Yilgar and her crony Gimbuck, had come up for a talk one afternoon, and I strongly suspected a cadge, for the camp was in disgrace.
The women the day before had all been sent to collect and drive some sheep across the river and on their way had found a honey tree, that is a big tree in which the wild bees had made a hive. What were sheep in comparison to a find like this? So they were left to their fate while all the women set to work to burn the tree down and smoke the bees out.
Now that takes time, so the sheep wandered off where their own sweet wills dictated while the women and children camped by the honey tree and made fires round it smoking the bees with green bushes, and burning so the tree should fall in the right direction.
Meanwhile at the homestead my husband was getting more impatient and worried at the non arrival of the sheep. At last, after some hours had passed from the time they ought to have appeared, a native on horseback was despatched to see what could be the matter.
He arrived just as the tree was about to fall, of course he had to assist them when it was down, examine it, see the size of the hive and taste the honey. Then bark had to be found and stripped from the trees, bent into shape to put the honey comb on to carry back to the camp. What were sheep compared to such an interesting and unexpected find? And all this sort of thing takes time, besides a native never hurries himself.
Meanwhile the homestead was getting more and more agitated over the non-arrival of the women, sheep and messenger. Something serious must have happened. It was getting near sunset and nothing had turned up, the women had been sent before midday, and the sheep were only three miles away.
At last my brother mounted his horse and rode off. About a mile from the homestead he met some of the wanderers laden with honey in bark baskets. But where were the sheep?
"The sheep? Oh we lose 'em," was the chorus "but look master, what lovely honey. Taste some. It is very good."
Ethel Hassell, My Dusky Friends, C.W. Hassell, Fremantle, 1975, p. 83.
Lovely - it's what I really like about Aboriginal people, their knack of being in the moment and not hurrying. Delicious concept - Honey Tree. If I had a daughter, I might call her that.
ReplyDeleteJust ran that name by the kids and they said, 'No Mum, that's like calling your baby Moonbeam.' That said, Summer Grace seems to be the consensus this week.
ReplyDeletePphhhttt....well I partly agree, except that Summer is a bit hippy too!
ReplyDeleteMy niece had a son to her Chilean boyfriend. They called him Inca.
ReplyDeleteI like that Honey Tree story too. I'm moving into the Warriups era now with Johnny Knapp boxing his way through the South West and those old Noongar families with the work ethic still breaking horses, putting up fences, crooking the hay and herding them sheep from one bit of feed to another. Not to mention burning off and picking roots. I was journeying through old Eticup out to Ewlyamartup and back down to Gowangerup just this morning. All in my mind, of course. Old spade-beard Hayward, the ex ticket-of-leave man, with his bandy legs and crook back smiling away at all the children he had, both sides of the divide.
DeleteA great image Ciaran. Dublin Dreaming ...
ReplyDeleteWe're still working on the Jakbam/Nailcan story, Sarah. Learned a few things along the way. I'll send you an email about it. I'm in touch with the Genoni's too, and our friend Charles Knapp? Another jumpship, possibly negro...
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