“Oh, dear! I’m a great big baby—that’s what I am, and I don’t know how I’m going to tell the others. Supposing I don’t tell them. But I’ll have to; they’ll want to know where I got the five shillings. Supposing I say it was given to me in secret. Oh, no, that would never do! They’d always be asking me about it. Supposing I say I picked it up. Oh! but that would be too mean—I must let them know about the nice butcher. It wouldn’t be fair to him if I didn’t. No, I’ll race up and tell them now—now, while I feel I can. I’ll just take to my heels and run and tell them as soon as I get up there.”
She was as good as her word, and ten minutes later an excited crowd had gathered round a hot, flushed Eileen, who told them hurriedly of the good kind Mr. Smith.
“Ain’t he lovely?” said Doris, admiringly. “He’s a nice kind man, and I’ll pway for him to-night. We’ll all pway for him.”
“Do you mean to say you meant to sell Ronald? I don’t know how ever you could think of such a thing,” cried Eva.
“Oh, well! you see I couldn’t when it came to the time,” said Eileen. “I just tried my best to, and I couldn’t.”
“And I shouldn’t think you could,” said Eva, in tones of finality.
“But of course he’ll have to go some day,” said Mollie. “Still, all the same, I couldn’t bear to see the butcher carrying him off to kill him,” she continued, quickly.
“Me, either.”
“Me, either.”
“Me, eder,” they all chimed in.
At last the list was finished, and Mr. Smith’s five shillings was entered “from a kind, unknown friend,” and the next step was the presentation.
“You’re the boss of the show, Eileen; you give it,” said Willie, “and you’ll have to make the speech, too.”
“Oh, dear, I don’t know whatever to say!” said Eileen, nervously.
“Go on, there’s nothing to be frightened of,” said Willie, bravely. “You’ll have to think of something. You always say you’re goin’ on the stage: this will be practice. Go on, let’s hear you before you go on the stage,” and he stuck his two thumbs in his leather belt and marched round the room.
“Oh, dear! I suppose I’ll have to say something,” said Eileen. “Let’s see, now,” and she walked round and round and rehearsed speech after speech.
“How’ll we give her the money?” asked Willie, all of a sudden.
“I never thought of that,” said Eileen.
“No, of course you didn’t. It takes a man to think of those things. It’s a good thing for you I’m here. Why, that’s the very first thing you should have thought of.”
“No, not the first,” said Eileen.
“What, then?” he demanded.
“Collecting the money, of course.”
“Oh, any fool would know that!” answered Willie; “so you’re not so smart as you think.”
“We’d better put it on a little tray,” said Eva.
“Or a little bag,” said Mollie.
“Oh, no, loose! Let’s have it loose,” said Willie, “so’s it’ll look a lot and we can hear it clink.”
“Do you think so?” asked Mollie. “I think we ought to have it in a little purse, like a purse of sovereigns.”
“Only, of course, it won’t be sovereigns,” said Eileen. “You have a little muslin bag, Mollie—just the very thing.”
“So I have—just the very thing,” and she ran off to get it. “You can see the money through it, too; it will be just right,” she cried, as she returned with it.
“Here, let’s put it in,” cried Willie, and he stuffed the silver and copper in. “It’s real nice and fat, too. My word, she’ll think she’s getting a fortune,” he went on, delightedly. “Good thing I thought of the bag.”
“You thought of the bag?” cried Eileen, in sarcastic tones. “Why, you wanted it given up loose, all scattered over a tray.”
“Anyway, only for me you wouldn’t ha’ thought anything about how you were going to give it to her and you’d ha’ been scooping it up out of your hands and very likely letting it fall all over the floor if I hadn’t spoken about it, so there!”
After a great many more arguments and a great deal of talking, everything was decided on at last.
That evening, while Miss Gibson was sitting quietly correcting exercise books, the deputation waited on her, and she received the surprise of her life. In they marched, with Eileen at their head, who made a sweeping bow, and the others tried to follow suit. Baby was so much taken with the proceeding that she kept on bowing and ducking for the rest of the evening. She bowed to each and every one of them. She marched off to the kitchen and bowed to old Joe, till he asked her if she had turned silly, and she bowed to all the pictures and chairs; and, in fact, enjoyed herself immensely.
“Dear Miss Gibson, we wish you to—to——”
“Accept,” whispered Mollie.
“Accept this little token—a little picture and a small bag of money, which we wish was much bigger, and all our good wishes,” said Eileen, with another sweeping bow.
“Really, children, this is a surprise—a little picture and a bag of money——”
“Yes, you see, ’cause you lived in the country once——” began Doris, while all the others chimed in to explain matters.
“And we all hope you’ll be rich again some day, and if you put the little bag of money in the bank it might be a help in years to come.”
“Yes, and, besides, we might all be real poor ourselves some day, and have no one to help us,” chimed in Willie.
“And we all like you very much for telling us all the nice things about the country, and we’ll never forget you,” said Eva.
“And if you’d rather buy lollies, ’undreds and thousan’s, or anything you like with it, you can,” said Doris.
Then Baby returned from the kitchen, where she had visited Joe, and bowed solemnly to them all, and sent them into shrieks of laughter.
“So I have an unknown friend?” said Miss Gibson, reading the list.
“Yes, it’s Smith, the butcher at Bragan Junction,” cried Willie. “Didn’t know he knew you, did you?”
“Willie, stop at once!” cried Eileen, and then she told the story to Miss Gibson; “and he doesn’t know who the subscription’s for, or nothing about it; it’s just because he’s kind that he gave it, and he wasn’t a bit inquisitive, and if ever I get real rich I’ll send him a nice present,” she continued.
So the evening passed merrily away, and Miss Gibson was much touched by the evidence of kindness and thoughtfulness on the part of the children, and the little picture, with its vivid green leaves and bright berries, was put away among her treasures.
All the children got the writing craze at “Gillong.” They all wanted to be poets or authors, and there was one continual scribble. Papers and books and slates were covered with little scraps of verses, till Mother declared she could never read another bit of poetry.
Sometimes Eileen would come along with fourteen verses of very much the same kind of jingle, and ask them to listen and criticise.
“Oh, you said all that before!” Willie would say, in disgust—“away up there in the third verse.”
“Yes, but, Willie, don’t you see it’s put in different words, and you have to keep saying the same thing over—only a little bit different to fill up.”
“Ugh! you’re a sickening old poet; you’d make a fellow tired.”
But Eileen was not daunted. Only lately she had taken to looking very important, and had kept quiet about her work, but, all the same, she scribbled like grim death.
“Some day she’ll come in with about a million verses and make a fellow listen to them,” Willie would grumble.
Sure enough, one day she came to them with a fat note-book, and asked them to listen to the very best she had ever written—quite a gem, she considered—so they all sat down to hear it:
The moon-beams shine through the summer night,All on a garden fair,And the perfume of the flowers ariseAll on the fresh night air.
The moon-beams shine through the summer night,
All on a garden fair,
And the perfume of the flowers arise
All on the fresh night air.
The moon-beams play with the shining leaves,And the flowers nod and sway,And the stars look down with gentle eyesAll night till the dawn of day.
The moon-beams play with the shining leaves,
And the flowers nod and sway,
And the stars look down with gentle eyes
All night till the dawn of day.
There were about eight more verses in this strain, and then it went on:
The children play in the garden fair,All through the summer hours,And the birds they sing and the butterflies wingAmong the fruits and flowers.
The children play in the garden fair,
All through the summer hours,
And the birds they sing and the butterflies wing
Among the fruits and flowers.
“Butterflies wing? What’s that?” asked Willie.
“Oh! that means they fly; a poet can say anything, and it’s all right.” Then she went on with about twenty more verses.
“Beautiful!” cried Doris, clapping in ecstasy.
“Very nice, but too long, I think,” said Mollie.
“Oh, I don’t think so!” said Eileen. “I’m going to send it to one of the Sydney papers. It’s as nice a bit of poetry as ever I read in my life.”
“Are you goin’ to give it to a paper?” asked Doris.
“Give it? No; they’ll have to pay me for it, and pretty well, too, or I won’t part with it.”
So the precious MS. was sent away, and Eileen waited with what patience she could for a reply.
Then all the others became keener than ever on writing. Doris tried to compose, but she couldn’t make the lines “fit,” and would get in a rage and tear up the paper, and she nearly drove them all crazy asking how to spell words and getting them to help her.
“Oh, do leave it off—you’ll never be a poet! You don’t even know what words go with each other,” said Willie one day when she was begging his help.
“Oh, come on—help me! It’s all about pwetty bluebells and daisies and my dolly——”
“Hang the bluebells and daisies and your old doll!” answered Willie.
“You’re real ugly; you’re stopping at my place, and you won’t help me,” said Doris, in a temper.
“All right, then; go on.”
“I love my little Dolly.”
“I do, I do, I do,” chimed in Willie.
“No, that won’t do,” called out Doris. “I love my little dolly, I do; I love her so; and she is nice and pwetty——”
“As everyone must know,” said Willie.
“Oh, yes! beautiful. ‘As everyone must know.’ Write it down, Willie.”
And Willie wrote down the first verse.
“She plays with the bluebells down along the crick.”
“And she’ll tumble in the water if you give her a good kick,” quoth Willie.
“Oh, Willie! You’re nasty. You mustn’t say that about Rose.”
“All right, then. Go ahead.”
“Down along the crick,” repeated Doris, “where the daisies and the bluebells——”
“Grow so very thick,” added Willie.
“Beauful!” she cried again.
“There, that’s two verses,” said Willie; “that’s enough for one day. All good poets never make more than two verses in a day.”
“Don’t dey?” said Doris.
“No, and you ought to leave it alone now for a week, and you’ll be a real good poet when you start again.”
“That’ll be beauful!” she cried again, clapping her hands.
Eva used to write a lot about sunsets and moonbeams, and fleecy clouds and brilliant birds. She used to use the dictionary a great deal those days, finding out big words to make her poems sound grand. She always called them poems, and she would copy them out neatly and paint little sprays of flowers round them, and would only occasionally let them be read. Mollie tried poetry for a time, but soon gave it up and dashed into prose, and wrote nice articles and essays.
“There’s more sense in yours than all the rest put together,” said Willie. “It’s a lot nicer reading than old poetry.”
Meanwhile Eileen waited for a reply about her precious MS.
“Not in yet?” she would say, as she scanned the paper every mail day.
“Oh, you might have to write a lot before you get it in print!” Mollie would say.
“There’s no doubt about mine,” Eileen would answer.
One day a big envelope came, and Eileen tore off the wrapper, to find “Not suitable” in big letters across her cherished manuscript.
“I’ll never try again,” she cried, almost on the verge of tears. “They’re a mean, horrid old lot, those paper people. I’m sure it is as good as the old stuff they print. It’s just because I’m not known.”
They all tried to console her. In fact, Willie went so far as to say he’d call and see those paper chaps when he went back to Sydney, and give them a bit of his mind. Although he did not like Eileen’s poetry, he was very loyal, and sympathised most heartily with Eileen.
“I’d like to chop every one of ’em up!” said Doris. And so by degrees Eileen’s keen disappointment wore off.
Just a week later there was great shouting and commotion over the page of a Sydney daily, for there was one of Mollie’s articles in cold print, with her name (“Mollie Hudson”) shining at the foot. Oh, the joy and excitement!
“How ever did you think of it, Mollie?” and “Oh, it’s beautiful!” came in choruses, for the little article, entitled “The Old Picnic Tree,” breathed of the fresh air of the paddocks and the leafy shade of an old gnarled, knotted tree.
“Mollie’s a writer, Mollie’s a writer,” they all shouted, dancing round her; and then they had to have a half-holiday in her honour, and spent the afternoon at the old tree that she had written of; and they had billy tea and nice little hot cakes that Mother had made in honour of the occasion. They spent a wild, happy time, weaving fancies and romances about the time when they should be all famous.
“Perhaps we’ll all be real rich and clever when we grow up,” said Eileen. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if the five of us were all writers or artists or musicians, or something of that sort, and had nice big studios and plenty of money, and—and—have a real grand jolly life.”
Of course, they all agreed with her, and thought perhaps things might turn out in that fashion; and then Willie said that he “might very likely beat them all—he didn’t speak much about what he was going to be,” he said, “but, all the same, he might surprise them all some day; so they needn’t be too surprised if he, too, became rich and famous.”
“Oh, tell us all about it, Willie!” they begged.
But he said he hadn’t quite finished thinking things out; but, all the same, they needn’t be too surprised if they heard of him later on being very famous! Then he tried to look very important, although until that moment the thought of being famous had never entered his head.
Then the shades grew long in the paddock, and they all scampered off home to the welcome glowing fire of myall.
In an office in Sydney a man looked forward eagerly to the arrival of the mail from the North-West, for an eager enthusiast would write in glowing terms of the bushland. Miss Gibson would take her writing tablet to the paddocks, and write quickly page after page:
My Dear Basil,We are in the depths of winter, and you know what winter in the country can be like at times. Well, it is just delightful. The clover spreads far and wide like a great green velvet carpet, up and down the gullies and away across the paddocks. The deep tints of the clover, the vivid green of the crowsfoot and wild carrot mingle in a study of lights and shades, while the little blue flower of the crowsfoot and the golden one of the clover vie in scrolling floral effects on that vast green carpet. How I revel in the wealth of sunshine out here in the paddocks, but as evening draws in the chill air rises, and I hurry back home through the clear cutting freshness, and there a glowing fire awaits one. When the evenings are dull or rainy I sit there and gaze into the glowing, gleaming coals, and you never saw such beautiful, haunting colours as you see among the myall coals!—one can weave all kinds of fancies. Great sheafs of snow-white ashes fall silently on the hearth, like snow-white pall, and then I take the poker and stir up the glowing heart of the fire again, and amber and red lights gleam among the dancing flames. Some people think that I must have a very lonely life up here, but I assure you that the time simply flies.I often gather the children round the fireside and tell them stories, and just to see their eager faces is payment enough, for, do you know, it always seems wonderful to me to watch the growing mind of a child and hear their impressions of life, etc.? And I have been trying to instil into them a love for and a very big interest in the beauties and wonders of nature; for in after years, if empty and lonesome days will come (as they too often come), they will have something to fall back upon, and perhaps find solace in, for it is wonderful how keen a joy we can find in the out-of-door pursuits if we have a love for and an appreciation of the beauties of nature.And, oh, those glorious moonlight nights we have up here in the winter! Why, it is quite vivid. Trees and shrubs stand out clearly, and their shadows stand out blackly under the rays of the serene silver moon that swings high in the sky. Everything is transformed by the kindly rays into things of beauty, and sometimes I stand and gaze away across the paddocks bathed in the silver light and marvel at the stillness. And, do you know, as much as I love those moonlight nights, they make me feel lonely? I just don’t know why—only that it has that effect; and sometimes I almost welcome a rainy night, when the rain drops beat a wild tattoo on the iron roof, and I draw up my chair to the glowing fire and sit there and dream.I am looking forward to the spring-time. I have promised to paint a big picture representing the Springtime in the North-West for old Professor Dawson, and I am all eagerness to begin.Till then, adieu, for it will not be long ere “the whole world will wake and sing.”
My Dear Basil,
We are in the depths of winter, and you know what winter in the country can be like at times. Well, it is just delightful. The clover spreads far and wide like a great green velvet carpet, up and down the gullies and away across the paddocks. The deep tints of the clover, the vivid green of the crowsfoot and wild carrot mingle in a study of lights and shades, while the little blue flower of the crowsfoot and the golden one of the clover vie in scrolling floral effects on that vast green carpet. How I revel in the wealth of sunshine out here in the paddocks, but as evening draws in the chill air rises, and I hurry back home through the clear cutting freshness, and there a glowing fire awaits one. When the evenings are dull or rainy I sit there and gaze into the glowing, gleaming coals, and you never saw such beautiful, haunting colours as you see among the myall coals!—one can weave all kinds of fancies. Great sheafs of snow-white ashes fall silently on the hearth, like snow-white pall, and then I take the poker and stir up the glowing heart of the fire again, and amber and red lights gleam among the dancing flames. Some people think that I must have a very lonely life up here, but I assure you that the time simply flies.
I often gather the children round the fireside and tell them stories, and just to see their eager faces is payment enough, for, do you know, it always seems wonderful to me to watch the growing mind of a child and hear their impressions of life, etc.? And I have been trying to instil into them a love for and a very big interest in the beauties and wonders of nature; for in after years, if empty and lonesome days will come (as they too often come), they will have something to fall back upon, and perhaps find solace in, for it is wonderful how keen a joy we can find in the out-of-door pursuits if we have a love for and an appreciation of the beauties of nature.
And, oh, those glorious moonlight nights we have up here in the winter! Why, it is quite vivid. Trees and shrubs stand out clearly, and their shadows stand out blackly under the rays of the serene silver moon that swings high in the sky. Everything is transformed by the kindly rays into things of beauty, and sometimes I stand and gaze away across the paddocks bathed in the silver light and marvel at the stillness. And, do you know, as much as I love those moonlight nights, they make me feel lonely? I just don’t know why—only that it has that effect; and sometimes I almost welcome a rainy night, when the rain drops beat a wild tattoo on the iron roof, and I draw up my chair to the glowing fire and sit there and dream.
I am looking forward to the spring-time. I have promised to paint a big picture representing the Springtime in the North-West for old Professor Dawson, and I am all eagerness to begin.
Till then, adieu, for it will not be long ere “the whole world will wake and sing.”
They were all under a shadow at “Gillong.” Teddo was leaving the line. Teddo, whom they remembered as long as they remembered anybody, was going to leave the district. His contract had run out, and a new man would soon take over the coach line, and a coach and four would take the place of Teddy’s sulky, for many passengers were travelling by the new railway line, and were clamouring for better accommodation than Teddy’s line of vehicles. Miss Gibson had hinted pretty plainly that there was to be no holiday in connection with Teddy’s departure.
“I do certainly think we ought to get a holiday the day he leaves,” said Eileen.
“Yes, indeed, he has been a good friend to us,” sighed Mollie.
“Yes, Teddo’s been a good friend to us,” agreed Eva.
“Yes, Teddo’s been a weal good fwiend to us,” echoed Doris.
Then Baby burst into tears, and said that she wanted Teddo to “tay wit dem.”
“I’ll never forget that letter,” said Eva.
“And how well he kept the secret,” said Mollie.
“And how he never even as much as hinted that he had a secret,” went on Eileen; “never by a word or a look did he ever mention that letter.”
“No, he can’t be beaten,” said Mollie. “We’ve got a lot to thank Teddo for. Fancy asking a new man to post a letter like that and keep our reply!”
“It couldn’t be done,” said Eileen, in tones of finality. “And to think we can’t get a measly holiday in honour of his going.”
“What did Miss Gibson say?” asked Eva. “Did you ask for one, Mollie?”
“I didn’t exactly ask,” said Mollie; “but I mentioned something about it, and she said we had too many holidays; that she only taught about half the time she should, and that birthdays were always coming along, and that there was to be no more holidays or no more birthdays till the end of the year.”
“End of the year!” they all echoed in amazement.
“Why, it’s only August now, and my birthday comes in September,” declared Eileen.
“And mine comes in November, an’ I’m goin’ to have one whether she likes it or not,” said Doris, on the verge of tears.
“What! no more holidays?” asked Willie, as he came in. He always came and joined the group when he thought there was anything extra on.
“No, dere’s to be no more birthdays or no more excuses for holidays till the end of the year, and it’s only de middle now!” cried Doris.
“Oh, dear! and mine’s at the end of this month!” cried Willie, “and I suppose she won’t let me have one, either. Jolly hard on a fellow when he comes all the way from Sydney, and don’t get a holiday on his birthday.” He looked very glum.
“I’ll tell you what!” cried Eileen, excitedly. “I’ll give up my birthday for Teddo—there you are! Surely we can get one day between now and the end of the year, so we’ll beg off one for Teddo.”
“Oh, Eileen! will you?” they all cried. “That’ll be lovely!”
“That will be great!” said Willie. “But I’ll tell you what—mine comes sooner than yours, so I’ll give mine up. There you are!”
“Oh, Willie, you’re splendid!” cried Eva. “Do you really mean it? True?”
“Of course it’s true. We’ll all go to old school on my birthday, same’s if it was just any other day,” he said, stoutly.
“‘Oh, no, Willie!’ I said first, and perhaps when it comes to the time you might be sorry and want yours,” said Eileen. “You can ‘cry off’ if you don’t want to give yours.”
“No, I won’t cry off,” said Willie, stoutly. “I’ll stick to my word.”
“You’re grand, Willie,” cried Eva.
“I didn’t think it was in you,” cried Eileen. “Here, shake hands.”
They all solemnly shook hands, and Willie felt quite a hero.
“Oh, you don’t know me yet,” he said, cheerfully.
“An’ p’raps, after all, you might get yours given to you just the same, Willie,” said Doris, hopefully.
“No,” answered Willie. “I won’t take it. I give up all claims to it. It’s only fair to give Teddo a day when he’s leaving the district.”
Then he marched out of the room, and felt like a martyr for a good cause.
After all, they got the holiday, and the funny part of it was that Teddo wasn’t there until the evening; so they played all day, and prepared a big tea in Teddo’s honour for the evening. Just all the children and Teddo were present, and speeches were made and toasts were given till Teddo was almost in tears and wondered whatever he had done to win such regard from the assembly.
“Good luck to you, Teddo! Wherever you go you will carry all our good wishes with you, and may you never lose your kind heart,” cried Eileen.
“Never forget that five little bush girls are in your debt, Teddo,” cried Mollie. “We’ll never forget you.”
“Good old Teddo!” cried Doris.
“Good luck to you, Teddo—all your life!” said Eva.
“I’ll let oo take my ole dollie, Teddo, if oo like,” said Baby, as she solemnly held her spoon in the air.
“Bless your little heart an’ soul, Baby,” cried Teddo. “I wouldn’t take it from you for the world. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll send you a beauty from Queensland.”
“Oh, dood Teddo, dood Teddo!” chuckled Baby; “send me a pitty noo dolly.”
“We’ll all miss you dreadfully, Teddo,” said Mollie. “There’ll be no one to tell us all the news on mail days now.”
“And no one to tell us when the little Smith girls down the creek have new dresses,” said Eva.
“Or no one to tell us about the buck-jumping horses at the station,” said Willie. “Ugh! it’ll be a bit off without you.”
For Teddo had always brought along a little fund of news for each one.
“By Jove, Teddo, old man, we will miss you!” went on Willie. “We’ll hate coach days to come, and not see you rattling down the road. It won’t seem the same at all without you. Good luck, wherever you go!”
They all cheered Willie’s speech, and then Teddo rose to his feet.
“I’m not much of a hand at a speech,” he said, “but I must say a few words and thank everyone of you for the nice things you have said. I think the five of you are the nicest little girls in the world, and Willie’s one of the nicest chaps, and wherever I go I’ll never forget you. It was real bosker of you to give me this spread, and Teddo never forgets old friends—never. I’ll always remember the lot of you; and I’m not much of a hand with the pen, but I’ll write you all a letter from Queensland—you see if I don’t!”
“Me, too, Teddo,” said Baby.
“Ess, you, too, Baby.”
“Oh, do, Teddo, do!” came a chorus of voices. “We’d love to get your letters.”
“Yes, I’ll write, right enough. Teddo don’t make promises to break them.”
There was great cheering then, and cries of “Hear, hear.”
“We know that, Teddo—we know that,” came the chorus again.
“And I say again that I’ll never forget you,” he went on, “and I hope you’re always happy and contented and get on real well all your lives.”
They filled the room with shouts and cheering when Teddy finished his speech, and Willie waved a big handkerchief and shouted, “God save the King”; and then Mother, Dad and Miss Gibson came in, and Teddo’s health was drunk in lemon syrup by all. After some more talking, he bade them all good-bye, and rode through the silver moonlight away through the frosty air under the sparkling stars of the winter’s night. The children’s voices followed him, singing “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” “Good-bye, Sydney Town,” and any other songs that came to their minds at the time; and after each song there would be “Three cheers for Teddo.”
So Teddo started the first stage of his journey that took him away among strangers in the big State of Queensland, and his little bush friends would not see him again for many years to come. But as they grew up they all retained memories of the kindly red-headed Teddo, and from time to time a very carefully-written letter would come from him from some far-off town with a most outlandish name, and many a time the map of Queensland was searched to find “where Teddo was now”; and, though other mailmen came and went, there was never another such as Teddo on the line.
“A letter had come for Willie from his Mother.”
“A letter had come for Willie from his Mother.”
A letter had come for Willie from his mother, saying that he really must come home; he ought to be satisfied now, and they missed him very much, and he really must return to school, and ever so many more reasons why he should come home. Willie felt very downhearted.
“’Course I’d like to see them again, and I think a terrible lot of them, and all that, but I do want to stay longer. I asked Mamma ever so long ago to let me stay till November, and she nearly promised she would, but a woman never can keep her word,” he went on, dashing away a tear.
“We’ll write and beg and beg for you,” said Eva.
“Will you? Good! Write and say you can’t part with me, that I’m a—a—a real decent chap, and say—oh, say anything at all you like, only do get her to let me stay till November. Say it’s a long way up here, and it’s no use coming for a little while. Let’s see—how long have I been here now? About seven months—well, say that a person ought to stay nine or ten months, but that I’ll be real satisfied to go home in November, and to be sure and let me stay till then.”
“Yes, we’ll say all that and a lot more.”
“Righto! and I’ll pay for the stamps,” said Willie. “Whatever it costs, let me know.”
Then a letter was concocted, and to read it one would think that Willie was a little angel upon earth:
We much regret that you want Willie back so soon [they wrote]. You know, it is such a long way up here, and once he gets home it may be years and years and years till he comes back. He means to work and study so hard when he goes home to make up for this long holiday, and we would love him to stay till November; and then he will be quite, quite satisfied to go. But if he went now we would all miss him so much, because he’s such a help and such good company, and Dadda would miss him fearfully, and so would Mamma and Miss Gibson and all of us. He studies real well for Miss Gibson, considering that he is out so much and loves riding so much, and, you know, in Sydney he’ll never get a ride; so now, while the horses are fat, he ought to stay and ride a real lot, and I am sure if you will only let him he will grow up to bless you.
We much regret that you want Willie back so soon [they wrote]. You know, it is such a long way up here, and once he gets home it may be years and years and years till he comes back. He means to work and study so hard when he goes home to make up for this long holiday, and we would love him to stay till November; and then he will be quite, quite satisfied to go. But if he went now we would all miss him so much, because he’s such a help and such good company, and Dadda would miss him fearfully, and so would Mamma and Miss Gibson and all of us. He studies real well for Miss Gibson, considering that he is out so much and loves riding so much, and, you know, in Sydney he’ll never get a ride; so now, while the horses are fat, he ought to stay and ride a real lot, and I am sure if you will only let him he will grow up to bless you.
“How will that much suit?” asked Eva, who took the composition on herself and read it aloud to him.
“By cripes, it’s real good!” answered Willie. “Go on a few more pages like that, and she must let me stay.”
“Well, if you say that word any more I won’t write at all.”
“What word?” asked Willie, trying to appear innocent.
“You know quite well; you got it from old Joe, and you needn’t bother copying him. Oh, dear! Whatever else can I say?”
“Let’s see; you said I was nice and cheerful, didn’t you? Well, say—oh! say that I look real well, and I’m getting real fat.”
“But you said that in your last letter, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but you say it, too.”
Willie looks so well and is getting real fat, and has a lovely colour now, and he’s so nice and cheerful and pleasant and kind that we would all love him to stay longer; so I am sure, dear Mrs. Gray, that you will not refuse our request, and that Willie will never forget you for it.
Willie looks so well and is getting real fat, and has a lovely colour now, and he’s so nice and cheerful and pleasant and kind that we would all love him to stay longer; so I am sure, dear Mrs. Gray, that you will not refuse our request, and that Willie will never forget you for it.
There was much more in the same strain, and then signatures were attached; but I think it was a little note that Mother enclosed that made Mrs. Grey decide to let her little boy remain till November, and there was great rejoicing when the decision arrived.
“We’re real good at writing letters,” said Eva, somewhat proudly.
“Yes, that was a bonser one about me. I don’t know how you thought of it all.”
“Oh, we can think all right,” said Eileen. “I wouldn’t wonder if we made some money some day thinking out inventions and patents and all those kind of things.”
“Well, when I grow up I’ll help you,” declared Willie. “If you want any money just come along to me.”
He felt very grateful for that letter, as he thought of the good free time before him.
“How will you make the money?” asked Eileen.
“Oh, I’ll manage that, all right! I haven’t decided yet, but I’ll have it so you needn’t be afraid to come for a loan. I won’t forget old friends....”
Willie was very polite for quite a long time after that. He was always offering his chair to Mother or one of the girls, and he was continually asking Mother if she felt a draught, and would she like windows or doors closed? And he actually tried to study at night time to please Miss Gibson. The thought of staying till November pleased him so much.
“I wonder how much money it would take to buy Myall?” he said to Joe, as they were riding round the paddock.
“Pretty near a million, I reckon,” answered Joe.
“A million!” gasped Willie. “Oh, dear!” he groaned. “I’ll never manage it.”
“Was you thinkin’ of buyin’ it?” asked Joe.
“I was wondering if I ever could,” said Willie. “If I went to work and started to save up my money straight away; but, oh, dear! I’ll never manage it. A million’s a terrible lot of money, isn’t it, Joe?”
“I reckon so,” answered Joe. “I wouldn’t like the counting of it.”
“No, ’specially if you were sleepy,” said Willie.
“You take it from me, young man, I wouldn’t be sleepy if I ’ad the ’andlin’ of a million of money. Why, I’d be thinkin’ every noise was a burgular after it. No, old Joe’d be pretty wide awake if ’e ’ad the ’andlin’ of a million of money!”
“Of course I wouldn’t care if I didn’t have a very big place,” went on Willie. “I wouldn’t care if it was just one little paddock on the corner of the creek. As long as it was land and belonged to me, and I could live up here and ride. That’s all I want.”
“Just enough to run a horse on, like?” said Joe.
“Yes,” said Willie, eagerly. “Do you think I could buy a place like that?”
“Well, of course, you’d have to make a livin’ somehow,” answered Joe, “and you couldn’t make much of a livin’ on a one-horse run; and I wouldn’t like it to be said that old Joe ever put the idea into your ’ead about it. But some day you might win a lease, or buy a piece of land—enough to run a few hundred sheep on, and by degrees you might buy a little more, and get on that way. But you want a bit o’ money to start with, or else you’ll have to work very ’ard. ’Course, though, the banks would lend you money, and you might be able to make a do of it.”
“That’s what I’ll do. I’ll get the banks to lend me money. I never thought about them. Why, it’ll be real easy. I’ll go to a lot of different banks and get them all to lend me a little; and I won’t let any of ’em know that I’ve been to the other one—see? My word! won’t Mother be surprised when she hears I’ve got a bit of land?”
“Hey, steady there!” said Joe, a bit afraid. “You’re too young yet—a long way too young to think about it. Well, you can think, but don’t go trying to git land right away. You’ve got a few years ahead of you yet.”
“Yes, that’s the worst of being young,” sighed Willie.
“Well, it’s funny, the difference in boys,” soliloquised Joe; “here’s you dyin’ to be on the land, and there was Frank dyin’ to be off it.”
“Yes, funny, isn’t it?” agreed Willie.
From that time he commenced to build castles in the air, in which figured prominently a green stretch of paddock with a gurgling creek running through it; a dear little cottage nestling on its banks, and a flock of big woolly sheep, some fine horses, and a few dogs to make up the sum total of his possessions.
“And, of course, I must have some cattle,” he would think, when completing the picture in his mind’s eye; “and a dear little pony and sulky to meet them at the railway station when they come up to stay with me.”
“They” represented Mamma, Dadda, and Marcia.
Mrs. Grey, the overseer’s wife, at Jenkin’s old place, was very ill. It was something unusual for Mrs. Grey to be ill. Mother spent a lot of time with her, and Miss Gibson would go down and read aloud to her by the hour. But she grew gradually worse, till at last Mother and the governess took it in turns to stay with her, following out the doctor’s instructions, which were written or wired daily from the far-off town.
The children rather liked the novelty of Mrs. Grey being ill at first, because they had broken time at school, but as time went on they grew tired of it. It was too lonesome in the house without Mother at night time, and they missed Miss Gibson, too. So old Joe came to the rescue, and told them yarns.
“Did you ever hear tell of the time youse were nearly burnt to death, and your Mother saved you?” he asked one afternoon about dusk.
“Oh, no, Joe!” gasped Doris, with wide-open eyes. “Tell’s.”
“Oh, you wasn’t in the world then!” answered Joe. “Little Eva was a baby.”
Then Baby cried because Eva was ever a baby.
“Oh, tell’s about it!” cried Willie, eagerly.
“You never heard tell of it, then?”
“No, never,” cried Willie. “As true as anything, I didn’t.”
“We have, but we’d love to hear it again,” said Eileen.
“Righto!” and Joe tapped his pipe on his boot, preparatory to filling it.
“Oh, dear! are you going to fill your pipe first?” asked Willie. “Come on, I’ll help you.”
“No, thanks, young man; I don’t care about the way you cut baccy.”
“Oh, dear, start telling us, Joe, while you’re cutting the tobacco!” said Willie, all eagerness to hear the story.
“Hold ’ard, hold ’ard!” said Joe, calmly, as he went on with his work. At last the pipe was filled and lit, and Joe proceeded.
“Yes, we was all away draftin’ at the yards down at the back of ‘Coolabah,’ and a fire broke out down along the crick, about four mile from here. There was tons of dry grass lying about, and it blazed like fury. Your Mother seen it light up, and you can bet she got the shock of her life. Not a man within miles, and all youse little ones with her. She knew if it came this far the house and all would go, and very likely you and her’d be burnt to death. So she rushed out to the paddock and catches old Dolly and whipped her into the spring-cart, and she put all youse in, an’ she rushed round and gathers up a little brood of chickens that she couldn’t bear to think of bein’ burnt to death, and put ’em in a box and jumps out into the cart and sent old Dolly like—like blazes, down the Myall road, and all the time the flames was comin’ nearer an’ nearer, and she was hardly game to look back, fearin’ she would see the house on fire.”
“Oh, dear!” gasped the children. “Wasn’t it awful?”
“Yes, and she sent old Dolly as fast as she could go down the road, and just as she turned the bend, lo and behold youse! she sees a pack of horsemen galloping down towards her!”
“Oh!” they gasped again in relief.
“Yes, they’d seen the fire, and knew it was near your place, so they rushed off from the yards and got here just in time to save the ’omestead. My! wasn’t your Mother glad? She just sat and cried after the shock; but, my word, she must have rushed round to have got you all safe away, for the fire was no time coming up the crick, and it swallowed all before it! Yes, she just sat and cried, for it was an awful shock to her, because she thought the fire might overtake you and you’d all be burnt to death alive.”
“Oh!” they all gasped again. “But wasn’t Mother brave?”
“Brave!” echoed Joe. “Why, I call your Mother a hero!”
“A hero—yes, that’s what she is!” they declared.
“Yes, she’s a regular hero,” declared Willie, stoutly.