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=OUR HOLIDAYS=



HISTORICAL STORIES

RETOLD FROM

ST. NICHOLAS MAGAZINE

IN FIVE VOLUMES


INDIAN STORIES
A mirror of Indian ideas, customs, and adventures.

COLONIAL STORIES
Stirring tales of the rude frontier life of early times.

REVOLUTIONARY STORIES
Heroic deeds, and especially children's part in them.

CIVIL WAR STORIES
Thrilling stories of the great struggle, both on land and sea.

OUR HOLIDAYS
Something of their meaning and spirit.


Each about 200 pages. Full cloth, 12mo.


THE CENTURY CO.

[Illustration: HO, FOR THE CHRISTMAS TREE!]



OUR HOLIDAYS

THEIR MEANING AND SPIRIT

RETOLD FROM ST. NICHOLAS

[Illustration]

PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO.
NEW YORK MCMVI

THE DE VINNE PRESS




=CONTENTS=

PAGE

OUR HOLIDAYS 1

ST. SATURDAY _Henry Johnstone_ 3


HALLOWE'EN 7

ALL-HALLOW-EVE MYTHS _David Brown_ 9


ELECTION DAY 13

RIGHTS AND DUTIES OF CITIZENS _S.E. Forman_ 15


THANKSGIVING DAY 21

A THANKSGIVING DINNER THAT FLEW AWAY _H. Butterworth_ 23


WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY 35

THE BOYHOOD OF JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER _William H. Rideing_ 37


CHRISTMAS 51

HOW UNCLE SAM OBSERVES CHRISTMAS _Clifford Howard_ 53


NEW YEAR'S DAY 79

EXTRACT FROM "SOCIAL LIFE IN THE COLONIES" _Edward Eggleston_ 81

A CHINESE NEW YEAR'S IN CALIFORNIA _H.H._ 82


LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY 85

ABRAHAM LINCOLN _Helen Nicolay_ 87

THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS 99

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! _Walt Whitman_ 101


ST. VALENTINE'S BIRTHDAY 103

WHO BEGAN IT? _Olive Thorne_ 105


WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY 111

THE BOYHOOD OF WASHINGTON _Horace E. Scudder_ 113


LONGFELLOW'S BIRTHDAY 123

LONGFELLOW AND THE CHILDREN _Lucy Larcom_ 125


INAUGURATION DAY 139

HOW A PRESIDENT IS INAUGURATED _Clifford Howard_ 141


EASTER DAY 153

A SONG OF EASTER _Celia Thaxter_ 155

THE GENERAL'S EASTER BOX _Temple Bailey_ 159


ARBOR DAY 175

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE _William Cullen Bryant_ 177


APRIL FOOL'S DAY 181

FOURTH-MONTH DUNCE _H.M.M._ 183


MEMORIAL DAY 185

THE BOY IN GRAY _Mary Bradley_ 187


FLAG DAY 193

THE STARS AND STRIPES _Henry Russell Wray_ 195


FOURTH OF JULY 199

A STORY OF THE FLAG _Victor Mapes_ 201




=PREFACE=


To most young people, holidays mean simply freedom from lessons and a
good time. All this they should mean--and something more.

It is well to remember, for example, that we owe the pleasure of
Thanksgiving to those grateful Pilgrims who gave a feast of thanks for
the long-delayed rain that saved their withering crops--a feast of wild
turkeys and pumpkin pies, which has been celebrated now for nearly three
centuries.

It is most fitting that the same honor paid to Washington's Birthday is
now given to that of Lincoln, who is as closely associated with the
Civil War as our first President is with the Revolution.

Although the birthdays of the three American poets, Whittier, Lowell,
and Longfellow, are not holidays, stories relating to these days are
included in this collection as signalizing days to be remembered.

In this book are contained stories bearing on our holidays and annual
celebrations, from Hallowe'en to the Fourth of July.




=Our Holidays=


If all the year were playing holidays,
To sport would be as tedious as to work.

SHAKSPERE. _King Henry IV_, Part I.


=ST. SATURDAY=

[Illustration]

BY HENRY JOHNSTONE

Oh, Friday night's the queen of nights, because it ushers in
The Feast of good St. Saturday, when studying is a sin,
When studying is a sin, boys, and we may go to play
Not only in the afternoon, but all the livelong day.

St. Saturday--so legends say--lived in the ages when
The use of leisure still was known and current among men;
Full seldom and full slow he toiled, and even as he wrought
He'd sit him down and rest awhile, immersed in pious thought.

He loved to fold his good old arms, to cross his good old knees,
And in a famous elbow-chair for hours he'd take his ease;
He had a word for old and young, and when the village boys
Came out to play, he'd smile on them and never mind the noise.

So when his time came, honest man, the neighbors all declared
That one of keener intellect could better have been spared;
By young and old his loss was mourned in cottage and in hall,
For if he'd done them little good, he'd done no harm at all.

In time they made a saint of him, and issued a decree--
Since he had loved his ease so well, and been so glad to see
The children frolic round him and to smile upon their play--
That school boys for his sake should have a weekly holiday.

They gave his name unto the day, that as the years roll by
His memory might still be green; and that's the reason why
We speak his name with gratitude, and oftener by far
Than that of any other saint in all the calendar.

Then, lads and lassies, great and small, give ear to what I say--
Refrain from work on Saturdays as strictly as you may;
So shall the saint your patron be and prosper all you do--
And when examinations come he'll see you safely through.

[Illustration: St. Saturday]




=Hallowe'en=

_October 31_

The Eve of All Saints' Day


This night is known in some places as Nutcrack Night, or Snapapple
Night. Supernatural influences are pretended to prevail and hence all
kinds of superstitions were formerly connected with it. It is now
usually celebrated by children's parties, when certain special games are
played.


=ALL-HALLOW-EVE MYTHS=

BY DAVID BROWN

As the world grows old and wise, it ceases to believe in many of its
superstitions. But, although they are no longer believed in, the customs
connected with them do not always die out; they often linger on through
centuries, and, from having once been serious religious rites, or
something real in the life of the people, they become at last mere
children's plays or empty usages, often most zealously enjoyed by those
who do not understand their meaning.

All-hallow Eve is now, in our country towns, a time of careless frolic,
and of great bonfires, which, I hear, are still kindled on the hill-tops
in some places. We also find these fires in England, Scotland, and
Ireland, and from their history we learn the meaning of our celebration.
Some of you may know that the early inhabitants of Great Britain,
Ireland, and parts of France were known as Celts, and that their
religion was directed by strange priests called Druids. Three times in
the year, on the first of May, for the sowing; at the solstice, June
21st, for the ripening and turn of the year; and on the eve of November
1st, for the harvesting, those mysterious priests of the Celts, the
Druids, built fires on the hill-tops in France, Britain, and Ireland, in
honor of the sun. At this last festival the Druids of all the region
gathered in their white robes around the stone altar or cairn on the
hill-top. Here stood an emblem of the sun, and on the cairn was a sacred
fire, which had been kept burning through the year. The Druids formed
about the fire, and, at a signal, quenched it, while deep silence rested
on the mountains and valleys. Then the new fire gleamed on the cairn,
the people in the valley raised a joyous shout, and from hill-top to
hill-top other fires answered the sacred flame. On this night, all
hearth-fires in the region had been put out, and they were kindled with
brands from the sacred fire, which was believed to guard the households
through the year.

But the Druids disappeared from their sacred places, the cairns on the
hill-tops became the monuments of a dead religion, and Christianity
spread to the barbarous inhabitants of France and the British Islands.
Yet the people still clung to their old customs, and felt much of the
old awe for them. Still they built their fires on the first of May,--at
the solstice in June,--and on the eve of November 1st. The church found
that it could not all at once separate the people from their old ways,
so it gradually turned these ways to its own use, and the harvest
festival of the Druids became in the Catholic Calendar the Eve of All
Saints, for that is the meaning of the name "All-hallow Eve." In the
seventh century, the Pantheon, the ancient Roman temple of all the gods,
was consecrated anew to the worship of the Virgin and of all holy
martyrs.

By its separation from the solemn character of the Druid festival,
All-hallow Eve lost much of its ancient dignity, and became the
carnival-night of the year for wild, grotesque rites. As century after
century passed by, it came to be spoken of as the time when the magic
powers, with which the peasantry, all the world over, filled the wastes
and ruins, were supposed to swarm abroad to help or injure men. It was
the time when those first dwellers in every land, the fairies, were said
to come out from their grots and lurking-places; and in the darkness of
the forests and the shadows of old ruins, witches and goblins gathered.
In course of time, the hallowing fire came to be considered a protection
against these malicious powers. It was a custom in the seventeenth
century for the master of a family to carry a lighted torch of straw
around his fields, to protect them from evil influence through the year,
and as he went he chanted an invocation to the fire. The chief thing
which we seek to impress upon your minds in connection with All-hallow
Eve is that its curious customs show how no generation of men is
altogether separated from earlier generations. Far as we think we are
from our uncivilized ancestors, much of what they did and thought has
come into our doing and thinking,--with many changes perhaps, under
different religious forms, and sometimes in jest where they were in
earnest. Still, these customs and observances (of which All-hallow Eve
is only one) may be called the piers, upon which rests a bridge that
spans the wide past between us and the generations that have gone
before.




=Election Day=

The first Tuesday after the first Monday in November.


This day is now a holiday so that every man may have an opportunity to
cast his vote. Unlike most other holidays, it does not commemorate an
event, but it is a day which has a tremendous meaning if rightly looked
upon and rightly used. Its true spirit and significance are well set
forth in the following pages. By act of Congress the date for the
choosing of Presidential electors is set for the first Tuesday after the
first Monday in November in the years when Presidents are elected, and
the different States have now nearly all chosen the same day for the
election of State officers.


=RIGHTS AND DUTIES OF CITIZENS=

BY S.E. FORMAN

Read the bill of rights in the constitution of your State and you will
find there, set down in plain black and white, the rights which you are
to enjoy as an American citizen. This constitution tells you that you
have the right to your life, to your liberty, and to the property that
you may honestly acquire; that your body, your health and your
reputation shall be protected from injury; that you may move freely from
place to place unmolested; that you shall not be imprisoned or otherwise
punished without a fair trial by an impartial jury; that you may worship
God according to the promptings of your own conscience; that you may
freely write and speak on any subject providing you do not abuse the
privilege; that you may peaceably assemble and petition government for
the redress of grievances. These are civil rights. They, together with
many others equally dear, are guaranteed by the State and national
constitutions, and they belong to all American citizens.

These civil rights, like the air and the sunshine, come to us in these
days as a matter of course, but they did not come to our ancestors as a
matter of course. To our ancestors rights came as the result of
hard-fought battles. The reading of the bill of rights would cause your
heart to throb with gratitude did you but know the suffering and
sacrifice each right has cost.

Now just as our rights have not been gained without a struggle, so they
will not be maintained without a struggle. We may not have to fight with
cannon and sword as did our forefathers in the Revolution, but we may be
sure that if our liberty is to be preserved there will be fighting of
some kind to do. Such precious things as human rights cannot be had for
nothing.

One of the hardest battles will be to fulfil the duties which accompany
our rights, for every right is accompanied by a duty. If I can hold a
man to his contract I ought (_I owe it_) to pay my debts; if I may
worship as I please, I ought to refrain from persecuting another on
account of his religion; if my property is held sacred, I ought to
regard the property of another man as sacred; if the government deals
fairly with me and does not oppress me, I ought to deal fairly With it
and refuse to cheat it; if I am allowed freedom of speech, I ought not
to abuse the privilege; if I have a right to a trial by jury, I ought to
respond when I am summoned to serve as a juror; if I have a right to my
good name and reputation, I ought not to slander my neighbor; if
government shields me from injury, I ought to be ready to take up arms
in its defense.

Foremost among the rights of American citizenship is that of going to
the polls and casting a ballot. This right of voting is not a civil
right; it is a political right which grew out of man's long struggle for
his civil rights. While battling with kings and nobles for liberty the
people learned to distrust a privileged ruling class. They saw that if
their civil rights were to be respected, government must pass into their
own hands or into the hands of their chosen agents. Hence they demanded
political rights, the right of holding office and of voting at
elections.

The suffrage, or the right of voting, is sometimes regarded as a natural
right, one that belongs to a person simply because he is a person.

People will say that a man has as much right to vote as he has to
acquire property or to defend himself from attack. But this is not a
correct view. The right to vote is a _franchise_ or privilege which the
law gives to such citizens as are thought worthy of possessing it. It is
easy to see that everybody cannot be permitted to vote. There must be
certain qualifications, certain marks of fitness, required of a citizen
before he can be entrusted with the right of suffrage. These
qualifications differ in the different States. In most States every male
citizen over twenty-one years of age may vote. In four States, women as
well as men exercise the right of suffrage.

But the right of voting, like every other right, has its corresponding
duty. No day brings more responsibilities than Election Day. The
American voter should regard himself as an officer of government. He is
one of the members of the electorate, that vast governing body which
consists of all the voters and which possesses supreme political power,
controlling all the governments, federal and State and local. This
electorate has in its keeping the welfare and the happiness of the
American people. When, therefore, the voter takes his place in this
governing body, that is, when he enters the polling-booth and presumes
to participate in the business of government, he assumes serious
responsibilities. In the polling-booth he is a public officer charged
with certain duties, and if he fails to discharge these duties properly
he may work great injury. What are the duties of a voter in a
self-governing country? If an intelligent man will ask himself the
question and refer it to his conscience as well as deliberate upon it in
his mind, he will conclude that he ought to do the following things:

1. To vote whenever it is his privilege.

2. To try to understand the questions upon which he votes.

3. To learn something about the character and fitness of the men
for whom he votes.

4. To vote only for honest men for office.

5. To support only honest measures.

6. To give no bribe, direct or indirect, and to receive no bribe,
direct or indirect.

7. To place country above party.

8. To recognize the result of the election as the will of the
people and therefore as the law.

9. To continue to vote for a righteous although defeated cause as
long as there is a reasonable hope of victory.

"The proudest now is but my peer,
The highest not more high;
To-day of all the weary year,
A king of men am I.

"To-day alike are great and small,
The nameless and the known;
My palace is the people's hall,
The ballot-box my throne!"

WHITTIER.




=Thanksgiving Day=

Appointed by the President--usually the last Thursday in November.


Now observed as a holiday in all the States, but not a legal holiday in
all. The President's proclamation recommends that it be set apart as a
day of prayer and rejoicing. The day is of New England origin, the first
one being set by Governor Bradford of the Massachusetts colony on
December, 1621. Washington issued a thanksgiving proclamation for
Thursday, December 18, 1777, and again at Valley Forge for May 7, 1778.
The Thanksgiving of the present incorporates many of the genial features
of Christmas. The feast with the Thanksgiving turkey and pumpkin-pie
crowns the day. Even the poorhouse has its turkey. The story of "An
Old-Time Thanksgiving," in "Indian Stories" of this series, well brings
out the original spirit of the day.


=A THANKSGIVING DINNER THAT FLEW AWAY=

BY H. BUTTERWORTH

"Honk!"

I spun around like a top, looking nervously in every direction. I was
familiar with that sound; I had heard it before, during two summer
vacations, at the old farm-house on the Cape.

It had been a terror to me. I always put a door, a fence, or a stone
wall between me and that sound as speedily as possible.

I had just come down from the city to the Cape for my third summer
vacation. I had left the cars with my arms full of bundles, and hurried
toward Aunt Targood's.

The cottage stood in from the road. There was a long meadow in front of
it. In the meadow were two great oaks and some clusters of lilacs. An
old, mossy stone wall protected the grounds from the road, and a long
walk ran from the old wooden gate to the door.

It was a sunny day, and my heart was light. The orioles were flaming in
the old orchards; the bobolinks were tossing themselves about in the
long meadows of timothy, daisies, and patches of clover. There was a
scent of new-mown hay in the air.

In the distance lay the bay, calm and resplendent, with white sails and
specks of boats. Beyond it rose Martha's Vineyard, green and cool and
bowery, and at its wharf lay a steamer.

I was, as I said, light-hearted. I was thinking of rides over the sandy
roads at the close of the long, bright days; of excursions on the bay;
of clam-bakes and picnics.

I was hungry; and before me rose visions of Aunt Targood's fish dinners,
roast chickens, berry pies. I was thirsty; but ahead was the old
well-sweep, and, behind the cool lattice of the dairy window, were pans
of milk in abundance.

I tripped on toward the door with light feet, lugging my bundles and
beaded with perspiration, but unmindful of all discomforts in the
thought of the bright days and good things in store for me.

"Honk! honk!"

My heart gave a bound!

_Where_ did that sound come from?

Out of a cool cluster of innocent-looking lilac bushes, I saw a dark
object cautiously moving. It seemed to have no head. I knew, however,
that it had a head. I had seen it; it had seized me once on the previous
summer, and I had been in terror of it during all the rest of the
season.

I looked down into the irregular grass, and saw the head and a very long
neck running along on the ground, propelled by the dark body, like a
snake running away from a ball. It was coming toward me, and faster and
faster as it approached.

I dropped all my bundles.

In a few flying leaps I returned to the road again, and armed myself
with a stick from a pile of cord-wood.

"Honk! honk! honk!"

It was a call of triumph. The head was high in the air now. My enemy
moved grandly forward, as became the monarch of the great meadow
farm-yard.

I stood with beating heart, after my retreat.

It was Aunt Targood's gander.

How he enjoyed his triumph, and how small and cowardly he made me feel!

"Honk! honk! honk!"

The geese came out of the lilac bushes, bowing their heads to him in
admiration. Then came the goslings--a long procession of awkward,
half-feathered things: they appeared equally delighted.

The gander seemed to be telling his admiring audience all about it: how
a strange girl with many bundles had attempted to cross the yard; how he
had driven her back, and had captured her bundles, and now was monarch
of the field. He clapped his wings when he had finished his heroic
story, and sent forth such a "honk!" as might have startled a
major-general.

Then he, with an air of great dignity and coolness, began to examine my
baggage.

Among my effects were several pounds of chocolate caramels, done up in
brown paper. Aunt Targood liked caramels, and I had brought her a large
supply.

He tore off the wrappers quickly. Bit one. It was good. He began to
distribute the bon-bons among the geese, and they, with much liberality
and good-will, among the goslings.

This was too much. I ventured through the gate swinging my cord-wood
stick.

"Shoo!"

He dropped his head on the ground, and drove it down the walk in a
lively waddle toward me.

"_Shoo_!"

It was Aunt Targood's voice at the door.

He stopped immediately.

His head was in the air again.

"_Shoo_!"

Out came Aunt Targood with her broom.

She always corrected the gander with her broom. If I were to be whipped
I should choose a broom--not the stick.

As soon as he beheld the broom he retired, although with much offended
pride and dignity, to the lilac bushes; and the geese and goslings
followed him.

"Hester, you dear child, come here. I was expecting you, and had been
looking out for you, but missed sight of you. I had forgotten all about
the gander."

We gathered up the bundles and the caramels. I was light-hearted again.

How cool was the sitting-room, with the woodbine falling about the open
windows! Aunt brought me a pitcher of milk and some strawberries; some
bread and honey; and a fan.

While I was resting and taking my lunch, I could hear the gander
discussing the affairs of the farm-yard with the geese. I did not
greatly enjoy the discussion. His tone of voice was very proud, and he
did not seem to be speaking well of me. I was suspicious that he did not
think me a very brave girl. A young person likes to be spoken well of,
even by the gander.

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Copyright (c) 2007. bestextbooks.com. All rights reserved.

Booker prize shortlist drops early frontrunners
Latest news and features from guardian.co.uk, the world's leading liberal voice

Extract: The Whales by Evie Wyld

Christos Tsiolkas and David Mitchell, both much-tipped when they appeared on the award longlist, have been overlooked in the six finalists

Listen to Claire Armitstead and Sarah Crown discuss the Booker shortlist on a special edition of the Guardian Books Podcast

It headed the most controversial Man Booker prize longlist in years, but Christos Tsiolkas's The Slap has failed to make the final cut for the literary award, as has David Mitchell's much-tipped fifth novel, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.

Judges overlooked Australian novelist Tsiolkas's tale of the consequences when a child is slapped at a suburban barbecue – which is either "unbelievably misogynistic" or "riveting from beginning to end", depending on who's asked – and Mitchell, twice shortlisted for the prize in the past, to select a shortlist which ranges from two-time former winner Peter Carey's Parrot and Olivier in America to Emma Donoghue. The Irish writer has also stirred up debate with her Josel Fritzl-inspired Room, the story of a boy and his mother imprisoned in a tiny room for years.

Orange prize winner Andrea Levy's The Long Song, about the last years of slavery in Jamaica; Howard Jacobson's The Finkler Question, a cerebral comedy about grief and Anglo-Jewishness; experimental novelist Tom McCarthy's C, which tells the story of Serge Carrefax, a first world war radio operator who escapes from a German prison camp; and South African writer Damon Galgut's tale of a young man travelling through Greece, India and Africa, In a Strange Room, complete the six-strong shortlist for the £50,000 prize, announced this morning.

"It's been a great privilege and an exciting challenge for us to reduce our longlist of 13 to this shortlist of six outstandingly good novels," said chair of judges Andrew Motion, the former poet laureate. "In doing so, we feel sure we've chosen books which demonstrate a rich variety of styles and themes – while in every case providing deep individual pleasures."

The panel of judges had previously read 138 books to select the 13 titles for their longlist, with Martin Amis's new novel The Pregnant Widow and Ian McEwan's venture into comic fiction Solar both overlooked and Carey the only previous Booker winner on the longlist.

His inclusion on the shortlist today for Parrot and Olivier in America, a reimagining of Democracy in America author Alexis de Tocqueville's visit to the New World, gives him the chance of becoming the first ever writer to win the Booker three times, having previously taken it in 1988 for Oscar and Lucinda and 2001 for True History of the Kelly Gang.

"The omission of both David Mitchell and Christos Tsiolkas from the shortlist is a real shock. While both writers might rightly feel aggrieved at being overlooked, I imagine it took some wrangling amongst the judges to reduce one of the best longlists in years to six," said Jonathan Ruppin at independent book chain Foyles, who, while praising all six books for their "lightness of touch which means the reader doesn't get bogged down in something worthy or dull", predicted that Room was the most likely title to go on to win the award.

Waterstone's tipped C to take the prize, with fiction buying manager Simon Burke calling it "a challenging yet dazzling novel". "The news that David Mitchell has not made the shortlist will cause great wailing and gnashing of teeth across the bookworld, but perhaps is a useful reminder of the independence and unpredictability of the Booker," he said. "But this is still a hugely varied and exciting list, worthy of the Booker brand. Carey and Levy have to be strong contenders, but our money is on Tom McCarthy. The more people that read [C] the better."

The bookies agreed, with William Hill immediately installing McCarthy as 2/1 favourite to win the prize. "There has been a considerable media buzz around all of the books on the shortlist, and literary punters have staked more money in total on Tom McCarthy to win than any of the other authors, so he is a worthy favourite," said spokesman Graham Sharpe. Donoghue and Galgut came in second at the bookmaker, both at 3/1, with one customer so sure that In A Strange Room would win that they placed £400 on Galgut at 7/1, the largest single bet on the prize "for a few years", said Sharpe.

Carey came in fourth, at 5/1, with Levy at 7/1 and Jacobson the 8/1 outside to take the prize.

The opinion-splitting novels picked for this year's longlist have helped make it the most popular since 2001, with Tsiolkas's novel selling the most copies, followed by Donoghue's. The winner, who will join a roster of former winners including Margaret Atwood, Roddy Doyle and JM Coetzee, will be announced on 12 October. Last year's winner Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel is the fastest-selling Booker winner ever, with sales of around half-a-million copies to date.

The Man Booker shortlist in full:

Peter Carey's Parrot and Olivier in America

Emma Donoghue's Room

Damon Galgut's In a Strange Room

Howard Jacobson's The Finkler Question

Andrea Levy's The Long Song

Tom McCarthy's C

To buy all six Booker shortlisted titles for only £65 (save £37.94) with free UK p&p visit the Guardian Bookshop or call 0330 333 6846.


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The Marxist Miliband

Evie Wyld, whose debut novel After the Fire, a Still Small Voice won the 2009 John Llewellyn Rhys prize, has written a short story, The Whales, exclusively for Booktrust, where she is currently writer-in-residence. Here we join Jimmy, Elaine, Terry and Yvonne, deep in the bush after five days of walking. The conclusion will appear on the Booktrust website tomorrow

There are four of them footslogging single file along the trail. They sweat and wave their sticks at the flies, spitting the salt off their lips and feeling the rub of their backpacks, hot on their shoulders. A storm bird knows about them from miles off and lets out a wop-wop-wop, getting higher and louder as it goes. Jimmy watches Elaine look up at the gum-treed sky. He follows her gaze. No, he thinks. The bird is wrong; overhead is blue without a wash of cloud.

The crack of dry bark, the whistle of whip birds and sometimes a thundering in the undergrowth – a wombat, a pademelon – it all makes Jimmy feel younger. He can feel the muscles in his thighs working, can feel them thank him for not being stood at the assembly line six hours a day.

Five days of walking and now they are deep in the bush. In another day, they'll turn east, head for the sea, where if they make good time, they'll see the humpbacks heading south towards the Antarctic, their new calves in tow. There'll be a party that night, between the four of them. Terry the young bow-legged one from further down the line with a touch of the idiot about him, Yvonne his frizz-plaited, heavy cousin who runs accounts and her friend Elaine who is nothing to do with the factory and who returns his glances, smiling. Not a bad lot really, especially the girls.

Three days down the coast and they'll arrive home about ready for that soft bed and the meal without char-grit from the campfire, or the dog food pong of tinned meat. It's been good so far. He thinks of what was waiting for him if he hadn't gone bush this week – all those monkey-wrenches wanting to be set. It's been time to move on for a while, he sees that now. Only he'll wait and see what comes of Elaine and the damp hair that ringlets at the back of her neck.

Later in the day he spots a bower bird's chapel. Even this far in, the bird has found a blue toothbrush and bits of turquoise plastic to frame its humpy. He takes a photo, so that the side of Elaine's brown leg slides up the view finder.

'They only collect blue stuff', he says, mainly to Elaine. He feels the roots of his fingers strain as he reigns himself in, his stiff hands reminding him not to overdo it. Steady on.

Chances are, Elaine already knows more than him about bower birds – she told him she's walked the bush for six years, since she left varsity, this last two with Yvonne for company and he only knows from camping out when money gets bad. But he wants to show something to her. Elaine squats next to him and traces an arc with one finger in the dirt, looking at the toothbrush. She is smiling with her eyebrows pulled in.

'It's to impress the female – then she'll come down and he'll do a sexy dance.' As he explains, he wiggles his tail a little in a sexy dance and Elaine smiles wider.

Terry who has been leaning over them to get a look, gyrates around his walking stick. What his mating dance lacks in accuracy it makes up for in energy and the other three look on in silence while he makes the noise of a boombox with his lips pressed together. Jimmy's fingers stretch out towards the ground in embarrassment as he keeps his bad eye – the eye that he thinks of as his secret eye – on Elaine.

'You're a disgustin' specimen, Terry', says the stone-buttocked Yvonne. Terry quickens his hips and points, wiggling himself towards her.

Yvonne stands stiff and still like a wary buffalo. 'Never been the brightest crayon in the box', she says and they all push past him, smiles held down. Jimmy looks back to see him finish in a bunny squat and a flick of his head.

'Yeah!' says Terry loudly, arms raised and both thumbs up to the tops of the trees like they are his audience.

'Yeah' and he finds a cigarette in his back pocket, lights it and considers its glowing end before following on.

There'd been a night of heavy breathing when Elaine and Jimmy faced each other in their swags. They hadn't touched but they'd looked hard in the dark, seeing the glints of each other's tongues, teeth and eyes. There is a luxury in not touching, Jimmy thinks, in not just going with your gut; they don't have all the time in the world but they have this time, which won't end for another few days.

He looks forward to it, imagines the beach in an old film kind of a way. The last night when they will open the wine they've lugged all this way – they'll cool the bottles in a rock pool for a couple of hours, while they see what the beach has for them. He's a beach person at heart, it's where his childhood is at and he can't wait to show off about it. Terry's brought along his spearfishing gear and says he reckons on a good spot up at the point. Jimmy imagines striding into camp, a jewfish slung over one shoulder, a clutch of softly ticking crays hung from their whiskers in his other fist. When the moon's up and the salty wine is drunk, their fingers warm and sticky with sand and cray brains, he'll rub his foot over hers. He'll put his wrists either side of her jaw, so as not to touch her with his prawny fingers and he'll plant a long warm kiss on her mouth, one that shows them both that this is the start of things. He could think about staying on at the factory, him who hasn't stayed in one spot for more than six months at a time since he was 16. Or else, Elaine could come with him, go feral together up the coast. He gets the feeling there's not much holding her to the city anymore. He looks down at himself and he speaks softly to his hands You're orright you bung-eyed bastard. You're an okay sort after all.

Elaine breaks off from the group to take a pee in the scrub. She squats behind a paperbark and laughs. She's been hip deep in croc water, has woken up feeling a huntsman, as big as both of her hands put together, tangling with her feet in her swag. But the idea that the group might hear the sound of her pissing makes it so that she can't go. Eventually, she manages and makes a wet stain on the gum leaves. She pulls her shorts back up and a twig cracks not far up ahead. Shadows rise and fall as something heavy moves away. She catches up with the others at a jog.

Jimmy, that trunk of a man with his duff eye and his bear hands and her pal Yvonne are arguing about a fish. The argument is snapper versus flathead, but in what capacity Elaine is not sure. Terry is unusually quiet for a conversation involving food and he walks a little way from Jimmy and Yvonne.

'Stone lighter?' he asks quietly.

'It was a pee', she says, but her face flushes anyway.

'Right', says Terry and he smiles a weird smile. Elaine accidentally catches his eye.

By five o'clock they reach a small billabong. They strip down to their underwear and jump in like kids, laughing, drowning each other with splashing. Terry tries to duck the girls under, Jimmy dives for yabbies and opens his eyes in the bourbon-coloured water. The white legs of the other three bicycle in the open water. When he comes up for air, he can see that Yvonne is pleased with her breasts and bobs them gently up and down making small waves to the bank.

Jimmy looks a long time at Elaine and she looks back. There is a water level smile between them. He is aware of the ripples that come from his heartbeat and he sees how Elaine's canines creep over her bottom lip. Her hair is dark now, but in the light you can see into it. Where the sun hasn't caught her, her skin is like the damp underside of a leaf.

Elaine thinks she's some wonderful creature. The water holds her in on all sides, she feels good in her skin. The billabong is black from the tea trees that line the bank and when she flicks her legs to the surface she's a pale fish. She pauses before she puts her head under – a brief worry about spluttering and snotting in front of Jimmy, but then she thinks of the beach and the sea to come and she duck dives.

The dark water lifts her hair up and spreads it out, it pushes around her cheeks and taps on her eyelids as she reaches out for the leafy mud of the billabong floor, but even though she goes deep, her hands touch nothing. She kicks up for air and sends a flume of mist from her mouth. She smiles widely at Jimmy who floats on his back like an otter, hands clasped over his chest, dreaming of something.

Frogs and magpies are loud and someone finds a leech and then another and another and there's shrill laughing.

Terry shouts, 'It's eatin' the fuckin' kidneys out of me!' then, 'You girls want me to check under your bras?'

Even though everyone has had a leech before and every person has treated that leech with salt or the tip of a cigarette, quietly, without fear, they all pretend this is the first time they've been bitten and they wallow in the hysteria, enjoying it like gobble-mouthed kids.

Out of the water, damp shirts wrapped around them like towels, Jimmy burns a fat one off Elaine's shoulder. She looks at him sideways and curls a bit of paper bark around her finger.

'Ta', she says, as Jimmy passes her the cigarette which they share puffs from. He looks at her with his good eye. It creases in the corner.

The four of them set up camp a little way from the water hole, away from the leeches. Terry makes a small tepee out of kindling and rings stones around it to stop the fire spreading. Once it's lit they hang over a billy and drink tea while they watch the bats turning circles in the creeping darkness. Yvonne stirs up a thick damper and they bake it in a pan over the fire, to be eaten with a warmed tin of bean stew and rice pudding for afters. The birds are mostly quiet and the cicadas and frogs rev themselves up, as everyone slaps on Rid against the mosquitoes.

'Reckon we'll beat those whales, the way we're moving', Terry says cleaning his bowl with a licked finger.

'Fuckin' A.' Yvonne brings out a flask of bourbon to swill down the pudding with. She takes a long unflinching pull of it before passing it round and beginning a murder story.

'There's this girl went missing not far from Tully – all the kids hitchhike out there…' The dark gets deeper and everyone settles in, enjoying the creep of it. Elaine thinks that there's nothing you can't fix by putting your cheek to the land and feeling it settle. She studies the landscape of Jimmy's face. He is unashamedly enthralled by Yvonne's story. His funny eye looks directly at Elaine but doesn't see her. The lines on his forehead have dirt ground in. He's older than Elaine and she wonders what it is he's been doing all the time he's been alive.

In the silence, after Yvonne's concluding remark 'They only ever found her thumb', Terry farts, a loud one and everyone groans.

'Well, that's put that to bed', he says and they all unroll their swags around the fire and climb in for the night. Jimmy feels the hot weight of Elaine's foot on his and his fingers twitch on their own. Elaine sees Terry's wet eyes, tangerine from the fire and spreads her toes out. She stays awake for as long as possible, making up script after script of how it will go with Jimmy once they reach the sea. She replays the swim at waterhole until she's unsure if she's made parts of it up. She finally falls asleep with her heartbeat high in her chest.

Jimmy wakes long before dawn with a pressure like a stone on his bladder. He swears quietly and rolls out of his swag to ease the ache against a tree. In the undergrowth to his right, something scrabbles. He catches a strong scent and sees a wet snout or eye in the dark. A rumble in the brush and it's gone. Probably a pig or a dingo, but he's glad to get back to the group, where the coals in the fire are still orange. He checks each sleeper. Terry is spread at a diagonal, mouth open, not snoring but making noise. Yvonne sleeps on her front clutching the loose material of her swag, not letting it get away. Elaine is on her side and a brown arm has slithered free. Her hair makes a perfect ring around her ear. As he watches she produces a little noise, a tiny pop from her lips as they're opened with breath. Sleep speaking, thinks Jimmy as he burrows back into his swag, careful not to jog her feet with his, but careful also that they are touching.

The morning is hot and blue from the outset. After tea and a tidy up, they set off, aiming to reach the sea before sunset. Jimmy looks forward to a swim in the bubbling salt, a proper clean down with no bloodsuckers. Terry starts to talk about food almost immediately,

'Lamb chops.' He says confidently to Yvonne. 'That's gotta be the best type of food; lamb chops with the whole grill piece; onions, mushrooms, boiled spuds – no tomatoes though, I'm so over tomatoes.' Yvonne rolls her eyes at him.

'Couldn't give a rat's ring, Terry,' but she hands him a date and a piece of chocolate. Elaine enjoys her feeling of emptiness. Her spit tastes of eucalyptus, she feels new, like the air and blood in her has been filtered out and changed for something better.

After midday, there's a yell from Terry up ahead.

'Get a look at this!' The other three catch up to find him crouching in a small clearing surrounded by stay-a-while and they peer over his shoulder. There's a dead butcher bird on the ground and following the line of Terry's finger into one of the thorny bushes, they see its larder. A small mouse impaled through the neck, stiff and dry, missing parts of its hind quarters, a large Christmas beetle, upside down with the thorn square through the middle and last, still twitching, its legs up and angry, barely impaled through its leaking abdomen, a mouse spider.

'Christssake' whispers Jimmy stepping back.

'How the poor bastard got it up here, I can't figure,' Terry says, pushing the bird with his foot to reveal the green ants starting on its wing. The mouse spider's fangs, black and thick and shiny are up and ready to strike. It waves its legs in the air. Terry picks up a twig to poke it with, but Yvonne knocks it out of his hand.

'Don't be a bum, Terry. I'm not carrying yer fat dead lump out of here if you get bitten. You can count on that.' Jimmy takes a photograph, in which Terry insists on including his own hand, so as get the scale of the thing.

They start to walk on, but Elaine stays behind a beat or two looking at the spider; its fangs reaching for her, legs pointing.

'The sky is falling, the sky is falling!' Yvonne shrieks in a chicken voice as thunder mumbles in the distance. Elaine looks again at the sky, but it's still clear. The thunder is a long way off, but you can smell it in the air, which is heavy and hot. The tips of the trees sway in the sky, but there's no breeze down on the bush floor.

A goanna clings to a Moreton Bay fig above them but nobody sees it.

Jimmy touches the side of Elaine's hand with his little finger and as he does, the leaves to the side of her snaffle and a striped snake comes streaking out of the ground, hitting her on the boot. She barks loudly and kicks trying to get her foot away. The snake's fangs are deeply embedded in the leather of her boot and she shakes her leg hard while around her the others dip and weave and try to help and point their sticks. Jimmy thinks he has control of the situation when he holds Elaine's arm and beats at the snake with his walking stick, accidentally cracking her on the shin. The snake is dislodged, but instead of bolting back into the undergrowth, it turns again and bites Elaine, once, twice, three times and a fourth; calf, back of the knee, thigh, deeply, deeply again on her inner thigh. It's snap-quick and Jimmy doesn't have time to understand and still has Elaine by the arm so she doesn't get away. Finally, Terry gets it – a blow to the eye – and it's stunned. He stomps on the head, but it still twitches, so he beats it with his stick, smashing, till it changes colour, loses its stripes. It is still, but the bush crackles and carries on.

Elaine is tight-lipped and white. Yvonne cries softly into her cupped hands, the small beeps of a bird. Terry shoes leaves over the corpse of the snake and Jimmy still holds Elaine's arm, his grip hard from not knowing what to do, from doing the wrong thing. There is blood, Elaine thinks how it looks like she's got her period and then thinks she'd love a piece of liquorice from her backpack. She starts to turn around, to take her pack off, but her legs have lost their hardness and she is sliding back into Jimmy who is stiff and still.

'Jesus H Christ,' whispers Terry. He looks at the snake and away, prodding it rhythmically with his stick. 'Jimmy,' he says. 'Jesus, Jimmy.'

'S'just a nip,' says Elaine.

As she slides to the ground with the help of Jimmy who has become flesh again, Elaine thinks about the liquorice and then about how it was a tiger. A big dose of tiger and she's starting to feel it now, it feels like it bit her in the artery of her groin. The big one. The one where all the blood lives.

Yvonne straightens herself. She helps Elaine's pack off her back and slides it behind her back to prop her up. She pulls out her poncho and arranges it over Elaine's wounded leg, to keep it out of sight and then snaps the men into action.

'Hot water - get a fire on. Get the first aid.' She looks at the two men who are twisting their fingers. 'C'mon s'only a fuckin' snake bite, let's get it sorted and get on with it.' She's right and Jimmy says so. He says, 'Only a snake bite.' Smiling at Elaine, but what they all think, Jimmy, Terry, Yvonne and Elaine is but it's tiger. And we are deep in. Deep.

• To read the conclusion of the story, visit the Booktrust website from Tuesday 7 September.

• Evie Wyld works in the independent Review Bookshop in Peckham. She is taking part in a live-streamed book club Q&A from the shop at 7.30pm on Thursday 9 September. To find out how to submit questions for the event, visit the Booktrust website


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