“Know my way?” repeated Willie, with fine scorn. “’Course I do. You’ve only got to ride across the bridge and turn down the creek, and round the bend, and round ’em all up and drive ’em back to the slip-rails, and let ’em through, and you’re there,” he went on, jauntily.
“That’s right!” answered Mr. Hudson. “Of course, you can’t get lost. You can’t get out of the paddock, anyhow, only by the slip-rails. But mind you don’t get ‘bothered’ like some new chums do, and ride away from the place you want to go to.”
But Willie wasn’t afraid. He had set off whistling blithely. He’d let them shearing fellows see how he could drive a mob of sheep to the yards, even if he were only a city boy! The sheep were scattered about in all directions, so he rounded them up quietly and “headed” them towards the creek. He had gone much further down the swamps and gullies than he ever had before, but he didn’t notice that as he whistled and shouted to bring the sheep scampering up from the bends. After driving them along slowly for some distance he “hit” the creek, and suddenly discovered that the bends and turns seemed unfamiliar; but he kept on steadily, trying to keep down a rising fear.
“We’ll soon come to that old leany tree,” he said aloud, although he began to have a horrible fear that he was getting lost. The next bend was still unfamiliar, and then a panic seized him. Where was he? Off the track? And with no chance of finding it again. He wondered if he were going the right way, and a wild desire seized him to race up to the front of the mob and wheel them back. He just didn’t know where he was. He had twisted and turned so many times while mustering. It was all very well for the Hudsons to say there was no chance of getting lost in the creek paddock. There was. Why, he was lost now. He didn’t know whether to let the sheep go on or turn them back; he didn’t know exactly where he had brought them from, and where he had “hit” the creek. Then, like most other new chums, he completely lost his head. Here he was, out in the big paddock, with not the slightest idea where to turn; and the worst of it was, they wouldn’t give him a thought till all hours, as he was supposed to drive the sheep slowly, and perhaps he’d be miles and miles and miles away by then—perhaps he’d be dead! What a fool he was to come alone!
He pulled up and stared at his surroundings. Nothing but blue-grey gum trees everywhere, with a monotonous sameness about them. Nothing whatever to guide him. Just the same all round, and the sheep were beginning to camp now that it was growing warm. He was sorry he ever saw them. He never saw such silly old things as sheep! He was sorry he ever came out into the silly old paddock. Where was he? Why, every place looked strange and new! Yes, he was lost—lost—lost! and he put his head down on the pummel of the saddle and burst into tears. Why did he ever leave Sydney? He wished now that he was alongside the G.P.O. clock; he wished he could see a big, friendly, blue-clad policeman, to point out the way. He wished they had policemen up here in these silly old paddocks, to show a man the proper track, and he wished—oh, he wished he’d never come alone! If he lived to be a hundred thousand years, he’d never come out like this again! Here he was, under the blue sky, surrounded by blue gums and acres and acres of grass, and he might stay here all night, and perhaps they’d find him dead in the morning! Of course, they’d be sure to find him dead! He wondered what his mother would say when she heard of her poor little Willie, and then he commenced to sob. He wondered whatever Dadda would say. He wondered would he give up his office work for a time, and would he wear a black band round his arm; and what would all the other men say when they saw Dadda going in so pale and quiet every morning. He could just imagine them all getting together and speaking of poor little Willie, who got lost in the bush, and how he was found—dead! And then suddenly a wild fear seized him. Supposing the story should come true—supposing he were out all night, and the dingoes did come! Oh, horror! He wished he had never seen the horrid old country. If ever he got back to dear old Sydney again, he would never, never leave it. No! not for a million thousand Hudsons, or a million thousand horses and sheep and dogs, or a million thousand paddocks! Sydney was the best old place in all the world. No getting lost there! No chance of it with million thousands of people to ask the way! If you were in the least doubt you simply had to just ask the first person you met, and they’d give you all the information you needed. Good old Sydney! Oh! what would he do?
Just then he heard a whip crack. Oh, joy! Away in the distance, through the trees, he saw Big Tom from “Myall” riding slowly towards him. His heart gave a great bound. Saved at last! Safe again! But he must never let Tom know he’d been afraid. He must never let him know that he’d been crying. He liked Big Tom because he called him Bill sometimes, and treated him like a man. So he slipped from his pony and dashed his hands and face into the water and slipped his handkerchief under his hat, as he had often seen the men do on the hot days; and he was glad to have it flapping round his face in case Tom might notice the tell-tale tears.
Then he mounted hurriedly and shouted to the sheep, and began to muster them up again; and, lo! there was the “leany” tree, and the old familiar bend not twenty yards off from where he had been hopelessly sobbing! and there, just round the bend, Gillong was in sight; and he could even see Doris and Baby playing out on the flat. All within cooee of him all the time! Dear me! All his worrying for nothing! What would they say if they knew? But he would never, never, never tell them!
And so no one ever knew that Willie had given up hope that fine morning, and thought he was lost for ever in the creek paddock.
It was three days later.
“Oh, do let us bring the sheep in from the Gums paddock!” cried Willie. “We can drive them up—really we can. You’ll come, won’t you, Eva?”
“Yes, I’ll come,” cried Eva, who was getting much more fond of the outdoor life. “We’ll just show them, Willie, how smart we are, and that we can bring them in; and it’ll save sending a man.”
“All right,” said Mr. Hudson. “Off you go!”
“And we’ll take Gussie,” said Willie.
“All right, please yourself, but he’s no good. He knows no more about sheep than a kitten.”
“All the same, he’s a nice dog,” said Willie to himself, as he and Eva and Gussie started off.
They found the sheep down in the far corner of the paddock, feeding quietly.
“Now, then, come along,” said Willie, “and get your woolly coats off,” and he tried to whistle and called to Gussie, and soon had the sheep heading towards the gate.
“Easy, isn’t it?” he cried to Eva, who had been picking the pretty feathery grass.
“Oh, yes! the easiest thing in the world,” she answered back.
“I’d love to be a drover,” said Willie. “Sometimes I’d like big mobs of cattle, especially when they all broke away and I’d have to gallop after them. And sometimes I’d like mobs of sheep, too, especially when I had good dogs. I think I’ll break Gussie to be a real good sheep-dog, and have him for one of my best when I grow up.”
“But he’s no good. Dadda says he’s not, and he ought to know; and he said if he lives to be a hundred he’ll never be any better.”
“Hah, rubbish,” said Willie, with all a new chum’s self-assurance. “I’ll bet I could break him in. Here, Gus, where are you?” For Gussie had disappeared, but presently came rushing up from the creek, barking and yelping.
“Here, Gusso, good dog,” cried Willie.
But Gussie was frisky, and scampered round barking and yelping.
“Lie down, you fool!” shouted Willie. But, like a streak of lightning, Gussie was off after the sheep that were just nearing the gate, rushing in front of them and turning them back to the creek.
“Here, Gussie, Gussie, Gussie. Here, boy, come back here, you black animal!” shouted Willie, excitedly, as he and Eva raced after the dog. “Here, Gussie, Gussie, lie down, you brute!”
Away went Gussie, yelping excitedly and sending the sheep helter-skelter back to where they’d been driven from.
“Let’s open this gate, Willie,” cried Eva, who was hot and flushed. “That’s what we ought to have done first, and then they’d have rushed through. Let’s open this fool of a gate, and we’ll have to round them up again.”
They tugged and tugged and shoved and sighed and grunted, but all to no purpose. The springs were broken, and refused to budge.
“Come on, shake it again,” said Eva, but all to no purpose.
“Oh, damn the gate!” cried Willie.
“Oh, Willie!”
“Yes, damn the gate, and damn the dog, and damn the dashed old paddock!”
“Oh, Willie, you’re swearing! Swearing!” cried Eva, aghast. “I never thought you’d swear. When you came up here you wouldn’t think of such a thing.”
“Well, I’ll think of it now, and I know hundreds more, too. All men swear,” answered Willie, with two red streaks in his cheeks. “All men swear, and I’m going to, too. I’m not going to be an old ninny.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Willie!” said Eva.
“Well, I’m not, then. I’m not a bit ashamed, and another thing, I wish you’d stop calling me Willie. It’s nothing but Willie, Willie, Willie, all over the place. Willie’s an old woman’s name. It’s just like an old woman with half a dozen kids.”
“Willie, I’m shocked at you. I never thought you were so—so—ugly.”
“Well, I don’t care if I’m ugly or not. You call me Will, if you want to call me anything—not Willie, or little Willie, any more.”
“And I’ll tell them at home that you swore, too.”
“Tell ’em; tell ’em anything you like. Anyhow, it’s not a real swear—nothing to what I’ll say when I grow up.”
“I hope I don’t see you when you grow up, if that’s the kind of man you’re going to be.”
“Ugh! you’re not a sport. You’re not a sport’s boot-lace,” continued Willie, assuming a lordly air.
“I wouldn’t be anyone’s boot-laces,” answered Eva, disdainfully. “And—and I’ll never come out with you again. You’re a rude boy!”
“Oh, a rude boy, am I?” mimicked Willie. “If you were a man I’d fight you.”
“Yes, I suppose you would,” said Eva, still disdainfully. “That’s what you’ll be, I suppose, when you’re grown up—a fighter, and a drinker, and a smoker, and a swea——”
Just then a whip cracked in the distance, and they turned in dismay.
“Oh, Willie, the sheep! I do hope Gussie hasn’t killed them.”
“Great snakes!” shouted Willie. “Let’s after them,” and away they scampered, forgetting their anger for the time being.
Away across the paddock the sheep were coming slowly towards them, driven by Big Tom from “Myall.”
“Hello!” he cried in his loud, hearty voice. “I thought you were supposed to be taking this lot to the shed.”
“So we were, Tom; but Gussie chased them away from the gate, and we’ve been trying ever since to open the old thing,” announced Willie, importantly.
“And is it open now?”
“No. It refused to open,” said Willie, with all his manners laid on again.
“Refused to open,” chuckled Tom under his breath. “All right,” he cried, cheerily, “you two get behind this mob, and just walk along slowly, and I’ll fix up that gate in one act. I’ll take this mongrel with me,” he continued, as he tied his whip through Gussie’s collar. “No use of three new chums being together,” and he rode off.
The children had time to get cool again, and Willie was a bit ashamed of his outbreak; and, another thing, supposing Eva did tell at home, they might send him back to Sydney. They might pack him back by the next mail. Good gracious! that would be dreadful, just when he was learning to ride well and knew all the dogs and horses—and—right in the beginning of the shearing, too! He didn’t want to go back to Sydney for months and months yet. He must try and conciliate himself with Eva somehow.
“My word, this is a pretty paddock, Eva.”
“Yes,” answered Eva, shortly.
“Real nice flowers down there, too. Nice yellow ones.”
“Yes,” answered Eva.
“I’ll get you a bunch if you like—a great big bunch, and—I’ll tell you what—I’ll carry them home myself.”
“Oh, I think it’s too hot!” said Eva, languidly. “They’d all fade.”
“Do you think so? What a pity!”
He didn’t know what else to say for a time.
“I’ll tell you what; I’ll come back when it’s cool, if you like, and get you a great big bunch.”
“No, thanks, give them to your boot-laces, if you want to gather some,” said Eva, coolly.
“Give ’em to my boot-laces?” echoed Willie, blankly.
“Yes, you’ve got such a lot to say about boot-laces,” answered Eva, hardly knowing what to say.
“Oh, sport’s boot-laces!” said Willie, with a light suddenly dawning on him. “I didn’t mean anything nasty, Eva. I often say that. Goodness me! it’s a great Sydney saying. Why, I often tell my mother she’s not a sport’s boot-lace, and she don’t care a bit. Why, she wouldn’t care if I called her a sport’s boot-lace every day,” he went on, hardly knowing what he was saying in his excitement to get on a friendly footing again. “No, my mother wouldn’t care one bit——”
“Now, then, you two—don’t go mooning there; round ’em up,” shouted Tom.
And then Willie rushed off, and Eva, too, woke up, for what a time they’d get when they reached the woolshed if the sheep got away again. Why, they’d be laughed at, and it was a terrible punishment to be laughed at.
They were received with a cheer at the woolshed, and hailed as the “amateur drovers,” and Tom never told how he came to the rescue. He was what Willie would term a “sport.”
For the next few days Willie was anxious, wondering if Eva told. But things went on in the same old smooth way, and he grew content.
On the third evening Eva found a great big bunch of yellow flowers on her table, and she guessed who was the giver and the reason why they were sent. So she accepted the peace offering.
There was a conspiracy at the homestead. Great whispering and talking and planning among the younger set. Great fossicking among old tins and gardening implements; and then, one fine day, a party of four set off to the river, down to the Rocky Bend. It was nearly a quarter of a mile to the Namoi from the Gillong gate, and they all trudged across the track, each carrying bulky parcels. Down at the river Willie turned and addressed the company in a pompous voice:
“Yes, I believe there’s gold here—any amount of it. Why, look at them rocks—they’re shining again! I bet we’ll knock gold dust out of ’em before long.”
“Oh, Willie!” they all gasped. “Do you really think so?”
“’Course I do. It’s a wonder all you people never thought of it before. Why, there’ll be a gold-field on your place yet,” he went on, with his eyes shining. “Yes, a great big diggings, and I’ll be the one that found them.”
“Oh, Willie! wouldn’t it be lovely?” they all shrieked.
“Wouldn’t it be great,” he went on, “to have monster big diggings and crowds and crowds of people and miners’ huts and tents and all that up here, all through me finding out a gold-field——”
“Oh, Willie!” they all shrieked again.
“Why, look at that sand there! Why, there’s gold in it, sure enough!”
“Oh, Willie! however’ll we set about getting it out?” cried Eva.
“We’ll fix it up,” said Willie, confidently. “We’ll get it out somehow. I’ve seen chaps in pictures with old dishes, and they wash the sand and strain off the water, and the gold dust’s left behind, or something like that. Anyhow, we’ll have a try at it.”
“Oh, yes, let’s try!” they cried in chorus.
Then the four of them set to work with little dishes, and scooped up sand and washed and strained the water off, and looked very important, indeed.
“We’ll ex—ex—periment,” said Willie.
“Yes, we’ll ’speriment,” said Doris.
“Periment,” said Baby, as she swung an old tin pint wildly in the air.
They worked patiently for an hour, without results, and then Doris shouted out that she had found some.
“Where, Doris, where?”
“Look at this—it’s a lot shinier than the other.”
“I believe it is,” said Willie.
“I believe it is,” echoed Eva.
So they emptied it on to an old tin tray to dry, and set to work again with a will. By-and-by the others shouted that they had struck gold, too, and more shining yellow sand was poured on to the tray.
They looked round for Baby, but she was busy building sand castles and wells and filling them up with water from the old pint. She made dozens and dozens of trips to the water’s edge, and filled the old pint to carry back to the wells; and as the pint was leaking, there was only about a quarter left when she reached the wells. But Baby didn’t care. The more trouble she had, the better she seemed to like it.
“Look at her,” said Willie, in tones of disgust. “A smart lot of good she’d be on a gold-field! Let her build her old castles and her old wells—a smart lot of good they’ll do her!” Then he went on working harder than ever.
“Do you know,” he cried a minute later; “I believe there’s another way—chopping up rocks and stones, and getting it out like ore or something. Let’s try it.”
“Oh, yes, let’s!” cried Doris, who was getting tired of this slow old way. “There’ll be more fun chopping up rocks than washing old sand.”
“And we’ll send the ore away to Sydney for some of them chaps to look at and tell us what it’s worth.”
“Oh!” they cried in the one breath. “Won’t that be grand? Let’s start chopping.”
“She made dozens of trips to the water’s edge.”
“She made dozens of trips to the water’s edge.”
“Wait a bit, there’s only one tomahawk,” cried Willie. “Let me go first, ’cause I thought of it,” and he slashed with a will into the shining rocks, and before half an hour great blisters had risen on his soft hands.
“Let’s have a hit at it,” cried Eva, and she took the tomahawk and bashed into the stone. Then they heard the thud of horses’ hoofs up on the bank, and Eva dropped the tomahawk and looked up as Big Tom rode to the top of the bank.
“Hullo! making mud pies?” he cried, as he dismounted.
“Ye-es,” shouted Willie, and they all exchanged telegraphic glances. They mustn’t let Big Tom into the secret. They mustn’t let anyone know until gold was discovered, and those wonderful Sydney men had examined it and told them what it was worth. Then they would tell their wonderful news, and then the rush to the gold-fields would begin!
“Yes, the sand’s lovely down here,” cried Eva.
“Oh, lovely!” said Doris.
“Lovely!” echoed Willie.
“Lubly tand!” cried Baby.
“Nearly as good as the sand on the beaches, eh, young man?” said Tom, as he came down the bank.
“Ye-es,” said Willie, as he made a sign to Eva to sit on the tomahawk, and she hastily hid it in the sand and then sat on it.
“Yes, it’s nearly as good,” went on Willie. “I mean I believe it’s better, Tom; it’s real yellow, and the beach sand is white.”
“Oh, this is richer sand than yours!” said Tom, as he stooped down to the water’s edge and took a long drink.
“Richer?” cried Willie, looking round at the others. Had Tom guessed there was gold lying about in the gleaming sand?
“Yes,” chuckled Tom, “richer. It’s like yellow butter and white butter—which would you rather have?”
“Oh, the yellow, Tom!” they cried, quite relieved, for now they knew that Tom didn’t mean anything about gold when he said rich, and their secret was still safe.
“Why, Baby’s got the best castles of the whole lot of you!” said Tom, surveying Baby’s buildings, “and wells and roads and all.”
“Oh, yes, Tom!” they all agreed. “We’ve only been fooling.”
Then Tom sat on the sand and talked. Another time they would have liked talking to Tom, but to-day they did want to go on with their prospecting. At last he rose to go, and Willie accompanied him up the bank, and stayed there till Tom was almost out of sight, and then he dashed into the work again.
“Hello! is this where you are?” a fresh young voice called out from the top of the bank, and they glanced up to see Mollie’s laughing face. Oh, dear, dear! what bad luck! They didn’t mean to tell Mollie, and now they’d have to, because she’d wonder what they were working so hard at and why their hands were blistered. In fact, she’d ask all kinds of questions, and here she was coming down the steep bank! What a sickening place it was! They couldn’t even have a secret to themselves. First Tom, and then Mollie. The river was miles and miles long. Why ever didn’t they keep away from the Rocky Bend just for that evening?
“Here, Mollie, you promise not to laugh at us?” cried Willie, sturdily.
“Of course I won’t laugh,” said Mollie.
“And promise not to tell?”
“No, I never tell, either. But what are you doing?” and she commenced to sink down on the sand near the wonderful tray.
“Mind the specimens!” cried Willie.
“Specimens?” cried Mollie.
“Yes, we’re mining—gold-mining!” said Willie, stubbornly.
“Oh, playing mines?” said Mollie.
“No, not playing, either. We’re serious. We think we’ve struck a patch, and we’re going to work——”
“And later on,” chimed Doris, “there’ll be tents and huts and camps, and hundreds and thousands of men here, minin’.”
Mollie laughed gaily.
“There, I said you’d laugh, and you promised not to,” said Willie, in disgust.
“Oh, I couldn’t help it!” cried Mollie. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”
“Because they’re all too silly to see it,” cried Willie, hotly. “Why, any fool with common eyesight would know that there was gold in this sand and in those rocks!”
By-and-by Mollie grew serious, and listened.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said at last. “Why don’t you ask someone?”
“Ask someone?” said Willie, witheringly. “Who’s to ask?”
“Why, old Joe; he was years and years and years on the gold-fields when he was young.”
“So he was,” cried Eva.
“Oh, Mollie! was he?” cried Willie. “Oh, he ought to know!”
“Yes, let’s ask him,” cried Eva.
“Oh, let’s!” gasped Doris, “quick as ever we can. Let’s hurry home and ask him before he has his tea.”
“No, you don’t!” cried Willie. “I’ll ask him, ’cause I found the gold and did all the work. I’ll do the asking.”
“Yes, we’ll wait till after tea,” said Mollie, “when he’s smoking. Let’s all go over to the stable and ask him.”
“Oh, yes, let’s!” agreed Doris again.
It was nearly sunset, so they hurried and gathered up their treasures—the “gold dust” and “specimen ore”—and trudged off home; and after tea a deputation of five waited on Joe, who listened attentively, and then with the aid of a kerosene lantern examined the specimens.
“So you think you’ve struck gold in the Namoi River, eh? Gold at the Rocky Bend? Why, there’s no more gold in that sand than there is in my foot!”
But some dreams die hard, and Willie and his little band still worked away at their gold-field. Teddo was again pressed into the service, and one day posted a small tin of “dust” away to Willie’s father, to be examined by an expert, and the verdict came back on very official looking paper—“Just ordinary sand from the river-bed.”
Eileen had been overjoyed at the thought of staying in Sydney, and she commenced school duties with a will. She was almost a beginner in many of the subjects that Marcia was proficient in, but she was naturally bright, and soon acquired a knowledge of everything.
On Saturday afternoons they played tennis, and on Sundays they had long walks, and Eileen used to write home glowing accounts of how she spent her time.
But learning music was her one trial.
“It’s such a good chance,” Mrs. Hudson had said, “for Eileen to get a good foundation.”
So the young visiting teacher at the College had Eileen placed on his list, and after a few lessons he marked her down as a “non-trier.”
Up the country she used to play by “ear” on an old piano that had long since seen its best days, and now scales and such like were doubly trying.
“No, Miss Eileen, not that way. Wrong! Wrong!” the teacher would cry, impatiently, as wrong notes were struck or hands were placed in the wrong position; and Eileen, who simply hated the humdrum, hammering exercises, would grow sullen and wade through the rest of the lesson.
Things reached a climax after about a month of lessons.
“No, Miss Eileen, you’re no better now than when you commenced. It’s agonising to have to listen to you. No time, no expression—you simply have no ‘soul,’ no ear for tone, no——”
But Eileen turned on him with flashing eyes. “No soul,” “No ear,” rankled in her mind.
“I’ve got as much soul and as much ear as you have!” she cried. “You think yourself, with your old music, don’t you? Well, let me tell you that there’s plenty of cleverer people than you that don’t know a note of music, and if I can’t play I can do lots of other things—yes, I can!—and I’d like to see you up the country, trying to ride a horse, and see where your ‘soul’ and ‘ear’ would come in.”
She banged up her music and jumped up from the piano.
The teacher was simply petrified. To be spoken to like that by a little country girl! Preposterous!
“Really, Miss Eileen, you forget yourself.”
“No, I don’t,” answered Eileen, “but I’m just sick to death of ‘soul’ and ‘tone’ and ‘finish’ and ‘melody,’ and all the rest of it, and I would just like to see you up the country on a horse—and not old Brownie, either!” and she marched out of the room before the time was up.
“Really, a most extraordinary girl,” murmured the teacher, as he sat there and waited for his next pupil. He was only newly appointed to the teaching staff, and did not have the knack of imparting sympathy and enthusiasm to his pupils.
“I hate that old musical box,” said Eileen that evening to Marcia.
“What old box?” asked Marcia, perplexedly.
“The music teacher, with all the musical letters to his name,” went on Eileen, calmly.
“Why?” asked Marcia, opening her eyes very wide. “I think he’s beautiful, and he has such glorious dark eyes.”
“Ugh! dash his old eyes—they’re as silly as the rest of him. He sits there goggling and screwing and beating time like an old—old Jack-in-the-box,” concluded Eileen.
“Oh, Eileen! I don’t believe I can ever take another lesson from him,” laughed Marcia. “I’ll laugh when I see him ‘goggling and screwing’——”
“Yes, and bending down when the music’s soft, and sitting up straight and flapping his hands when the music’s loud. Ugh! it sickens me; I’m sorry I commenced to learn.”
“Oh, Eileen! you are funny,” laughed Marcia again. “And all the girls think he’s lovely; why, I’m just dying to tell them what you’ve said, only it might get back to his ears.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter!” said Eileen, with her head high in the air. “I told him this morning what I thought of him.”
“You—told—him—this—morning—what—you—thought—of—him!” gasped Marcia.
“Yes,” answered Eileen, and then she detailed the conversation.
“And you left him before the lesson was over?” cried Marcia.
“Yes, I left him sitting there, gasping.”
“Oh, Eileen! you are brave; I’d never have done it. I’m real nervous at my lesson.”
“Pshaw! I’m never nervous, and I’m never going to be, either. I mean to be an actress some day, you know, and it won’t do for me to be nervous. Thank goodness, actresses don’t have to know music, and if I have a dozen children I’ll never let one of them learn a note unless they want to. Playing by ear’s good enough for me, and it’ll be good enough for my children.”
Then Marcia went off into another peal of laughter. “Oh, Eileen, I wish you’d stay here for ever!” she cried. “I’ll miss you dreadfully when you’re gone. But I do wish you’d try hard at your music.”
“Oh, I suppose I’ll have to! But I’m more satisfied now that I’ve said all that about ‘soul’ and ‘ear.’”
About a week later Eileen got a most unaccountable fit of home-sickness. She had received long letters telling her about the clover paddocks, and the dew glistening on them first thing in the morning, and how fat the horses were; and all of a sudden Sydney grew distasteful.
Sitting at her desk, the thought of those long green stretches would come to her; the thought of the green-clothed gullies, with the children racing up and down on their ponies; the thought of the big blue gums along the creek, waving long brown strips of bark wildly in the wind, and the big fire of myall logs burning brightly in the Gillong dining-room at night, and the gleaming white frost on the corn cobs in the cultivation paddock shining under the rays of the wintry sun. And one day she put her head on the desk and burst into tears. She wanted to be there straight away. After all, there was no place like home, and she wanted to go right up and mount her horse and race all over the paddocks. The teacher was astonished.
“But there’s nothing to stop you from going home, is there?” she asked kindly.
“N—no!” blurted Eileen, “but I didn’t want to go until now, and it just came on real sudden, like a bad tooth-ache, and I couldn’t help c-crying. I’m—I’—m not coming back to school any more. I’ll get ready and go straight home.”
There was consternation in the Taylor household when they heard of Eileen’s resolution.
“No, I’ve been real happy with you, Mrs. Taylor, and I’ll miss you all dreadfully, but I’m real home-sick—you know, I think country people suffer from home-sickness,” she went on apologetically, “and I just can’t wait another day. Every time I hear the thud of a horse’s hoof it makes me lonely, and you’ve all been real kind—and—I’ll always like you—but—all the same, I must go home.”
Mrs. Taylor just knew how she felt, and helped her to pack up, and was as kind as her Mother, and Marcia was almost heart-broken.
“You must come back again as soon as you can, Eileen. Oh, dear! I won’t have half the fun now that you’ve gone. No one to talk to about people and the music teacher or anything else.”
Then Mrs. Taylor fell to worrying about Willie. She wondered was her little boy home-sick, too, and didn’t like to say; and she wrote him a very long letter, and told him to be sure and come straight away if he felt like it, and how she thought he ought to come home now in any case, and how she missed him. And the heartless little Willie, when he received it, grunted and said, “Just like a woman!” Then he sat down and wrote her a long letter to satisfy her, and to let her see “once and for all” that her little boy was not in the least home-sick, or even likely to be.
And one afternoon Eileen boarded the North-West train, and with many promises of letter-writing and much fluttering of pocket handkerchiefs and farewell messages she was whirled away to the far North-West Bushland.
And the same train that brought her home carried Willie’s letter back to his Mother:
My Dear Mother,I am very, very happy up here, and I am not at all home-sick like Eileen is, because you see I am kept pretty busy. Mr. Hudson doesn’t know how ever he can get on without me again. I am a great help to him. Every evening I bring in the cows and pen up the carves. They are little beauties—five spotted ones and a rone, and a red. If he was a foal they would call him bay, but they don’t have bay carves—only red, so you will know that whenever you are talking about them; but foals are bay, not red, and they’d all know you came from Sydney if you started calling them the wrong names. I am a good rider now, and I can yard sheep and drive horses and do thousands of other things. Tell Dad not to go troublin’ about getting me into an office later on, because I mean to take a job of handy man on a station—that is, if ever I leave here again. Mr. Hudson calls me his handy man, and I am sure I am a great help to him. It wouldn’t be very nice of me to leave him when I am such a help, and, besides, I’m not a bit home-sick. If you feel you want to see me very bad you ought to come up here. It isn’t so very far—only about 420 miles from Sydney; and if you are a good sleeper you can go to sleep just after you leave Sydney and wake up just before you get to the last station here, and you wouldn’t know you’d been travelling all the time, so you wouldn’t feel a bit tired.I hope you won’t be writing for me to go home for a long time yet, as I want to spend the winter up here, and then the spring, because thousands of birds will build their nests in the bush trees, and I want to see the young ones, and it will be very hard luck if I don’t see them after coming all this way; and I want to see the everlasting daisies all over the paddocks, and I am sure you will be nice and kind and let me stay; and I wish you were here now to have a good old roll in the clover—it’s great! I’m sure Dad would like it, ’specially if he had his old gardening suit on, and it don’t matter if it gets covered with green.The shearing was great. I wish we could have months of it. There is going to be another one in the spring, and I’m going to be tar-boy and general useful in the shed, and Mr. Hudson is going to pay me some wages. I told him not to bother, but he says he will; so I’ll send you a check when I get enough to make one, and you ought to have a trip to the mountains with it. I wish you were up here to see me working.Well, Mother, I have written you a nice long letter. Excuse any mistakes in spelling and grammar and stops, but I don’t think there’s very many, because I’ve kept singing out to Mollie and asking her how to spell a lot of words. I don’t think I want much more schooling. I think a man can make plenty of money without, and it’s no use spending money on books when you don’t want ’em.I hope now that you will know that I’m not home-sick. I don’t think boys do get home-sick much, ’cept when their hungry; and with love to you and Dad from your loving and grateful and happy son,WILLIE.P.S.—Love to Marcia. I nearly forgot her. A man does soon forget his sisters when he’s away from them. Tell her I’ll take her home a present when I go—a kangaroo or emu or some sort of bird.Yours truly,WILLIE.
My Dear Mother,
I am very, very happy up here, and I am not at all home-sick like Eileen is, because you see I am kept pretty busy. Mr. Hudson doesn’t know how ever he can get on without me again. I am a great help to him. Every evening I bring in the cows and pen up the carves. They are little beauties—five spotted ones and a rone, and a red. If he was a foal they would call him bay, but they don’t have bay carves—only red, so you will know that whenever you are talking about them; but foals are bay, not red, and they’d all know you came from Sydney if you started calling them the wrong names. I am a good rider now, and I can yard sheep and drive horses and do thousands of other things. Tell Dad not to go troublin’ about getting me into an office later on, because I mean to take a job of handy man on a station—that is, if ever I leave here again. Mr. Hudson calls me his handy man, and I am sure I am a great help to him. It wouldn’t be very nice of me to leave him when I am such a help, and, besides, I’m not a bit home-sick. If you feel you want to see me very bad you ought to come up here. It isn’t so very far—only about 420 miles from Sydney; and if you are a good sleeper you can go to sleep just after you leave Sydney and wake up just before you get to the last station here, and you wouldn’t know you’d been travelling all the time, so you wouldn’t feel a bit tired.
I hope you won’t be writing for me to go home for a long time yet, as I want to spend the winter up here, and then the spring, because thousands of birds will build their nests in the bush trees, and I want to see the young ones, and it will be very hard luck if I don’t see them after coming all this way; and I want to see the everlasting daisies all over the paddocks, and I am sure you will be nice and kind and let me stay; and I wish you were here now to have a good old roll in the clover—it’s great! I’m sure Dad would like it, ’specially if he had his old gardening suit on, and it don’t matter if it gets covered with green.
The shearing was great. I wish we could have months of it. There is going to be another one in the spring, and I’m going to be tar-boy and general useful in the shed, and Mr. Hudson is going to pay me some wages. I told him not to bother, but he says he will; so I’ll send you a check when I get enough to make one, and you ought to have a trip to the mountains with it. I wish you were up here to see me working.
Well, Mother, I have written you a nice long letter. Excuse any mistakes in spelling and grammar and stops, but I don’t think there’s very many, because I’ve kept singing out to Mollie and asking her how to spell a lot of words. I don’t think I want much more schooling. I think a man can make plenty of money without, and it’s no use spending money on books when you don’t want ’em.
I hope now that you will know that I’m not home-sick. I don’t think boys do get home-sick much, ’cept when their hungry; and with love to you and Dad from your loving and grateful and happy son,WILLIE.
P.S.—Love to Marcia. I nearly forgot her. A man does soon forget his sisters when he’s away from them. Tell her I’ll take her home a present when I go—a kangaroo or emu or some sort of bird.Yours truly,WILLIE.
Willie’s mother, when she received this, shook her head and said, “Well, well, I suppose I had better let him stay; he seems so happy, but I do wish he missed me a bit,” she added with a sigh.
“He’s too young yet to understand things,” laughed Dad, as he re-read the letter. “So Willie’s just got into double figures, and he thinks he has had enough schooling, and wants to start money-making. Well, well, boys will be boys,” and he pocketed the letter to show to some of his cronies at the Club, while Mother spent the best part of the morning hunting for it to show it to Auntie Grace, never dreaming that it had already gone the rounds of the Club, where it had raised many a hearty laugh, as seasoned business men recalled again their lost youth and young ideas.
Eileen’s head was craned far out of the train as it drew into the station, where Teddy, with a broad smile on his face, was waiting for the mail and any stray passengers.
“Anyone here to meet me, Ted?” she asked as she bounded out.
“You have to come with me in the sulky,” answered Ted.
“Go with you? Oh, I say, I am disappointed!”
“That’s a nice greeting for a man!” said Teddy.
“Oh, Teddy, I didn’t mean anything against you!” she declared, “but, you know, I was looking forward to seeing some of them, and what about my boxes?”
“Logan’s van’s comin’ over to-day, and it’ll bring them.”
“Oh, dear! oh, dear! I do hope it gets there to-night. I’d hate my boxes to have a night out on the roads, and there’s some pretty things in them, too.”
“I suppose he’ll get there,” said Ted, cheerfully.
“Oh, I’m not so sure about that. Don’t you remember when he was bringing that case of porter over, and he broke into it, and had a whole day and night on the road, and lost a good many parcels, too?”
“Got many traps?” asked the good-natured Teddy.
“Only three, but one is so small you’d hardly count it, but it’s pretty heavy,” she went on, doubtfully, “and then there’s another big one, but it’s as light as anything. It’s that light you’d hardly feel it, and the other—well, the other’s a bit solid.”
“Let’s see the little one,” said Ted; “we might stow it in.”
“Oh, Ted, you’re splendid!” gushed Eileen, as she hurried him along the platform. “There it is—the little heavy one, and there’s the big light one I was telling you about; just lift it, Teddo, and see for yourself how light it is.”
“It’s light, right enough,” agreed Teddy, as he glanced down at the waiting sulky. “I think I could hoist this big chap on to the back.”
“Oh, Teddy, if you only could!” gasped Eileen. “I’m sure Logan’s old van will be late coming over, and I do want to unpack as soon as I get home.”
“Well, keep your eye on them mailbags, till I come back,” ordered Teddy, as he hurried off with the big light one; and Eileen sat on the wooden bench and watched him rope it on to the back.
“There’s no doubt Teddy is good,” she thought, “and I’m glad now that I brought him that tie instead of spending the money on that check ribbon for myself that I felt I wanted so badly; but I couldn’t get them both, so I am glad now that I decided on the tie for Teddo.”
“You’ve got it fixed on beautifully,” she said, as Teddy hurried back to get the mail and the second box; but he was too important, and hurried to answer her as he rushed round, strapping on boxes and bags.
“All aboard,” he called at last, and Eileen climbed up on to the seat beside him.
“Oh, it’s lovely to be back again. Teddo!—just lovely, and everything looks so big and so wide and so breezy, and there is such a lot of space, and I bet they’ll be glad to see me at home again.”
“My word, they will!” agreed Teddy, “and so you got lonely down there?”
“Yes, real lonely. I just couldn’t stay a day longer. Goodness me, Teddo, I just felt inclined to take to my heels and run and run till I got here, and I just felt that I loved everything and everybody up here. Why, I believe I’ll fairly kiss the old cows and hug the pet lambs and dogs and chickens when I get home, and—but what’s the matter, Teddo?”
For Teddo had gone off into a fit of laughter—he was so hugely entertained.
“And before you’re home a week you’ll be sick of them all,” he said at last.
“Indeed, I won’t,” she answered, indignantly. “I’m much older than when I went away you must remember, Teddy, and I see things in a very different light,” and she sat up very straight.