Black
Brian was a real bushie,
a no-nonsense, quiet but strong teenager who lived on his parents' farm out
Sweetman's Creek way. He was very dark, tall and thickset. Living out in the
'donga' probably helped to shape his personality - he was easy-going and
friendly but AT 14 very independent. The bush was his domain and he spent
many hours walking the tracks around the farm and he knew most of its dark
secrets, its beauty and its pitfalls. He carried a 22 rifle with him from the
age of 12 and he knew how to use it if necessary. If you had to sum him up in
one brief phrase, 'the strong silent type' was as close as you could get.
His mate Bruce was not a 'bushie'. It is funny how friendships spring up, even perhaps more so in marriages where one partner is quite different in nature to the other. Bruce was talkative, somewhat insecure in his early adolescence although not exactly a 'city slicker', he was nonetheless not of the land.
To break the humdrum life on the farm, Brian occasionally invited a friend to spend a weekend with him. Sometimes they would camp out in the hills overnight, simply fool about on the horses or chance a dip in the murky waters of the local stream.
On Bruce's second visit to the farm, the two mates decided to take a walk through the bush along one of the many paths leading to and from the homestead. It was mid-morning and late summer and they thought they might just pick up a rabbit or two so their guns came along for the ride.
At about 11 o'clock the temperature had started to climb rapidly despite the tree cover in the bush. It became really steamy and the heat haze shimmered from the track. The shrill singing of the cicadas added to the general confusion as the two youths rounded a bend in the track, Bruce in the lead.
As Bruce wiped the sweat from his forehead and winced at the sting in his eyes, he suddenly caught sight of a branch standing upright in the middle of the path ahead. He froze dead in his tracks. The flickering tongue near the top of the branch told him that this branch was no ordinary piece of timber.
"Brian," he called, fear almost stifling the words in his mouth. "Snake, snake!" Brian, ambling along behind and relaxed in his local habitat, was surprised by his mate's sudden frenzy.
Pointing feverishly at the rearing red-bellied black snake a mere five metres down the track, Bruce called out a frantic second warning: "snake, snake!" The 'bushie' quickly summed up the situation, snapped his rifle to his shoulder and peeled off two shots. One of them - it was all too quick to discern - ripped through the throat of the menacing reptile and catapulted its head into the nearby shrub.
A relieved young 'city slicker' turned gratefully to his mate and said: "great shooting, Brian!"
"Yeah, not bad, eh?" he answered. "but why did you say that?"
"Say what? Snake, snake?" Bruce enquired. "To tell you of the danger up ahead, of course!"
Brian looked at him as only a 'bushie' can at a city kid in such situations and revealed the reason for his confusion. "Mate, you didn't say: 'snake, snake!' You said: 'black, black'!"
His mate Bruce was not a 'bushie'. It is funny how friendships spring up, even perhaps more so in marriages where one partner is quite different in nature to the other. Bruce was talkative, somewhat insecure in his early adolescence although not exactly a 'city slicker', he was nonetheless not of the land.
To break the humdrum life on the farm, Brian occasionally invited a friend to spend a weekend with him. Sometimes they would camp out in the hills overnight, simply fool about on the horses or chance a dip in the murky waters of the local stream.
On Bruce's second visit to the farm, the two mates decided to take a walk through the bush along one of the many paths leading to and from the homestead. It was mid-morning and late summer and they thought they might just pick up a rabbit or two so their guns came along for the ride.
At about 11 o'clock the temperature had started to climb rapidly despite the tree cover in the bush. It became really steamy and the heat haze shimmered from the track. The shrill singing of the cicadas added to the general confusion as the two youths rounded a bend in the track, Bruce in the lead.
As Bruce wiped the sweat from his forehead and winced at the sting in his eyes, he suddenly caught sight of a branch standing upright in the middle of the path ahead. He froze dead in his tracks. The flickering tongue near the top of the branch told him that this branch was no ordinary piece of timber.
"Brian," he called, fear almost stifling the words in his mouth. "Snake, snake!" Brian, ambling along behind and relaxed in his local habitat, was surprised by his mate's sudden frenzy.
Pointing feverishly at the rearing red-bellied black snake a mere five metres down the track, Bruce called out a frantic second warning: "snake, snake!" The 'bushie' quickly summed up the situation, snapped his rifle to his shoulder and peeled off two shots. One of them - it was all too quick to discern - ripped through the throat of the menacing reptile and catapulted its head into the nearby shrub.
A relieved young 'city slicker' turned gratefully to his mate and said: "great shooting, Brian!"
"Yeah, not bad, eh?" he answered. "but why did you say that?"
"Say what? Snake, snake?" Bruce enquired. "To tell you of the danger up ahead, of course!"
Brian looked at him as only a 'bushie' can at a city kid in such situations and revealed the reason for his confusion. "Mate, you didn't say: 'snake, snake!' You said: 'black, black'!"
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