-- it was in winter time -- the difference in our complexions
was not so marked at times.

Black Joe's father, old Black Jimmie, lived in a gunyah
on the rise at the back of the sheepyards, and shepherded for my uncle.
He was a gentle, good-humoured, easy-going old fellow with a pleasant smile;
which description applies, I think, to most old blackfellows in civilisation.
I was very partial to the old man, and chummy with him,
and used to slip away from the homestead whenever I could,
and squat by the campfire along with the other piccaninnies,
and think, and yarn socially with Black Jimmie by the hour.
I would give something to remember those conversations now.
Sometimes somebody would be sent to bring me home, when it got too late,
and Black Jimmie would say:

"Piccaninnie alonga possum rug," and there I'd be, sound asleep,
with the other young Australians.

I liked Black Jimmie very much, and would willingly have adopted him
as a father. I should have been quite content to spend my days in the scrub,
enjoying life in dark and savage ways, and my nights "alonga possum rug";
but the family had other plans for my future.

It was a case of two blackfellows and one gin, when Black Jimmie went a-wooing
-- about twelve years before I made his acquaintance -- and he fought
for his bride in the black fashion. It was the last affair of that kind
in the district. My uncle's brother professed to have been present
at the fight, and gave me an alleged description of it.
He said that they drew lots, and Black Jimmie put his hands on his knees
and bent his head, and the other blackfellow hit him a whack on the skull