to tell him we had relied on others I just shrugged my shoulders and said,
"Never gave it a thought old mate."
"I know just the place where you can send for one, along with loading gear," he went on.
The idea of owning a rifle sounded like a good investment to me as it would make surviving a whole lot easier on the track ahead. I had just enough left in my kick to purchase one and would give the matter a lot of thought before we reached the next town.

We travelled with Michael, who showed us his skill with his rifle by picking out animals along the way, which he would skin and salt and then store them on the sulky. One thing we noticed about Michael was that he had a strange habit of always wearing his hat. Even at night we had noticed that he slept with it on his head. Upon reaching Aramac, Michael gave me the address of the place in Sydney where I could purchase a twenty five twenty rifle with its accessories and he advised me to have it sent to the Post Office at Prairie. He reasoned that as we were heading north and in that direction it should get there some time before us.

The days that followed found us helping Michael with his trade. I learnt how to prepare and tan hides along with the skills associated with making rugs. A very amiable old fellow Michael, though we continually noticed he would never be seen without his hat. The plane lands were easy to traverse and always gave us game to eat, helping me to see the tremendous advantage of owning a rifle. As we worked our way to the rail line, which ran from Townsville to Mt Isa, we kept our rations topped up by calling in at the odd Stations we passed. After a couple of weeks the horses were starting to pick up condition, enabling us to ride part of the way.


THE IRISHMAN

Above Barcaldine, to the North we met one Mick O’Brien
who joined us for some mutton chops and we thought they were fine.
His sulky and outrigger took him through the Central West
in search of anything with fur, as this was Michael’s quest.

These critters he turned into rugs and sold then round about
and though depression years were hard old Michael toughed them out.
He told us we could join him as he too was heading north
and reasoned that was fine with us and we all sallied forth.

This Michael was a deadly shot and seldom missed you see
so in the weeks we spent with him he taught his skills to me.
This Irishman he knew his job and surely was no mug
and taught me how to tan a hide and how to make a rug.

Though one strange thing had us perplexed and that concerned his hat,
he never took it off his head and always noticed that.
I sense he was obsessed with it and one could clearly tell
‘cause he would wear it all day long and slept with it as well.

One day I had shot this feral pig and right between the eyes,
then Michael said he’d dress it out, though much to our demise.
For as he bent to do the deed he hat fell off his head,
and bared his white and balding crown which made his face go red.

He quickly put it back in place though turned to glare at us,
concerned that we’d observed it all and wondered why the fuss.
The pig meat that we ate that night affected Michael’s bowel
and suffered dysentery for days and near chucked in the towel

For days he just ignored us both and had nothing to say,
and all because I sense we’d seen his balding head that day.
A Constable from Pentland way then rode up on a bay
and Michael chewed his ear a while and always looked our way.

“The old chap says you’ve poisoned him and aim to take his gear.
Is that the truth?” he asked us both, “I’ve got a listening ear.”
We set him straight about the pig and how that we had found
he seemed to change the very day he hat fell on the ground.

“I think I get the drift,” he said, “There’s no need to enlarge,
then organized for Michael’s care and cleared us of the charge.
Next day we headed for the Gulf though we would not forget
the Irishman and his bald head and how it made him fret.

© Merv Webster

From the Book In Days Gone By

http://users.tpg.com.au/thegrey/InDaysGoneBy.htm

[Shelley Hansen]

Yep, some people are very sensitive about that "bald patch".

We have a friend who is totally deaf. He is in his late 70s now and is bald. He reckons if he could change one thing about himself - it would be to restore his hair (not his hearing!)

Cheers
Shelley

[thestoryteller]

G'day Shelley,

Had a bloke at work where I taught pole top rescue and resuscitation and he would ever take his hat off.

One day it fell off and a large wad of hair fell down the side of his head. Obviously he criss crossed it over his head.

I'm resigned to what I've got at this stage in life.

Thanks for sharing the verses.

Merv.