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Because they had looked tlirough the doorway and seen him, as a little boy, blowing the bellows for his father, tlicre, they felt, he shall stay put.To stay put was, in fact, just what the young man Stanley Parker himself desired ; but where, and how? As the litde boy, holding the musical horseshoes 13 for his father, blowing the bellows, or scraping up the grey parings of hoof and the shapely yellow mounds of manure, he had already experienced the unliappiness of these desires.Patrick The Tree of Man MAN PATRICK WHITE Patrick White’s great-grandfather went from £t^- land to Australia in 1826, and the family has remain^ there. The young horse, bright amongst his forelock, and the young and hungry dog were there, watching the young man. The man ate, swallowing with some ugliness, swallowing to get it down, he was alone, and after- wards s^jnlling the hot, metallic tea, almost to get it finished with. And the cavern of fire was enor- mous, labyrinthine, that received the man.The author was bom in Ei^land in 1912, when his parents wne in Europe for two years; at six months he was taken back to Australia where his father owned a sheep station. There was the sound of tin plate, tea on tin, the dead thump of dour. He branched and fianied, glowed and increased, and was suddenly extinguished in the litde puffs of smoke and tired thoughts. While he was sti U imbom Ins mother had thought she would like to call liim Ebenezer, but he was spared this because liis father, an obscene man, with hair on his stomach, had laughed. She was a humourless and rather fright- ened woman.How much of will, how much of fate, entered into this it was diificult to say. But he had not continued to do any of these things for long, because he knew that it was not intended.‘There goes young Stan,* people said, pulling down their mouths and blowing the air through their noses, because, they felt, here was somebody assailable.

vtnnd like beards, He rained upon the tin roofs till even elders grew thoughtful, and smaller, and yellower, by the light of smoking lamps, and He cut the throat of 11 old Joe Skinner, who was nothing to deserve it, not that anyone knew of, he was a decent old cuss, who liked to feed birds with crusts of bread.‘At least you will be a comfort to your mother, Stan,* said Mrs Parker, lier nose grown thin and pink, not so much from grief as from remembering many of tliose incidents which liad pained her in a world that is not nice.The boy looked at her in horror, not understanding altogether wliat she implied, but knowing for certain he could not be what she expected.Birds looked from twigs, and the eyes of animals were drawn to what was happening. The man made a lean-to with bags and a few saplings. He sighed at last, because the lighting of his smdl fire had kmdled in him the first warmth of content. That particular part of the bush had been made his by the entwining fire. By this time also die red dog had come and sat at the fire, near, though not beside the man, who was not intimate with his animals. It was enough for them to be there, at a decent distance. His face had grown sharp with attention, and with a longing for food, for the tucker box that had not yet been lifted from the cart. Hunger had caused him to place his paws delicately. In the drowsy bosom of the fire that he had made the young man remembered his parents and his mother’s (jod, who was a pale-blue gentleness.His yellow eyes consumed the man in the interval before meat. He had tried to see her God, in actual feature, but he had not.

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