you would not call this singing. This was little strong pulses of sound, like a small dense steel object being struck with a small dense brass hammer.
He tried it. Bong. Ping. That was hopeless. He did a kind of sucking-and-clucking sound with his mouth. That did not sound right either, and he was glad there was no one nearby to hear it.
He thought perhaps he would get a book about birds. It would be something to do while he was here, get a book and look up the different bird noises.
Around him the landscape ticked and hummed secretively, getting on with its own mysterious life. A line of tiny black ants ran along a stick, up and down two sides of a stone, and ringed a morsel of something. Two white butterflies twisted and flirted above a bush.
The breeze on his face, the murmur of the river, the big sky overhead: Nature was all around him, expansive, generous, like a hospitable host. He was glad Chook had gone, and glad he had stayed out here rather than going straight back to Room 8 and pretending the Engineering Digest had his full attention.
Suddenly he was aware that he was not alone. Not far away a group of cows was staring at him. A herd. He supposed you called it a herd.
They seemed to have horns. He wondered if that made them bulls. He did not like the way they were watching him. If they had been humans it would have been extremely bad-mannered.
All at once he was sick of sitting on the log watching the ants, but he did not want to move. Moving could be an inflammatory thing to do.
A herd of bulls did not sound right. Perhaps cows as well as bulls could have horns. Some of these had horns and some did not. He would have liked to know what that meant. Underneath, they all had a twist of hair. He did not know what that meant either.
He had seen cows before on other country jobs. He had seen them in paddocks, chewing. He had seen them staring over fences as he drove past. He had even seen them close up, at the Sydney Show, standing in their stalls draped in prize ribbons, too fat to move, and a man waiting with a shovel held out under their rear end.
But he had never seen cows at such close quarters, and he had certainly never encountered cows who were so embarrassingly interested in him.
He sat looking hard at the ants. He was going to be as boring as possible, so that the cows would lose interest. It would be easy. He could go on being boring for as long as it took.
He sat very still and made his face go blank. A fly landed on his chin but he did not move. It crawled up on to the corner of his mouth like a slow torture, but he was determined not to brush it off. That might be interesting.
He thought of Chook Henderson. A man like that would not even notice a few cows looking at him. He would think it was ridiculous to give them a second thought.
Perhaps the hat was the problem. It had looked harmless enough in the shop, the most neutral sort of country-person’s flat-topped felt hat, but it seemed to be causing tremendous interest here. He wondered if he should take it off, but taking it off might be even more interesting.
He stared at the ants, but he was not concentrating. A big foot struck the ground behind him and he glanced around. One cow had come up in front of the others. As he watched, it took another step towards him. It was a very solid foot with a lot of weight behind it, and it came down hard. The animal it belonged to was close enough now that he could see the long curly eyelashes, and a smudge of mud on its nose.
Curious, he told himself calmly. It was something he’d heard people say. They’re simply curious. He stared back at the thing, noticing how its eyes were set wide apart on each side of its head. Poor binocular vision. He was probably just a blur, a kind of tall mushroom, a stalk with a hat on. That outraged and astonished look did not mean anything, it was just what it did when it was trying to focus. He’d had a teacher at school who did that, stood giving you the outraged
He tried it. Bong. Ping. That was hopeless. He did a kind of sucking-and-clucking sound with his mouth. That did not sound right either, and he was glad there was no one nearby to hear it.
He thought perhaps he would get a book about birds. It would be something to do while he was here, get a book and look up the different bird noises.
Around him the landscape ticked and hummed secretively, getting on with its own mysterious life. A line of tiny black ants ran along a stick, up and down two sides of a stone, and ringed a morsel of something. Two white butterflies twisted and flirted above a bush.
The breeze on his face, the murmur of the river, the big sky overhead: Nature was all around him, expansive, generous, like a hospitable host. He was glad Chook had gone, and glad he had stayed out here rather than going straight back to Room 8 and pretending the Engineering Digest had his full attention.
Suddenly he was aware that he was not alone. Not far away a group of cows was staring at him. A herd. He supposed you called it a herd.
They seemed to have horns. He wondered if that made them bulls. He did not like the way they were watching him. If they had been humans it would have been extremely bad-mannered.
All at once he was sick of sitting on the log watching the ants, but he did not want to move. Moving could be an inflammatory thing to do.
A herd of bulls did not sound right. Perhaps cows as well as bulls could have horns. Some of these had horns and some did not. He would have liked to know what that meant. Underneath, they all had a twist of hair. He did not know what that meant either.
He had seen cows before on other country jobs. He had seen them in paddocks, chewing. He had seen them staring over fences as he drove past. He had even seen them close up, at the Sydney Show, standing in their stalls draped in prize ribbons, too fat to move, and a man waiting with a shovel held out under their rear end.
But he had never seen cows at such close quarters, and he had certainly never encountered cows who were so embarrassingly interested in him.
He sat looking hard at the ants. He was going to be as boring as possible, so that the cows would lose interest. It would be easy. He could go on being boring for as long as it took.
He sat very still and made his face go blank. A fly landed on his chin but he did not move. It crawled up on to the corner of his mouth like a slow torture, but he was determined not to brush it off. That might be interesting.
He thought of Chook Henderson. A man like that would not even notice a few cows looking at him. He would think it was ridiculous to give them a second thought.
Perhaps the hat was the problem. It had looked harmless enough in the shop, the most neutral sort of country-person’s flat-topped felt hat, but it seemed to be causing tremendous interest here. He wondered if he should take it off, but taking it off might be even more interesting.
He stared at the ants, but he was not concentrating. A big foot struck the ground behind him and he glanced around. One cow had come up in front of the others. As he watched, it took another step towards him. It was a very solid foot with a lot of weight behind it, and it came down hard. The animal it belonged to was close enough now that he could see the long curly eyelashes, and a smudge of mud on its nose.
Curious, he told himself calmly. It was something he’d heard people say. They’re simply curious. He stared back at the thing, noticing how its eyes were set wide apart on each side of its head. Poor binocular vision. He was probably just a blur, a kind of tall mushroom, a stalk with a hat on. That outraged and astonished look did not mean anything, it was just what it did when it was trying to focus. He’d had a teacher at school who did that, stood giving you the outraged
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