and board, and tin covers. They never seemed to get the idea
out of their heads that this wasn't an evergreen country,
and it wasn't going to snow all winter. My younger brother Joe
used to put pieces of meat on the tables near the boxes,
and in front of the holes where the bees went in and out,
for the dogs to grab at. But one old dog, `Black Bill', was a match for him;
if it was worth Bill's while, he'd camp there, and keep Joe and the other dogs
from touching the meat -- once it was put down -- till the bees turned in
for the night. And Joe would get the other kids round there, and when
they weren't looking or thinking, he'd brush the bees with a stick and run.
I'd lam him when I caught him at it. He was an awful young devil, was Joe,
and he grew up steady, and respectable, and respected -- and I went
to the bad. I never trust a good boy now. . . . Ah, well!

"I remember the first swarm we got. We'd been talking of getting a few swarms
for a long time. That was what was the matter with us
English and Irish and English-Irish Australian farmers:
we used to talk so much about doing things while the Germans and Scotch
did them. And we even talked in a lazy, easy-going sort of way.

"Well, one blazing hot day I saw father coming along the road, home to dinner
(we had it in the middle of the day), with his axe over his shoulder.
I noticed the axe particularly because father was bringing it home to grind,
and Joe and I had to turn the stone; but, when I noticed Joe
dragging along home in the dust about fifty yards behind father,
I felt easier in my mind. Suddenly father dropped the axe and started to run
back along the road towards Joe, who, as soon as he saw father coming,
shied for the fence and got through. He thought he was going to catch it
for something he'd done -- or hadn't done. Joe used to do so many things
and leave so many things not done that he could never be sure of father.