Bush Cats by Henry Lawson
"Domestic cats" we mean — the descendants of cats who came from
the northern world during the last hundred odd years. We do not know
the name of the vessel in which the first Thomas and his Maria came
out to Australia, but we suppose that it was one of the ships of the
First Fleet. Most likely Maria had kittens on the voyage — two lots,
perhaps — the majority of which were buried at sea; and no doubt the
disembarkation caused her much maternal anxiety.
The feline race has not altered much in Australia, from a physical
point of view — not yet. The rabbit has developed into something
like a cross between a kangaroo and a possum, but the bush has not
begun to develop the common cat. She is just as sedate and motherly
as the mummy cats of Egypt were, but she takes longer strolls of
nights, climbs gum-trees instead of roofs, and hunts stranger vermin
than ever came under the observation of her northern ancestors. Her
views have widened. She is mostly thinner than the English farm cat —
which is, they say, on account of eating lizards.
English rats and English mice — we say "English" because
everything which isn't Australian in Australia, IS English (or
British) — English rats and English mice are either rare or
non-existent in the bush; but the hut cat has a wider range for game.
She is always dragging in things which are unknown in the halls of
zoology; ugly, loathsome, crawling abortions which have not been
classified yet — and perhaps could not be.
The Australian zoologist ought to rake up some more dead languages,
and then go Out Back with a few bush cats.
The Australian bush cat has a nasty, unpleasant habit of dragging
a long, wriggling, horrid, black snake — she seems to prefer black
snakes — into a room where there are ladies, proudly laying it down
in a conspicuous place (usually in front of the exit), and then
looking up for approbation. She wonders, perhaps, why the visitors
are in such a hurry to leave.
Pussy doesn't approve of live snakes round the place, especially if
she has kittens; and if she finds a snake in the vicinity of her
progeny — well, it is bad for that particular serpent.
This brings recollections of a neighbour's cat who went out in the
scrub, one midsummer's day, and found a brown snake. Her name — the
cat's name — was Mary Ann. She got hold of the snake all right, just
within an inch of its head; but it got the rest of its length wound
round her body and squeezed about eight lives out of her. She had the
presence of mind to keep her hold; but it struck her that she was in a
fix, and that if she wanted to save her ninth life, it wouldn't be a
bad idea to go home for help. So she started home, snake and all.
The family were at dinner when Mary Ann came in, and, although she
stood on an open part of the floor, no one noticed her for a while.
She couldn't ask for help, for her mouth was too full of snake.
By-and-bye one of the girls glanced round, and then went over the
table, with a shriek, and out of the back door. The room was cleared
very quickly. The eldest boy got a long-handled shovel, and in another
second would have killed more cat than snake; but his father
interfered. The father was a shearer, and Mary Ann was a favourite cat
with him. He got a pair of shears from the shelf and deftly shore off
the snake's head, and one side of Mary Ann's whiskers. She didn't
think it safe to let go yet. She kept her teeth in the neck until the
selector snipped the rest of the snake off her. The bits were carried
out on a shovel to die at sundown. Mary Ann had a good drink of milk,
and then got her tongue out and licked herself back into the proper
shape for a cat; after which she went out to look for that snake's
mate. She found it, too, and dragged it home the same evening.
Cats will kill rabbits and drag them home. We knew a fossicker
whose cat used to bring him a bunny nearly every night. The fossicker
had rabbits for breakfast until he got sick of them, and then he used
to swap them with a butcher for meat. The cat was named Ingersoll,
which indicates his sex and gives an inkling to his master's religious
and political opinions. Ingersoll used to prospect round in the
gloaming until he found some rabbit holes which showed encouraging
indications. He would shepherd one hole for an hour or so every
evening until he found it was a duffer, or worked it out; then he
would shift to another. One day he prospected a big hollow log with a
lot of holes in it, and more going down underneath. The indications
were very good, but Ingersoll had no luck. The game had too many ways
of getting out and in. He found that he could not work that claim by
himself, so he floated it into a company. He persuaded several cats
from a neighbouring selection to take shares, and they watched the
holes together, or in turns — they worked shifts. The dividends more
than realised even their wildest expectations, for each cat took home
at least one rabbit every night for a week.
A selector started a vegetable garden about the time when rabbits
were beginning to get troublesome up country. The hare had not shown
itself yet. The farmer kept quite a regiment of cats to protect his
garden — and they protected it. He would shut the cats up all day
with nothing to eat, and let them out about sundown; then they would
mooch off to the turnip patch like farm-labourers going to work. They
would drag the rabbits home to the back door, and sit there and watch
them until the farmer opened the door and served out the ration of
milk. Then the cats would turn in. He nearly always found a
semi-circle of dead rabbits and watchful cats round the door in the
morning. They sold the product of their labour direct to the farmer
for milk. It didn't matter if one cat had been unlucky — had not got
a rabbit — each had an equal share in the general result. They were
true socialists, those cats.
One of those cats was a mighty big Tom, named Jack. He was death
on rabbits; he would work hard all night, laying for them and dragging
them home. Some weeks he would graft every night, and at other times
every other night, but he was generally pretty regular. When he
reckoned he had done an extra night's work, he would take the next
night off and go three miles to the nearest neighbour's to see his
Maria and take her out for a stroll. Well, one evening Jack went into
the garden and chose a place where there was good cover, and lay low.
He was a bit earlier than usual, so he thought he would have a doze
till rabbit time. By-and-bye he heard a noise, and slowly, cautiously
opening one eye, he saw two big ears sticking out of the leaves in
front of him. He judged that it was an extra big bunny, so he put some
extra style into his manoeuvres. In about five minutes he made his
spring. He must have thought (if cats think) that it was a whopping,
old-man rabbit, for it was a pioneer hare — not an ordinary English
hare, but one of those great coarse, lanky things which the bush is
breeding. The selector was attracted by an unusual commotion and a
cloud of dust among his cabbages, and came along with his gun in time
to witness the fight. First Jack would drag the hare, and then the
hare would drag Jack; sometimes they would be down together, and then
Jack would use his hind claws with effect; finally he got his teeth in
the right place, and triumphed. Then he started to drag the corpse
home, but he had to give it best and ask his master to lend a hand.
The selector took up the hare, and Jack followed home, much to the
family's surprise. He did not go back to work that night; he took a
spell. He had a drink of milk, licked the dust off himself, washed it
down with another drink, and sat in front of the fire and thought for
a goodish while. Then he got up, walked over to the corner where the
hare was lying, had a good look at it, came back to the fire, sat down
again, and thought hard. He was still thinking when the family