At the back of the world

by George Pugh; Jennie Pugh

At Belmont, our next door neighbour, Mrs. Rebecca Smith, lived a quarter of a mile away, but this was thought little of in the Australian bush, where, frequently, your nearest neighbour lives five miles off. Mrs. Smith was a buxom, good-looking widow, and she knew it. She had a good weatherboard house and a large patch of freehold land, with a nice well-kept vegetable patch, and she kept a good number of pigs, which were noted for their size and quality.

Now there was one pig in particular that she took a great pride in, though, at the same time, it was the plague of her life. It was very fond of roaming, and would not confine itself to the large paddock where the stye was placed, but preferred other people’s patches, especially if they happened to be vegetable patches. It would travel miles away from home at times; a gate was no obstacle to it—it would burrow under it in no time—and it was really surprising what a small hole it would squeeze itself through.

Mrs. Smith’s garden was alongside the main road leading from Newcastle, New South Wales, to the Wallsend coal mines. The fence of the garden was a low one, and everyone passing could see how clean and tidy she kept it. A good number of people passed by on horseback and in vehicles, and whenever Mrs. Smith heard anybody coming along, she would stand at the door facing the road and smilingly bid them good-day. The widow was about forty, strong, healthy, and fair to look on—her fine, fat, round arms were a sight to see—and many a man passed the cottage just to catch a glimpse of the bonny widow standing at the door.

Now, one Saturday evening this torment of a pig got out of the stockyard, burrowed under the fence, and got into the widow’s garden patch, where it made terrible havoc of the beds. It turned up a lot of vegetables, took a bite of a dozen water melons, tore the bark off several fig-trees, and bit the stem of a lovely passion-fruit vine right through, killing the plant.

The following morning—Sunday—when Mrs. Smith saw the damage that had been done, she vowed there and then that the pig should die. But it could not be found anywhere, until about ten o’clock she heard it in the bush at the back of the house. She immediately sent her two young sons and a workman to drive it into the stockyard, and when they had done so, Mrs. Smith told her son to get his rifle and shoot the pig at once. The boy slipped into the house, and returned with the gun in his hands, and made over towards the pig, who was crunching some turnip.

“Shoot him in the head, Willie,” cried the widow, as she stood in the gateway to prevent the pig from escaping.

As the boy approached, the pig looked up, and, seeing the shining barrel pointing at his head, scented danger, and turned right-about ready to bolt. Just then the boy fired, and the shot entered the pig at the wrong end. With a piercing squeal and a grunt, it made a dart for the gate, turning the boy head over heels in its mad rush. Mrs. Smith, seeing the pig coming straight for the gate, and having no time to close it, spread out her legs to block the passage with her skirts. (Mrs. Smith made her own clothes and put good material into them). The pig, nothing daunted by Mrs. Smith’s presence, made a dash between her legs, his snout ripped a hole in the skirt, his head went through, and Mrs. Smith was jerked off her feet, the skirt being bridled over the pig’s head. The widow fell flat on her face on the pig’s back, with her head to its tail. Finding herself being dragged along, she threw her arms around the pig’s body and clipped its neck with her legs, and held on like grim death, a second Mazeppa.

On dashed the pig squealing, Mrs. Smith screeching, the boys and the workman yelling as they raced after them. The pig, thinking to escape his pursuers, left the road and struck into the bush, and soon the covering was torn off Mrs. Smith’s back by the bushes. But still the pig rushed on, and still Mrs. Smith held on to the pig, and by this time quite a number of people had started to follow.

Now, there was no church or chapel at Belmont, but a sprinkling of people used to gather together and hold a Methodist meeting in a little school-room where a one-legged schoolmaster taught the children of the district reading, writing and arithmetic. On Sunday one of the men read Spurgeon’s sermons out of a book, and each in turn, as the spirit moved them, prayed loud and long for forgiveness of their sins which were few, and of their neighbour’s, which were many.

On this particular Sunday morning a local preacher had come from Minmi to hold service in the little schoolroom. He had opened the Good Book, wiped his face, coughed, and given out his text: “Repent ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” He paused for a moment to let the words take effect. Then, in a sterner and more determined tone, he repeated the text: “Repent ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” There was silence for a moment.