The sinking sun cast a soft amber-tinted radiance over the little township of Wentworth, New South Wales, as a little boy, weary and footsore with travel, knocked at a farmer’s door about two miles beyond the settlement.
A kind, motherly woman who answered the knock stared with astonishment at the juvenile tramp, who blurted out in a faint voice, “If you please, ma’am, will you give me a drink of water? I’m so hungry, I really don’t know where I shall sleep to-night.”
The good lady laughed heartily at the little fellow’s quaint request. She took him into the house, and led him into a back room, where a great fat man was seated at tea.
“Who is this, wife?” said he in a surly tone, looking at our hero.
“Only a poor boy begging some food, Mark; that’s all,” answered his wife meekly.
“I didn’t beg, ma’am, please,” said the boy quickly.
“Oh, you didn’t beg?” rejoined the farmer in the same gruff voice. “Git down on that stool now.”
“I came a very long way, sir, and I——” began the boy.
“Silence! Wife, take his bundle; pull off his old shoes; let him be washed; then give him his tea.” The voice lost nothing of its coarse disagreeable ring as it gave the curt order, but the man’s eyes looked kindly at the little wanderer. “What is your name?” still gruffly.
“Tim, sir, please.”
“Tim what? Hav’n’t you another name?”
“No, sir. Nuggety Joe never called me anything else than Tim.”
“And who is Nuggety Joe?” asked the farmer.
The boy played nervously with the edge of his tattered jacket for a moment, and then replied in a voice broken and unsteady with emotion, “Please, sir, father and Joe were mates on the diggings at Forbes. When the great dam broke and flooded the creek, and drowned father, mother, and little sister Jessie, Joe took care of me, and was a father to me—he was—until he took the fever, and died, and then I——” The child’s quavering voice gave way to a fit of bitter wailing.
“Stop that!” cried the farmer, putting his handkerchief to his nose, and making that organ sound like a French horn—“stop it at once. I’ll have no snivelling here.”
But poor Tim sobbed on; and notwithstanding all the womanly sympathy of the farmer’s wife, she could not stay the torrent. Not yet in his “teens,” the brave lad walked over two hundred miles, suffering hunger and pain with the courage of a Spartan; but he had no courage to put back the tears that swelled upwards at the remembrance of that rude, unlettered, dead digger, who had loved him, and had taken him to his bosom for Christ’s sake, and who had now gone to receive his reward.
All things have an end, so the fountain of Tim’s eyes became dry again ere the tea was over. Before the lad was sent to bed, the farmer said, “Look here, boy, I think I can give you something to do on my farm. Mind, I’ll set you a task the first thing in the morning; if you perform it to my satisfaction, and you likewise prove yourself an honest, trustworthy youngster, why, you shall never want a home or a friend while Mark Wilson lives. Now, wife, put him to bed.”
The good dame led Tim to a small attic bedroom, which contained, amongst other things, a beautiful parrot in a stout wire cage.
“Cockie” had evidently been enjoying a nap, for he shook himself at sight of the intruders, and sent forth from his bill a volley of strange sounds, in true imitation of a person just aroused from slumber. Mrs. Wilson kissed our hero and retired, but she had hardly closed the door before the bird began to flap his wings and crow like a rooster.
“A funny parrot,” muttered Tim. “I wonder if it can talk?”
“Of course it can,” answered Cockie, eyeing him through the bars of the cage. The lad rubbed his eyes, and stared at the bird in the cage for fully three minutes without speaking a word, so great was his consternation. “Don’t stare, Tim; it’s very rude to stare,” continued the bird gravely. “People in this colony have a bad habit of staring you out of countenance, I am sorry to say.”
“Why, you can talk like a man,” cried the boy in his astonishment.
“Certainly; much better than some men, I trust. Pray come here and scratch me, Tim,” cried the parrot coaxingly.
Little Tim obeyed very cautiously, and in fear and trembling.
“That is delightful,” said Cockie.
“It’s wonderful,” muttered poor Tim.
“What is wonderful, sir? Can’t parrots talk?”
“Some of them can, but not like you.”
“Oh! but I’m not a parrot, I’m a fairy.”
“A fairy?” cried the boy, agape with wonder. “Are you really?”
“Truly I am. One of the Lake George fairies. Xanthine, our Queen, turned me into a parrot, five years ago, through her foolish jealousy, and here I’ve been caged up ever since with this great beak upon my face, which quite disfigures me.”
“What a shame! Can’t you get back again to your friend at Lake George?” cried the boy.
“Yes, for Queen Xanthine is dead, and I can now return in safety, if you will help me,” replied the bird.
“Me! how can I help you?” answered little Tim.
“I will tell you” rejoined the elfin. “You must know, boy, that every one of us could help each other if we would. The rich can help the poor, and the poor the wealthy; yea, even the smallest can render assistance to the strong and powerful, as was the case with the lion and the mouse. Now, I can prove how I can render you a service. Judge. Didn’t the master say he would set you a task in the morning?”
“He did,” replied Tim in wonder.
“Very well. The task is to milk a bad-tempered, touchy old cow called ‘Peggy.’ The beast, who is a splendid milker, is the torment and plague of the farmer’s life. She has kicked him until he is afraid to approach her, and every one, man, woman, and boy, who attempts to milk Peggy is sure to be upset. It has proved useless to tie her by the leg and the tail—the wicked rogue would find a way of defeating her enemies before the milking was ended.”
“Are you sure that I shall have to try to milk Peggy in the morning?” inquired Tim.
“Quite certain,” replied the elfin.
“Then I—I think I had better go away now, at once, before the morning, don’t you?” said the lad ruefully.
“No, I don’t, because I can tell you how to overcome the antics of this refractory cow.”
“How?”
“I will tell you upon one condition,” replied the fairy parrot, rubbing its beak reflectively.
“What condition?” asked Tim.
“That you set me free as soon as you have completed your task to-morrow.”
“It’s a bargain,” replied little Tim readily. “I can easily get the farmer another parrot—a real bird, you know—and then there will be no harm done.”
“Very good. Now listen. On the gable of this house there grows a creeper with a pale blue flower. In the morning, when they call you, go and gather a small wreath of this plant, and when the wicked cow is bailed up ready for milking, place the vine around her horns, and you may take the word of an Australian fairy that Peggy will stand as quiet as a mouse until you have drained her teats as dry as a corn cob.”
“Lor! how simple!” replied Tim.
“All knowledge is simple, boy, when you once acquire it. You’ll not forget my instructions?”
“No, I thank you. I shall remember.”
“Kiss Cockie, then, say your prayers like a good boy, and go to bed. Good-night.”
Tim wished to ask the fairy bird a hundred questions, but after it had said good-night it would not utter another word, so the boy went to bed and fell asleep.
The sun was up before him in the morning. Yet Tim managed to get down into the garden and cut a slender tendril from the creeper, which he formed into a small hoop, just as the farmer’s voice was heard calling him.
Twenty cows had to be milked every morning at the farm, and Tim heard a great deal of shouting and bellowing, and clanking of milk-cans, which proceeded from a yard at hand, enclosed with a high fence and into which the cattle had been driven.
The farmer led our hero into the enclosure, and pointing to where the ill-tempered short-horn stood, with her head in the bail, said briefly, “Sit down and milk that cow.”
The boy went up to Peggy, who gave a loud bellow at sight of him. He placed the vine around her horns, then sat down to his task. Mark Wilson stood ready to pick the boy up in case the cow knocked him over; but the beast never moved until the boy had drawn every drop of milk from her teats. The good farmer was filled with amazement, and cried out, “Twenty-five boys and ten men have all tried to milk Peggy, and not one of them has succeeded but you. Therefore, from this moment, I will adopt you as my son, Tim, and you shall marry my little girl Amy, by-and-by, and I will leave you the farm as a wedding present.” And the farmer kept his word.
When Tim went upstairs to set the parrot free, he found the bird transformed into a beautiful wee lady, whom he politely lifted out of the cage. She thanked him, and made him a graceful curtsey as she vanished out of the window.