At earliest dawn we were awakened by wild, despairing shrieks, and were
instinctively groping for our revolvers when we remembered the fatted
fowls and Cheon's lonely vigil, and turning out, dressed hastily,
realising that Christmas had come, and the pullets had sung their last
"sing-out."
When we appeared the stars were still dimly shining, but Cheon's face was
as luminous as a full moon, as, greeting each and all of us with a "Melly
Clisymus," he suggested a task for each and all. Some could see about
taking the Vealer down from the gallows; six lubras were "rounded up" for
the plucking of the pullets, while the rest of us were sent out, through
wet grass and thicket, into the cold, grey dawn, to gather in "big, big
mob bough and mistletoe," for the beautifying of all things.
How we worked! With Cheon at the helm, every one was of necessity
enthusiastic. The Vealer was quartered in double-quick time, and the
first fitful rays of sunlight found their way to the Creek crossing to
light up an advancing forest of boughs and mistletoe clumps that moved
forward on nimble black legs.
In a gleaming, rustling procession the forest of green boughs advanced,
all crimson-flecked with mistletoe and sunlight, and prostrated itself
around us in mighty heaps at the head of the homestead thoroughfare.
Then the nimble black legs becoming miraculously endowed with nimble
black bodies and arms, soon the gleaming boughs were piled high upon the
iron roof of the Eastern verandah to keep our impromptu dining-hall cool
and fresh.
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