On the diggings up to twenty odd years ago -- and as far back
as I can remember -- on Lambing Flat, the Pipe Clays, Gulgong, Home Rule,
and so through the roaring list; in bark huts, tents, public-houses,
sly grog shanties, and -- well, the most glorious voice of all
belonged to a bad girl. We were only children and didn't know
why she was bad, but we weren't allowed to play near or go near
the hut she lived in, and we were trained to believe firmly
that something awful would happen to us if we stayed to answer a word,
and didn't run away as fast as our legs could carry us, if she attempted
to speak to us. We had before us the dread example of one urchin,
who got an awful hiding and went on bread and water for twenty-four hours
for allowing her to kiss him and give him lollies. She didn't look bad
-- she looked to us like a grand and beautiful lady-girl --
but we got instilled into us the idea that she was an awful bad woman,
something more terrible even than a drunken man, and one whose presence
was to be feared and fled from. There were two other girls
in the hut with her, also a pretty little girl, who called her "Auntie",
and with whom we were not allowed to play -- for they were all bad;
which puzzled us as much as child-minds can be puzzled.
We couldn't make out how everybody in one house could be bad.
We used to wonder why these bad people weren't hunted away or put in gaol
if they were so bad. And another thing puzzled us. Slipping out after dark,
when the bad girls happened to be singing in their house, we'd sometimes
run against men hanging round the hut by ones and twos and threes, listening.
They seemed mysterious. They were mostly good men, and we concluded
they were listening and watching the bad women's house to see
that they didn't kill anyone, or steal and run away with any bad little boys
-- ourselves, for instance -- who ran out after dark;
which, as we were informed, those bad people were always on the lookout
for a chance to do.