“Hush, mother,” he said quietly, laying his hand on her arm, “don’t make a sound, or you will do more harm than good.” Then quietly he crept into his own room and speaking softly, said:
“Where is it now, Jennie? Don’t be afraid, lassie.”
“On my stomach, father, and it is working up to my breast,” she replied in a low tone.
I thought, of course, the father would have rushed into the room, and at one blow would have killed the reptile. Not so, the old man had learnt by experience a better way than that.
The door of the bedroom was just at the foot of the girl’s bed, and any noise, either by opening or shutting it, would have startled the snake, and, perhaps, made it plunge its poisoned fang into Jennie’s body, and thus have ended her young happy life, but the father knew just what to do under the circumstances. Going to a cupboard that stood in the corner of his room, he took down an old violin, then crossing, without a sound, over to the end of the room farthest away from the bed, he drew the bow lightly over the strings making a soft plaintive sound. The moment the snake heard the noise, it poised its head up on the girl’s breast, and as the soft plaintive notes floated about the room it began to wriggle along towards the foot of the bed in the direction of the sound. The brave girl kept her nerve and presence of mind marvellously. She knew full well her very life depended on it, for the slightest movement on her part, while the snake was on her body, would have been fatal. But as soon as she felt the snake slip off the bed she sprang up and out of the way. The snake, when it heard her move, made a dart for a small knot hole in the planking of the floor, through which it had entered the room, but it had Jennie to reckon with, and before it could reach it she had thrown a pillow upon it, then her father rushed in and dispatched it with a stick, he brought it outside, and we measured it, and found it was three feet nine inches in length, and was about as thick as a broom handle. It was a carpet snake, one of the most deadly enemies to be encountered in bush life. A few minutes afterwards, Jennie and her mother having dressed, came outside, and I could not help telling her how much I admired her nerve and courage, and asked how she knew it was a snake?
“Why because it was so cold and clammy,” she replied, making a wry face. “A snake is always cold, no matter how hot the place may be where it gets into.”
The next day I had occasion to go to Newcastle on some business for Mr. Williams and looked forward with some pleasure to the twelve mile ride through the bush on the back of old Blunderbuss, a horse that had once belonged to that king of bushrangers, Captain Morgan, and after having passed through several people’s hands, had become the property of Mr. Williams. We had only gone a few miles on our way, when I began to notice that what little air there was had an acrid smell about it, and every step it seemed to become more close and stifling. Blunderbuss, too, began to twitch his ears and sniff. Then a little farther on the cause of it burst upon me—the bush was on fire—for a second or two I pulled up, and looking round, to my amazement the trees near by began to blaze and crackle, and there I was with fire in the front of me and sweeping along the path over which I had come. There was nothing to be done but try and get through to where it was already burnt, so putting spurs to the horse we began our race for life. Hotter and hotter grew the blast, as I urged the panting beast forward. Kangaroos leaped out from among the burning scrub, and fled onward, a greater enemy than man was upon them. Then a drove of wild horses went madly past, while the birds shrieked and fluttered above our heads, powerless to help themselves. Onward, still onward we went, the flames hissing and crackling over our heads, and still we seemed to be no nearer to the outlet, no track was visible, and all around was the thick hot air. Blunderbuss, too, seemed to be pulling in quite an opposite direction, then it flashed across my mind that perhaps the instinct of the poor beast would lead us into safety, so giving him his head and hoping for the best I let him go his own way. In an instant he wheeled almost round, and sped onward towards what seemed a veritable inferno of flaming trees, with head outstretched and feet scarce touching the hot earth he dashed through the blazing mass, and presently to my joy I saw that he was making for an old bridle path that led around the cliffs to Newcastle, and thankful I was, for had it not been for the instinct of Blunderbuss we might both have perished miserably. As we slackened our speed now that the danger was past, I turned to look at the sight we were leaving behind. Overhead was a dusky canopy of thick black smoke, there stood the black bare trees between us and the still raging fire, farther away the sparks were dropping from the thick smoke like a hailstorm, then again it looked like a moving curtain of crimson smoke, with the falling and blazing twigs and small branches, like coloured fireworks—all blue, red and yellow, while tongues of flame licked up the dry scrub and grass.
It was a grand sight to look at when you were safely out of it, but we were both in a sorry state, for our hair was singed and our skin blistered where the flames had touched us. The next day Blunderbuss and I returned to Belmont, needless to say we gave the still burning bush a wide berth, and reached home before nightfall. The fire was burning for the best part of a week, and when some weeks afterwards I passed that way again, I marvelled how we had ever passed through that furnace of flame.