Creep, creep, creeping
May. 27th, 2004 05:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
todayiamadaisyI’ve always loved fairy-tales and mythology, but for the most part, I feel separate from them. It’s only a story, after all. Traditional fairy tales with snow and wolves and bears and such are from a distinctly different world to central and south-eastern Australia where I grew up. At school we studied the beautiful tales of the Aboriginal Dreamtime too, part mythology, part history, but, although the landscape and features are more recognisable, the culture that created them is vastly different to mine as well.
And then… I went to an old, country school run by the last of the fire and brimstone nuns, a holy terror with a metre ruler. I went to her funeral a couple of years ago, the first (and only) time I have seen a bishop and fourteen priests officiating together. Lurking in the school library was a collection of ancient school-books, which, naturally, I read. And in the Grade Two reader was a true Australian folk tale, that put the fear of God into my six-year-old self and simutaneously scared the bejesus out of me.
Poking around in the university library yesterday, I found that book. Reading the story again, I could see why it scared me so much as a child: pet dismemberment and undescribed, silent stalkers will do that to a youngster. The landscape is familiar. The repetition just kills me, all that creep, creep, creeping. And I’m sure armchair psychologists could read aspects of it as the fears of European Australians writ large. But enough of that. It’s a fantastic story that deserves to be better known. Go on, scare a young child you love today.
The Hobyahs
Once upon a time, a little old woman and a little old man lived in the bush in a hut all made of bark. They had a little yellow dog called Dingo. The little yellow dog always barked when any one came near the hut. (Real dingoes do not bark – they howl; but this dog barked.)
One night, when the little old woman and the little old man were fast asleep, out from the gloomy gullies came the hobyahs, creep, creep, creeping.
Through the grey gum-trees came the hobyahs, run, run, running.
Skip, skip, skipping on the ends of their toes ran the hobyahs.
And the hobyahs cried, “Pull down the hut, eat up the little old man, carry off the little old woman.”
Then yellow dog Dingo ran out, barking loudly. The hobyahs were afraid.
They ran home as fast as they could go.
But the little old man woke up from his dream and cried, “Little dog Dingo barks so loud that I can neither slumber nor sleep. In the morning I will take off his tail.” So the little old man took off little dog Dingo’s tail to stop him from barking.
The second night, along came the hobyahs. Out from the gloomy gullies came the hobyahs, creep, creep, creeping.
Through the grey gum-trees came the hobyahs, run, run, running.
Skip, skip, skipping on the ends of their toes, ran the hobyahs.
And the hobyahs cried, “Pull down the hut, eat up the little old man, carry off the little old woman.”
Then yellow dog Dingo ran out, barking loudly.
The hobyahs were afraid.
They ran home as fast as they could go.
But the little old man tossed in his sleep and cried, “Little dog Dingo barks so loud that I can neither slumber nor sleep. In the morning I will take off his legs.” So the little old man took off little dog Dingo’s legs to stop him from barking.
The third night along came the hobyahs. Out from the gloomy gullies came the hobyahs, creep, creep, creeping.
Through the grey gum-trees came the hobyahs, run, run, running.
Skip, skip, skipping on the ends of their toes, ran the hobyahs.
And the hobyahs cried, “Pull down the hut, eat up the little old man, carry off the little old woman.”
Then yellow dog Dingo barked loudly.
The hobyahs were afraid.
They ran home as fast as they could go.
But the little old man heard Dingo. He sat up in bed and cried, “Little dog Dingo barks so loud that I can neither slumber nor sleep. In the morning I will take off his head.” So the little old man took off Dingo’s head. Then the little dog Dingo could not bark any more. That night along came the hobyahs.
Through the long grass came the hobyahs, creep, creep, creeping.
Through the grey gum-trees came the hobyahs, run, run, running.
Skip, skip, skipping on the ends of their toes, ran the hobyahs.
And the hobyahs cried, “Pull down the hut, eat up the little old man, carry off the little old woman.”
Now little dog Dingo could not bark any more. There was no one to frighten the hobyahs away.
They pulled down the hut. They took the little old woman away in their bag. But the little old man they could not get, for he hid himself under the bed.
Then the hobyahs went home. They hung the bag upon a big hook. In it was the little old woman.
They poked the bag with their fingers and cried, “Ha! ha! little old woman.”
But, when the sun came up, they went to sleep.
Hobyahs, you know, used to sleep all day.
When the little old man found the little old woman was gone, he was very sorry.
Now he knew when a good little dog Dingo had been.
So he took Dingo’s tail and his legs and his head and gave them back to him.
Then little dog Dingo went sniffing and sniffing along to find the little old woman.
Soon he came to the hobyahs’ house. He heard the little old woman crying in the bag.
He saw that the hobyahs were all fast asleep.
Then he cut open the bag with his sharp teeth.
Out jumped the little old woman, and ran home again as fast as she could go.
Dingo did not run away, but crept inside the bag to hide.
When night came, the hobyahs woke up, and they poked it with their long fingers.
They cried, “Ha! ha! little old woman.”
Out of the bag jumped little dog Dingo, and ate up every one of the hobyahs.
And that is why there are no hobyahs now.
Author unknown, from the Second Book of the Victorian Readers, 1930, pages 56-63.
And then… I went to an old, country school run by the last of the fire and brimstone nuns, a holy terror with a metre ruler. I went to her funeral a couple of years ago, the first (and only) time I have seen a bishop and fourteen priests officiating together. Lurking in the school library was a collection of ancient school-books, which, naturally, I read. And in the Grade Two reader was a true Australian folk tale, that put the fear of God into my six-year-old self and simutaneously scared the bejesus out of me.
Poking around in the university library yesterday, I found that book. Reading the story again, I could see why it scared me so much as a child: pet dismemberment and undescribed, silent stalkers will do that to a youngster. The landscape is familiar. The repetition just kills me, all that creep, creep, creeping. And I’m sure armchair psychologists could read aspects of it as the fears of European Australians writ large. But enough of that. It’s a fantastic story that deserves to be better known. Go on, scare a young child you love today.
The Hobyahs
Once upon a time, a little old woman and a little old man lived in the bush in a hut all made of bark. They had a little yellow dog called Dingo. The little yellow dog always barked when any one came near the hut. (Real dingoes do not bark – they howl; but this dog barked.)
One night, when the little old woman and the little old man were fast asleep, out from the gloomy gullies came the hobyahs, creep, creep, creeping.
Through the grey gum-trees came the hobyahs, run, run, running.
Skip, skip, skipping on the ends of their toes ran the hobyahs.
And the hobyahs cried, “Pull down the hut, eat up the little old man, carry off the little old woman.”
Then yellow dog Dingo ran out, barking loudly. The hobyahs were afraid.
They ran home as fast as they could go.
But the little old man woke up from his dream and cried, “Little dog Dingo barks so loud that I can neither slumber nor sleep. In the morning I will take off his tail.” So the little old man took off little dog Dingo’s tail to stop him from barking.
The second night, along came the hobyahs. Out from the gloomy gullies came the hobyahs, creep, creep, creeping.
Through the grey gum-trees came the hobyahs, run, run, running.
Skip, skip, skipping on the ends of their toes, ran the hobyahs.
And the hobyahs cried, “Pull down the hut, eat up the little old man, carry off the little old woman.”
Then yellow dog Dingo ran out, barking loudly.
The hobyahs were afraid.
They ran home as fast as they could go.
But the little old man tossed in his sleep and cried, “Little dog Dingo barks so loud that I can neither slumber nor sleep. In the morning I will take off his legs.” So the little old man took off little dog Dingo’s legs to stop him from barking.
The third night along came the hobyahs. Out from the gloomy gullies came the hobyahs, creep, creep, creeping.
Through the grey gum-trees came the hobyahs, run, run, running.
Skip, skip, skipping on the ends of their toes, ran the hobyahs.
And the hobyahs cried, “Pull down the hut, eat up the little old man, carry off the little old woman.”
Then yellow dog Dingo barked loudly.
The hobyahs were afraid.
They ran home as fast as they could go.
But the little old man heard Dingo. He sat up in bed and cried, “Little dog Dingo barks so loud that I can neither slumber nor sleep. In the morning I will take off his head.” So the little old man took off Dingo’s head. Then the little dog Dingo could not bark any more. That night along came the hobyahs.
Through the long grass came the hobyahs, creep, creep, creeping.
Through the grey gum-trees came the hobyahs, run, run, running.
Skip, skip, skipping on the ends of their toes, ran the hobyahs.
And the hobyahs cried, “Pull down the hut, eat up the little old man, carry off the little old woman.”
Now little dog Dingo could not bark any more. There was no one to frighten the hobyahs away.
They pulled down the hut. They took the little old woman away in their bag. But the little old man they could not get, for he hid himself under the bed.
Then the hobyahs went home. They hung the bag upon a big hook. In it was the little old woman.
They poked the bag with their fingers and cried, “Ha! ha! little old woman.”
But, when the sun came up, they went to sleep.
Hobyahs, you know, used to sleep all day.
When the little old man found the little old woman was gone, he was very sorry.
Now he knew when a good little dog Dingo had been.
So he took Dingo’s tail and his legs and his head and gave them back to him.
Then little dog Dingo went sniffing and sniffing along to find the little old woman.
Soon he came to the hobyahs’ house. He heard the little old woman crying in the bag.
He saw that the hobyahs were all fast asleep.
Then he cut open the bag with his sharp teeth.
Out jumped the little old woman, and ran home again as fast as she could go.
Dingo did not run away, but crept inside the bag to hide.
When night came, the hobyahs woke up, and they poked it with their long fingers.
They cried, “Ha! ha! little old woman.”
Out of the bag jumped little dog Dingo, and ate up every one of the hobyahs.
And that is why there are no hobyahs now.
Author unknown, from the Second Book of the Victorian Readers, 1930, pages 56-63.
