The Story of Malachi

"The Story of Malachi" by Henry Lawson is a poignant exploration of the life of a young boy named Malachi, who navigates the harsh realities of rural life in Australia. Through vivid storytelling and rich character development, Lawson addresses themes of hardship, resilience, and the search for identity. Set against the backdrop of the Australian landscape, the narrative reflects on the challenges faced by individuals in a tough environment, while also highlighting the innocence and dreams of youth. Lawson's writing captures the essence of Australian life and offers a compelling look at the struggles and triumphs of its people.

• Short story

								
Malachi was very tall, very thin, and very round-shouldered, and the
sandiness of his hair also cried aloud for an adjective. All the boys
considered Malachi the greatest ass on the station, and there was no
doubt that he was an awful fool. He had never been out of his native
bush in all his life, excepting once, when he paid a short visit to
Sydney, and when he returned it was evident that his nerves had received
a shaking. We failed to draw one word out of Malachi regarding his views
on the city--to describe it was not in his power, for it had evidently
been something far beyond his comprehension. Even after his visit had
become a matter of history, if you were to ask him what he thought of
Sydney the dazed expression would come back into his face, and he would
scratch his head and say in a slow and deliberate manner, “Well, there's
no mistake, it's a caution.” And as such the city remained, so far as
Malachi's opinion of it was concerned.

Malachi was always shabbily dressed, in spite of his pound a week and
board, and “When Malachi gets a new suit of clothes” was the expression
invariably used by the boys to fix a date for some altogether improbable
event. We were always having larks with Malachi, for we looked upon
him as our legitimate butt. He seldom complained, and when he did his
remonstrance hardly ever went beyond repeating the words, “Now, none of
your pranktical jokes!” If this had not the desired effect, and we
put up some too outrageous trick on him, he would content himself by
muttering with sorrowful conviction, “Well, there's no mistake, it's a
caution.”

We were not content with common jokes, such as sewing up the legs
of Malachi's trousers while he slept, fixing his bunk, or putting
explosives in his pipe--we aspired to some of the higher branches of
the practical joker's art. It was well known that Malachi had an undying
hatred for words of four syllables and over, and the use of them was
always sufficient to forfeit any good opinions he might have previously
entertained concerning the user. “I hate them high-flown words,” he
would say--“I got a book at home that I could get them out of if I
wanted them; but I don't.” The book referred to was a very dilapidated
dictionary. Malachi's hatred for high-flown words was only equalled
by his aversion to the opposite sex; and, this being known, we used to
write letters to him in a feminine hand, threatening divers breach of
promise actions, and composed in the high-flown language above alluded
to. We used to think this very funny, and by these means we made his
life a burden to him. Malachi put the most implicit faith in everything
we told him; he would take in the most improbable yarn provided we
preserved a grave demeanour and used no high-flown expressions. He would
indeed sometimes remark that our yarns were a caution, but that was all.

We played upon him the most gigantic joke of all during the visit of a
certain bricklayer, who came to do some work at the homestead. “Bricky”
 was a bit of a phrenologist, and knew enough of physiognomy and human
nature to give a pretty fair delineation of character. He also went
in for spirit-rapping, greatly to the disgust of the two ancient
housekeepers, who declared that they'd have “no dalins wid him and his
divil's worruk.”'

The bricklayer was from the first an object of awe to Malachi, who
carefully avoided him; but one night we got the butt into a room
where the artisan was entertaining the boys with a seance. After
the table-rapping, during which Malachi sat with uncovered head and
awe-struck expression, we proposed that he should have his bumps read,
and before he could make his escape Malachi was seated in a chair in the
middle of the room and the bricklayer was running his fingers over
his head. I really believe that Malachi's hair bristled between the
phrenologist's fingers. Whenever he made a hit his staunch admirer,
“Donegal,” would exclaim “Look at that now!” while the girls tittered
and said, “Just fancy!” and from time to time Malachi would be heard
to mutter to himself, in a tone of the most intense conviction, that,
“without the least mistake it was a caution.” Several times at his work
the next day Malachi was observed to rest on his spade, while he tilted
his hat forward with one hand and felt the back of his head as though he
had not been previously aware of its existence.

We “ran” Malachi to believe that the bricklayer was mad on the subject
of phrenology, and was suspected of having killed several persons in
order to obtain their skulls for experimental purposes. We further
said that he had been heard to say that Malachi's skull was a most
extraordinary one, and so we advised him to be careful.

Malachi occupied a hut some distance from the station, and one night,
the last night of the bricklayer's stay, as Malachi sat smoking over the
fire the door opened quietly and the phrenologist entered. He carried a
bag with a pumpkin in the bottom of it, and, sitting down on a stool, he
let the bag down with a bump on the floor between his feet. Malachi was
badly scared, but he managed to stammer out--

“'Ello!” “'Ello!” said the phrenologist.

There was an embarrassing silence, which was at last broken by “Bricky”
 saying “How are you gettin' on, Malachi?”

“Oh, jist right,” replied Malachi.

Nothing was said for a while, until Malachi, after fidgeting a good deal
on his stool, asked the bricklayer when he was leaving the station.

“Oh, I'm going away in the morning, early,” said he. “I've jist been
over to Jimmy Nowlett's camp, and as I was passing I thought I'd call
and get your head.”

“What?”

“I come for your skull.

“Yes,” the phrenologist continued, while Malachi sat horror-stricken;
“I've got Jimmy Nowlett's skull here,” and he lifted the bag and
lovingly felt the pumpkin--it must have weighed forty pounds. “I spoilt
one of his best bumps with the tomahawk. I had to hit him twice,
but it's no use crying over spilt milk.” Here he drew a heavy
shingling-hammer out of the bag and wiped off with his sleeve something
that looked like blood. Malachi had been edging round for the door, and
now he made a rush for it. But the skull-fancier was there before him.

“Gor-sake you don't want to murder me!” gasped Malachi.

“Not if I can get your skull any other way,” said Bricky.

“Oh!” gasped Malachi--and then, with a vague idea that it was best
to humour a lunatic, he continued, in a tone meant to be off-hand and
careless--“Now, look here, if yer only waits till I die you can have my
whole skelington and welcome.”

“Now Malachi,” said the phrenologist sternly, “d'ye think I'm a fool? I
ain't going to stand any humbug. If yer acts sensible you'll be quiet,
and it'll soon be over, but if yer---”

Malachi did not wait to hear the rest. He made a spring for the back of
the hut and through it, taking down a large new sheet of stringy-bark in
his flight. Then he could be heard loudly ejaculating “It's a caution!”
 as he went through the bush like a startled kangaroo, and he didn't stop

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