Among the most cunning of civilised blacks was a gentleman, well up in years, known as Michael Edward.  He had been everywhere and had seen everything, and was full of what we call worldly wisdom.  His conceit in himself led him to eat abundantly, drink all he could and at anybody’s expense, smoke continuously, do as little work as possible, though apparently with lavish expenditure of industry, dress flashily and talk big.  In pursuit of these things he behaved as should a cute student of human nature.  Sent by Mrs Jenkins, his then mistress, with a message, he arrived as some tempting pastry was taken from the oven.  He eyed it all with such riotous admiration, that an invitation to taste a tart was felt compulsory.  Michael Edward assented with a “Yus, please, Missis.”  The tart was but a trifle light as air in his capacious maw, and another went the same way with loud smacking of huge lips.  Then, with a lively sense of the continuance of such favour, he said—­“My word, Missis you mo’ better cook than Missis Jenkin!”

A police magistrate had a blackfellow in his employ very much addicted to beer.  The black was brought before His Worship charged as a “drunk and disorderly.”  The magistrate lectured him severely, but paid his fine on condition that he would never drink again.  A month later the culprit was again in the court, and the magistrate, who was rather in love with his own eloquence, proceeded to read the offender a severe lecture and to threaten him with awful punishment At the most impressive point the black broke in with—­“Go on, Croker!  Shut up and pay ’em money.  Me want finish ’em fence!”

AN APT RETORT

A meeting between a steamer smartly captained and a sailing boat steered by a smart black boy familiar with the rules of the road at sea was taking place.  The steamer having too much way on, the boat narrowly escaped being run down.  “Why didn’t you keep out of the road,” yelled the captain, “Why do you let the nigger steer?” Tom in reply, “Why you no luff up?  You got blurry steamer, I no got ’em!”

MISSIS’S TROUSERS

Lady Constance Mackenzie is not the only bold female who rides astride in befitting costume.  On some North Queensland cattle stations, squatters’ wives and daughters have adopted divided skirts, and black gins employed as stockriders wear shirts and trousers, which are returned to the store when not in active service.  One bleak evening—­and it can be bleak on the North-Western Downs—­the tender heart of a new jackeroo storekeeper was touched by the sight of two black boys quaking with the cold, the attire of each being limited to a singlet tugged down to its extreme limit.

“You no got trousers?” he asked.

“Baal got ’em!”

“All right.  Me give you fella some,” and the storeman produced two pairs well worn, which were thankfully accepted.