Thus gypsum reared wheat, under the foot-print of the black man,
who shod his spear in obsidian. Things that began before history, were
meeting from very different sides. Nature extended one hand to the inflow
of civilisation, another to the rude holding of it back. There was a
point of contact in the adventure of a settler, Turner by name, whom Sir
George Grey met near the Murray River. It fell out comedy, but might have
been tragedy; and how often those two flirt with each other round a
corner!
The fact, upon which the affair hinged, was that Turner wore a wig, no
doubt for sufficient reason. He was making a journey across country, and
with him were a few natives, guides and packmen. Perhaps his head grew
hot; anyhow, at some stage he took a penknife from his pocket, and ran
the blade under the edge of the wig. The native nearest to him,
suspicious of witchcraft, stared at this act, terror written on every
feature. With a deft lift of the knife, Turner had the wig clear of his
head. The native stayed no longer to consider 'Is this a sorcerer?' He
whipped off, to what he considered a safe distance. The innocent Turner
followed his retreat with laughing eye, amused at the effect produced.
For acknowledgment, a spear cracked through the satchel on his back, and
wounded him slightly.
Pages:
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83