“Oh, dear, I’m glad we’re saved!” said Eileen, “and were not burnt to death alive.”
“Do you know what I’d ha’ done, if I’d been there?” asked Willie.
“No,” said Joe, quietly.
“I’d ha’ got the scythe, and I’d ha’ cut all the grass down round the house, and I’d ha’ raked it all away out so’s there’d be nothing for the fire to burn near the house—see? And I’d ha’ got wet bags and hung them all round——”
“Yes, and what’d the fire be doing all this time?” asked old Joe, sarcastically. “Do you think it would wait for you to cut the grass and rake it all away, and find the bags, and all the rest of it? Oh, no, young man, you wouldn’t ha’ been alive to tell the tale to-day if you had started on them lines, and don’t you forget it! No, you couldn’t ha’ done better than your Mother,” he added, turning to the other children. “I always said, and I always will say, that your Mother’s a hero.”
“Oh, dear! isn’t it lovely to have your Mother a hero?” gasped Doris....
“Here she comes now,” said Joe. “I wonder what’s the news.”
“I say, let’s give her a cheer,” said the children.
“Well, I’d like you to, and I’d like to join in; but it mightn’t be in keepin’ with the time, seeing as how Mrs Grey is so ill.”
“Oh, yes! a good thing you thought of that, Joe,” said Mollie.
“Old Joe can think sometimes,” said Joe, well pleased.
Then Mother came in with the good news that Mrs. Grey was much better, and that a friend of hers would arrive to-morrow to look after her. Then the children cheered to their heart’s content, both because Mrs. Grey was better and because their Mother was a hero.
My dear Basil,I am in the North-West, and it is spring time! The fresh, warm-tinged air of the open spaces sends new life through the frame, waking old ambitions, recalling lost ideals and dreams of youth. The North-West world is a vast temple filled with the incense of the wattle, and the gladsome carols of feathered songsters. Just to lie on those verdant carpets and gaze into the twinkling depths of the blue sky; just to gaze and gaze and wonder and wonder again at the beauty and space and gladness of it all!At night the sky is a silver-specked vault, charged with the silver of the Milky-Way, or flooded with the light of the moon. What a great, great pity it is that our minds and hearts ever grow old! If only we could go through life with wonder eyes, what delights and wonderments we would find in this old prosaic world. And we could, if we would, retain this sacred possession of perennial youth. It is not always the years that count. One of the youngest persons I know is a man of forty-five, and the oldest person I ever met was a boy of fourteen! Ah, those young-hearted folk! How delightful it is to meet them! Don’t they seem to make life worth while?Down in the scrub a field of beauty stretches before me. The tall blue gums stretch towards the sky with their snow-white branches gleaming among the shadows and filtering sunlight, and here and there a mighty giant of the forest waves long, tattered, shroud-like strips of brown bark that have been cruelly stripped from their branches by the forest storms. But already the healing has come; the smooth new bark gleams and glistens in the warmth of the kindly sunlight, and the tattered shrouds wave a tender farewell to those new spirits born of their disaster.I climb and scramble through forests of slender saplings, over fallen logs and stumps, among blue-grey vegetation or, in the next instant, among vivid green trees that grow in symmetrical beauty, as though tended by a gardener. Fancy, if one had the planning out of a bush garden in that North-West forest! What a labour of love, what a fascinating theme to work on! Clearing and thinning and “lopping”; guarding with tender and jealous care some forest beauty that now gleams tenderly through darkening, choking growth. What winding paths and avenues and clumps and groves would be formed, with here and there a cleared space for masses of garden flowers. But a haunting, elusive perfume steals gently on a slight breeze from the inner depths of the forest, and I hasten thither to be met by fresh delights. The air is filled with the cloying sweetness of budah, nipand, wild orange, and clematis blossoms.The wild orange, or bumble, or “moogiel” (the aboriginal name) stands somewhat aloof from their neighbours. Who knows? Perhaps in the days of old they held pride of place in that vast scrub, and, mayhap, the dusky maidens twined bridal wreaths from their creamy blossoms; but howe’er it may be they stand aloof with their crown of glossy leaves and creamy blossoms and tender green fruit. Perhaps black fingers, long since stilled, wove hopes and shy thoughts among garlands of tender blossoms in the days ere the white usurper set foot on Australian shores.I don’t know what you will think of it all, Basil, but you asked me to send along these descriptions of the North-West, and I am seeing it at its best, so you must make allowances if I enthuse. I know all about the long, drear, desolate droughts, but “why think about to-morrow if to-day be sweet,” and so I give way to keen delight of the beauty and freshness of the surroundings, and trust that I draw a vivid pen-picture of this lovely forest.MARIE.
My dear Basil,
I am in the North-West, and it is spring time! The fresh, warm-tinged air of the open spaces sends new life through the frame, waking old ambitions, recalling lost ideals and dreams of youth. The North-West world is a vast temple filled with the incense of the wattle, and the gladsome carols of feathered songsters. Just to lie on those verdant carpets and gaze into the twinkling depths of the blue sky; just to gaze and gaze and wonder and wonder again at the beauty and space and gladness of it all!
At night the sky is a silver-specked vault, charged with the silver of the Milky-Way, or flooded with the light of the moon. What a great, great pity it is that our minds and hearts ever grow old! If only we could go through life with wonder eyes, what delights and wonderments we would find in this old prosaic world. And we could, if we would, retain this sacred possession of perennial youth. It is not always the years that count. One of the youngest persons I know is a man of forty-five, and the oldest person I ever met was a boy of fourteen! Ah, those young-hearted folk! How delightful it is to meet them! Don’t they seem to make life worth while?
Down in the scrub a field of beauty stretches before me. The tall blue gums stretch towards the sky with their snow-white branches gleaming among the shadows and filtering sunlight, and here and there a mighty giant of the forest waves long, tattered, shroud-like strips of brown bark that have been cruelly stripped from their branches by the forest storms. But already the healing has come; the smooth new bark gleams and glistens in the warmth of the kindly sunlight, and the tattered shrouds wave a tender farewell to those new spirits born of their disaster.
I climb and scramble through forests of slender saplings, over fallen logs and stumps, among blue-grey vegetation or, in the next instant, among vivid green trees that grow in symmetrical beauty, as though tended by a gardener. Fancy, if one had the planning out of a bush garden in that North-West forest! What a labour of love, what a fascinating theme to work on! Clearing and thinning and “lopping”; guarding with tender and jealous care some forest beauty that now gleams tenderly through darkening, choking growth. What winding paths and avenues and clumps and groves would be formed, with here and there a cleared space for masses of garden flowers. But a haunting, elusive perfume steals gently on a slight breeze from the inner depths of the forest, and I hasten thither to be met by fresh delights. The air is filled with the cloying sweetness of budah, nipand, wild orange, and clematis blossoms.
The wild orange, or bumble, or “moogiel” (the aboriginal name) stands somewhat aloof from their neighbours. Who knows? Perhaps in the days of old they held pride of place in that vast scrub, and, mayhap, the dusky maidens twined bridal wreaths from their creamy blossoms; but howe’er it may be they stand aloof with their crown of glossy leaves and creamy blossoms and tender green fruit. Perhaps black fingers, long since stilled, wove hopes and shy thoughts among garlands of tender blossoms in the days ere the white usurper set foot on Australian shores.
I don’t know what you will think of it all, Basil, but you asked me to send along these descriptions of the North-West, and I am seeing it at its best, so you must make allowances if I enthuse. I know all about the long, drear, desolate droughts, but “why think about to-morrow if to-day be sweet,” and so I give way to keen delight of the beauty and freshness of the surroundings, and trust that I draw a vivid pen-picture of this lovely forest.MARIE.
My dear Basil,Oh, those wattle groves of the North-West! How can I describe their tender, haunting loveliness?To-day I stood on a red, sandy road, and gazed down a long, glowing vista, where, like gold-crowned maidens, the wattle trees stretched for miles on either side, as though guarding that long avenue from destruction. A slight breeze stirred the branches, and the fluffy balls nodded in welcome, and scattered a shower of golden, powdery dust on to the shimmering sand. I stole almost reverently through that golden avenue, for a sense of benediction was in the air.A burst of melody broke on the stillness, and I stood stock-still. Surely such a pæan of praise might the angels sing! The liquid notes swelled higher and clearer as the black and white feathered songster continued his gladsome song. I stole quietly through the bushes and watched the singer who filled the scrub with melody. Just a black and white bird (a magpie) standing on the dead branch of a tree—no stage setting here. With head thrown back he trills and “cadenzas” and warbles as though his heart would burst, and a sea of throbbing melody surrounds me. And then the song dies away, and I am left with a sense of loneliness, for a hush fills the auditorium of the forest; but it is soon broken, for other birds awake the echoes, chirping, calling, singing and chattering and fluttering hurriedly around, as though the very universe depended on their exertions. The scrub is filled with baby-birds in different stages of growth. Some are merely very unattractive little morsels, that open hungry beaks as Mother-bird appears; some half-fledged and unattractive, too; some are just wee, fluffy balls, with bright, beadlike eyes; and others are at the interesting stage of learning their first “steps.” Up among the friendly branches they flutter and screech as they try their little wings, with alternate chattering and scolding and encouragement and comments from Ma and Pa. I pause and ponder. Next year those tiny, helpless morsels will have their homes among the leafy branches, and they, too, will be builders. Think of it! In one short year’s time the birds will have commenced their life-work, and what about we humans? Year after year we are watched and tended. Year after year our education goes on, and yet I doubt then if we are as faithful builders as those feathered songsters. But adieu till next week, when I will tell you more about the fields and paddocks.How I wish you could have a whole free week up here to revel in the green gladness and wonderful space!MARIE.
My dear Basil,
Oh, those wattle groves of the North-West! How can I describe their tender, haunting loveliness?
To-day I stood on a red, sandy road, and gazed down a long, glowing vista, where, like gold-crowned maidens, the wattle trees stretched for miles on either side, as though guarding that long avenue from destruction. A slight breeze stirred the branches, and the fluffy balls nodded in welcome, and scattered a shower of golden, powdery dust on to the shimmering sand. I stole almost reverently through that golden avenue, for a sense of benediction was in the air.
A burst of melody broke on the stillness, and I stood stock-still. Surely such a pæan of praise might the angels sing! The liquid notes swelled higher and clearer as the black and white feathered songster continued his gladsome song. I stole quietly through the bushes and watched the singer who filled the scrub with melody. Just a black and white bird (a magpie) standing on the dead branch of a tree—no stage setting here. With head thrown back he trills and “cadenzas” and warbles as though his heart would burst, and a sea of throbbing melody surrounds me. And then the song dies away, and I am left with a sense of loneliness, for a hush fills the auditorium of the forest; but it is soon broken, for other birds awake the echoes, chirping, calling, singing and chattering and fluttering hurriedly around, as though the very universe depended on their exertions. The scrub is filled with baby-birds in different stages of growth. Some are merely very unattractive little morsels, that open hungry beaks as Mother-bird appears; some half-fledged and unattractive, too; some are just wee, fluffy balls, with bright, beadlike eyes; and others are at the interesting stage of learning their first “steps.” Up among the friendly branches they flutter and screech as they try their little wings, with alternate chattering and scolding and encouragement and comments from Ma and Pa. I pause and ponder. Next year those tiny, helpless morsels will have their homes among the leafy branches, and they, too, will be builders. Think of it! In one short year’s time the birds will have commenced their life-work, and what about we humans? Year after year we are watched and tended. Year after year our education goes on, and yet I doubt then if we are as faithful builders as those feathered songsters. But adieu till next week, when I will tell you more about the fields and paddocks.
How I wish you could have a whole free week up here to revel in the green gladness and wonderful space!MARIE.
My dear Basil,The paddocks are full of young life. Out on the green the foals frisk and gambol, while their mothers, with admonishing whinnies, try to coax them back to their side. To-day a wee foal of but a few weeks old came and stared at me with wonder eyes. Standing daintily on its slim legs and tiny black hoofs it stared at “the stranger within the gates.” I longed to pat its soft nose, to stroke its silky ears, to embrace its shining, satiny neck, but—I didn’t dare to move, for I knew there would be a startled glance, a scamper of hoofs, a wild rush and the mob would be off, leaving a trail of trampled greenery in their wake, and with me a sense of desolation. So I sat still and gazed into those wonder eyes, as the little creature came nearer and nearer with cautious steps, and was joined by its curious little mates, till there were seven high-bred, dainty animals gazing at the solitary human. A shining bay, with black points, held pride of place as it reared its head daintily, and two little chestnuts followed closely; a wicked little shining black satin-coated one already showed the whites of its eyes, and a brown and a roan completed the number. They stood about solemnly, those seven little critics, and I wondered at their verdict. There and then I resolved that they should find a place on my canvas, and I seized my brush, when suddenly the roan foal, becoming frisky, gambolled and tossed its head, and, with playful leaps, dashed across the paddock, the others following helter-skelter. I don’t think I shall ever forgive that roan foal for breaking up the party, and I’ll feel a grudge against every roan horse I see, whether roaming free in the paddocks or harnessed to work. And then the whole mob scampered off; with tossing mane and head held high in the air, they galloped and pranced and gambolled and frisked for very lightness of heart, and revelled in their glorious sense of freedom and the intoxication of that spring morning. In the next paddock the unbroken horses heard their revels, and they, too, started on a wild stampede. I could hear the thud, thud, thud of galloping hoofs as they disappeared away in the distance, and the muffled sound of the return, as with flashing eyes, waving mane and distended nostrils those young, untamed creatures raced and raced for very joy of living. I thought of tired, spiritless cab-horses standing day by day in unbroken monotony, of cart-horses, whose only glimpses of greenery is the common at night time, and I sighed that I could not transport those weary, spiritless animals, who have surely forgotten (if ever they did know) those free, wild stretches, that unbroken spirit, those wild stampedes through a wealth of greenery in company with a gay, care-free mob, intoxicated with the freedom and beauty of early spring mornings.All the children joined me in my afternoon walk, and we took the track to the Namoi river. Among the bull-rushes and weeds along the water’s margin, the shy, slim, graceful water-hens rush noiselessly. The children gathered bunches of bull-rushes, clad in their goldeny-brown plush top-coats, and then we gathered shells and mussels, and then placed the mussels all back again in the water, for high above our heads, in one of the river bends, we saw a bed of wild buttercups, and as we hastened through the reeds a brood of ducks floated out—darling little, tiny fluffy balls, with bead-like eyes, drifted along the deep, still waters, with the important mother-ducks leading the way. There were faint, little cries and chirps as they glide along and were joined by flocks of others, young and grown, gliding peacefully down the still, deep river, through patches of sunshine and stretches of shade.The children find new beauties every day in the bush life. “Why, we never used to notice half those things till you came here,” said Eileen the other day. “I think we must have been going about with our eyes shut half the time.” But I know, of course, that it is because the gift of observation has been cultivated lately, and everything appeals to them now, and where once the paddocks and the river banks were delightful places to run about and play in, now there are fresh points of interest in tree and flower and plant life.To-morrow I commence my picture, and I shall work very constantly at it till it is quite finished, so don’t expect too many letters in the weeks to come.MARIE.
My dear Basil,
The paddocks are full of young life. Out on the green the foals frisk and gambol, while their mothers, with admonishing whinnies, try to coax them back to their side. To-day a wee foal of but a few weeks old came and stared at me with wonder eyes. Standing daintily on its slim legs and tiny black hoofs it stared at “the stranger within the gates.” I longed to pat its soft nose, to stroke its silky ears, to embrace its shining, satiny neck, but—I didn’t dare to move, for I knew there would be a startled glance, a scamper of hoofs, a wild rush and the mob would be off, leaving a trail of trampled greenery in their wake, and with me a sense of desolation. So I sat still and gazed into those wonder eyes, as the little creature came nearer and nearer with cautious steps, and was joined by its curious little mates, till there were seven high-bred, dainty animals gazing at the solitary human. A shining bay, with black points, held pride of place as it reared its head daintily, and two little chestnuts followed closely; a wicked little shining black satin-coated one already showed the whites of its eyes, and a brown and a roan completed the number. They stood about solemnly, those seven little critics, and I wondered at their verdict. There and then I resolved that they should find a place on my canvas, and I seized my brush, when suddenly the roan foal, becoming frisky, gambolled and tossed its head, and, with playful leaps, dashed across the paddock, the others following helter-skelter. I don’t think I shall ever forgive that roan foal for breaking up the party, and I’ll feel a grudge against every roan horse I see, whether roaming free in the paddocks or harnessed to work. And then the whole mob scampered off; with tossing mane and head held high in the air, they galloped and pranced and gambolled and frisked for very lightness of heart, and revelled in their glorious sense of freedom and the intoxication of that spring morning. In the next paddock the unbroken horses heard their revels, and they, too, started on a wild stampede. I could hear the thud, thud, thud of galloping hoofs as they disappeared away in the distance, and the muffled sound of the return, as with flashing eyes, waving mane and distended nostrils those young, untamed creatures raced and raced for very joy of living. I thought of tired, spiritless cab-horses standing day by day in unbroken monotony, of cart-horses, whose only glimpses of greenery is the common at night time, and I sighed that I could not transport those weary, spiritless animals, who have surely forgotten (if ever they did know) those free, wild stretches, that unbroken spirit, those wild stampedes through a wealth of greenery in company with a gay, care-free mob, intoxicated with the freedom and beauty of early spring mornings.
All the children joined me in my afternoon walk, and we took the track to the Namoi river. Among the bull-rushes and weeds along the water’s margin, the shy, slim, graceful water-hens rush noiselessly. The children gathered bunches of bull-rushes, clad in their goldeny-brown plush top-coats, and then we gathered shells and mussels, and then placed the mussels all back again in the water, for high above our heads, in one of the river bends, we saw a bed of wild buttercups, and as we hastened through the reeds a brood of ducks floated out—darling little, tiny fluffy balls, with bead-like eyes, drifted along the deep, still waters, with the important mother-ducks leading the way. There were faint, little cries and chirps as they glide along and were joined by flocks of others, young and grown, gliding peacefully down the still, deep river, through patches of sunshine and stretches of shade.
The children find new beauties every day in the bush life. “Why, we never used to notice half those things till you came here,” said Eileen the other day. “I think we must have been going about with our eyes shut half the time.” But I know, of course, that it is because the gift of observation has been cultivated lately, and everything appeals to them now, and where once the paddocks and the river banks were delightful places to run about and play in, now there are fresh points of interest in tree and flower and plant life.
To-morrow I commence my picture, and I shall work very constantly at it till it is quite finished, so don’t expect too many letters in the weeks to come.MARIE.
Mother had gone away. In all the years of their life they had never known Mother to leave them before. But she had gone now for a whole fortnight, and her letters were very constant.
Miss Gibson and Mollie were housekeepers, and all the others helped. At first they were most particular, and Eileen and Eva would sweep and tidy their room most scrupulously every morning, and Doris would tidy up her doll’s clothes and wash and paint up old Rose’s face every morning, and Baby would wander round and get in everybody’s way.
“I’m just about sick of work,” Eileen said one day. “I’m only going to do our room every other morning now, Eva, and the day Mother comes home we’ll give it a monstrous cleaning.”
“All right,” agreed Eva, who was a bit tired of it, too.
“An’ I’ll only wash Rose’s face once a week,” declared Doris.
Miss Gibson was extra kind to Baby those days, and would nurse and talk to her for ever so long.
“Why, you’re making her a real baby again,” said Eileen. “She’ll be getting too lazy to walk. I suppose it’s because Mother’s away that you pet her so much.”
“Poor old Baby!” laughed Miss Gibson, “she won’t be a baby for ever, you know.”
“No, and sometimes I wished I’d died when I was a baby.”
“Why?” asked Miss Gibson, for she knew that Eileen was in one of her discontented moods, and would probably talk and talk till she talked herself all unconsciously out of it.
“Oh! ’cause there’s nothing much to live for, only learning old lessons and things that don’t interest you, and growing up and being disappointed, and—and all sorts of things.”
“Never mind, there might be a bright time coming.”
“No, there’s no bright time coming. People always say, ‘There’s a bright time coming.’ But it’s a very slow old traveller, for it never gets this far. ‘A bright time coming’——”
“Well, what about the time that Uncle came? That was a bright time.”
“Yes, but that’s all over now, and we might go all our lives waiting for a bright time that will never come,” and so, talking, grumbling, and arguing, she talked herself into quite a good temper again.
Meanwhile another fortnight flew by, and then a letter came to Miss Gibson, and there was a hurried consultation with Mollie. Then Eileen was let into the secret, and then the others were told.
“A little brother, a little brother!” they shouted. “Well, isn’t it funny?”
“Well, of all the things that ever would happen, I thought that would be the last!” said Eva.
“Dear, dear, dear!” cried Doris, jumping round and clapping her hands. “Won’t we have fun with him?”
“Won’t we?” screamed Eva. “I hope he’s pretty, and I’ll paint a picture of him.”
“I suppose he’ll be cross, and will always want someone to nurse him,” grumbled Eileen.
“Jingo! I wish he was older,” said Willie; “he’d be great sport for me.”
Then Baby set up a roar, and said she wanted him now; and Miss Gibson lifted her up and talked to her.
“He’ll soon be here now, Baby, and you won’t be Baby any more.”
“Is that why you was always nursing her?” asked Doris. “And did you know, and never tell us?” and then she cried, too. “If you’d told me I’d ha’ made him some little dresses, ’stead of makin’ them all up for Rose.”
“Don’t cry, dear; we’ll all sew for him when he comes home, and Baby can play with him when he gets older.”
“Oh, dear! won’t it be funny having a little brother?” said Mollie. “Oh, dear, I wish he’d soon come home!”
“I’m going to have first nurse,” said Eileen. “I said first.”
“No, I am!” cried Eva, and then there was a quarrel about it.
“I know what I’ll do,” said Willie, slyly. “I’ll ride up to Hogan’s letter box the day your Mother’s coming home, and get her to let me have first nurse. There!”
“No, you won’t—you’ll do nothing of the kind!” cried Eileen, stamping her foot.
“No, he’s not your brother,” cried Eva.
“No!” roared Doris, “he’s not your brother, and I’ll hit you, too.”
She rushed at him, and there was a wild stampede, while they all chased Willie; and the governess let them have their fight out, for she knew how excited they were.
By-and-bye they all came back good friends, and had promised Willie he could have fourth nurse, because Baby wasn’t old enough to care, and she could have the last one.
“By Jove! won’t he laugh when he grows up, and I tell him that I nursed him when he was little?” said Willie, proudly.
“Oh, he might die!” said Doris, bursting into tears. “He might never grow up—he might die.”
Then Miss Gibson had to pacify her and promise her she would make toffee for tea, and so peace was restored again.
For the next few weeks nothing was talked of excepting the new baby, and while they were supposed to be studying or doing their homework they would wonder what colour eyes it would have, and if “it” would be cranky or good, and if “it” would like bush life or rather go to Sydney and study like Frank. It would nearly fill a book with their wonderings, and all the time the time was drawing near when “it” would be home with them.
“I suppose ‘it’ won’t be very pretty,” Eileen would say. “It will be too little for a long time yet.”
“I wonder what’ll we call it,” said Eva.
They ran through hundreds of names, but none of them would suit.
“What about Teddo?” asked Doris, struck by a bright inspiration.
“Oh, yes, let’s call him Teddo!” cried Willie.
“Oh, no!” said Eileen—“not Teddo. Teddo’s all right—for—well—for Teddo, but it won’t do for our little brother.”
“I think it’s real nice,” said Doris, “and Teddo was a real nice man.”
“Oh, yes, I know! but, all the same, we’re not going to call it after Teddo.”
“I like Ronald,” said Eva.
“No, my pet lamb’s named Ronald. He can’t have that,” answered Eileen. “I don’t know whatever we can call him,” she went on, anxiously.
So they went through a lot more names till they became quite cross, and they decided to leave the old name, and let someone else find one. And so the days wore on till the wonderful brother arrived.
And then the joy and the criticisms.
“Isn’t he a darling, and a little dear, and a beauty?” and all kinds of endearing terms were lavished on him, and he was just like some of them thought he would be, and real different to what others thought, and he proved a great entertainment to them.
“Why, he’s got a little red face just like Teddo’s,” cried Doris.
“He hasn’t,” cried Eileen. “He has a lovely, pinkish face.”
“He’s just like a little angel,” said Eva, “and I’m sure Teddo wasn’t like an angel.”
“But he’s like Teddo, all the same,” persisted Doris, “an’ we ought to call him Teddo.”
Then Mother asked what about calling him after Uncle Harry, and they were all thunderstruck to think they had not thought of that before.
“Of course we will!” cried Mollie.
“Yes, ’cause only for Uncle he might never be here,” said Doris, seriously; “’cause everything’s different since Uncle came.”
So it was decided to call him Henry, which would, of course, mean “Harry,” or “Hal,” or “Har.” But he was nearly always called “The Baby,” and so Baby still kept her name as merely “Baby.”
Dadda made him a cart—a box with wooden wheels—and it was fitted up with cushions, and the baby spent many hours there as the weeks went on, and would lie and coo and laugh for ever so long, and the children would crowd round and talk to him. They declared that he answered them, and they were sure he knew each and every one of them and was the most wonderful baby that ever lived. Doris declared that he called her “Doris” one morning as plain as anything; and she said that she loved babies, and when she grew up she would like to have about a hundred.
“Ugh! they’ll be like rabbits!” Eileen answered. “It would be awful to have that many.”
But Doris said she didn’t care.
Willie would beg to be allowed to drag the cart down the road and give the “little chap” a ride, and sometimes Mother would let him, until she found out that he would sometimes leave the cart with her precious treasure and rush off after a bright-winged bird or butterfly.
“But look here, Mrs. Hudson, it’s only for a minute or two, and the baby doesn’t mind—not a bit! He’s great chums with me——”
“Yes, but supposing something knocked the cart over, or supposing—oh, hundreds of things; so you may just wheel him down the road in sight of the house sometimes.”
And Willie said that was very tame.
The weeks sped by. Sometimes the children would say the time dragged. At others they wouldn’t have half enough time, and wished the days were twenty-four, instead of twelve, hours long. It just depended upon the mood they were in whether the time dragged or flew.
Every Tuesday afternoon they did the week’s darning, and would sit out on the verandah, with the darning basket or other mending, and work away, sometimes grumbling, sometimes laughing and talking or listening to Miss Gibson’s stories or reading.
“I don’t know why we wear stockings,” said Eileen one day, as she mended an exceptionally big tear in Baby’s sock. “We ought to wear leggings—yes, leather leggings; and there’d be none of this old stitch, stitch, stitching. Do you hear, Baby?—you’ll have to get a little pair of leather leggings made at the saddler’s.”
Baby roared, and declared she “wouldn’t wear ’em, an’ she was tightened of the tadder,” and was just going off into fresh cries of grief, till Eileen assured her that she would let her off.
“But, all the same, it would be a good idea,” she went on, digging the needle into her sewing. “I’m sure it would be lovely to run about without boots and socks——”
“What about bindies?” asked Doris, triumphantly.
“Oh, well! people’d only have to use their eyes,” said Eileen, coolly. “Anyhow, I’m sick of mending and darning and patching—I’d like to live in trees like the Swiss Family Robinsons——”
“Or monkeys,” said Willie, teasingly.
“You speak for yourself,” answered Eileen, and then the laugh was turned on Willie.
“I say, we never had that week on the river yet,” cried Mollie.
“Oh, no! wouldn’t it be grand? Let’s ask about it now. Come on!”
“Oh, yes, let’s!” shrieked Doris.
Then needles, darning wool, cotton, and stockings were scattered all over the verandah, while they rushed away to find Mother.
At first she thought they had taken leave of their senses, but they begged and pleaded so hard that at last she consented to think about it.
“Yes, we’ll have a great time. We’ll swing the hammocks in the big trees, and, oh—it’ll be great!” cried Mollie.
“What about waiting till Frank comes back? You know, he expects to have a short holiday in the early spring time.”
“Oh, so he does, so he does!” they fairly shrieked. “We’ll wait till then. Frank will enjoy it, and he’ll be such a help, putting up the hammocks and fixing up the fires, and all that.”
“Huh! That’s a nice way to talk about a fellow,” said Willie; “just want him to work!”
“We don’t want him to work,” declared Mollie. “We’re real glad to have him, and we know he’ll love helping us.”
“Oh, I could lend you a hand if you want help,” said Willie.
“Of course you can, and we’ll be real glad to have your help.”
“Yes, there’s not much I can’t do in the fixing up line,” went on Willie, boastfully.
“Oh, no, you’re all right for your age,” said Eileen, “but of course you’re so very young.”
If there was anything Willie hated it was to be called young.
“I’m not so very young, either,” he answered. “Now, I call Doris and Baby young. I’ll surprise you all when it comes to fixing up camp.”
“Yes, you’re real good at fixing up,” agreed Eva.
“Oh, dear! won’t it be grand?” they all echoed again, and just then Dadda came in.
“I have some good news for you, children.”
“Good news!” they cried. “Whatever is it? Oh, tell us!”
“Tell us, quick!” cried Doris.
“Mr. and Mrs. Grey are leaving soon, and the manager and his wife and children are coming to live there.”
“Oh!”
The darning, which had been taken up again, was fairly banged on to the verandah now, and scissors and wool were scattered far and wide, while Eva threw a reel of cotton high in the air.
“Children coming! Playmates! Hurrah!”
“When are they coming, and who are they, and how many, and how old are the children, and are they nice?”
“Are you glad?” asked Dadda.
“Glad?” repeated Eileen. “Glad’s not in it! We’re overjoyed. Of course we all like Mrs. Gray; she can make lovely little cakes, and keep her house lovely and clean, but—little cakes and a clean house are not playmates. And when we’re dying for fun and playmates, cakes and houses don’t count!”
“No, dere no good,” declared Doris, in tones of finality.
“Oh! won’t it be fine?” cried Eva. “I hope they’re nice.”
“I hope so,” said everyone, in tones of concern. “If they’re not nice, won’t it be awful?”
“Worse nor cakes an’ a house,” said Doris.
They all went off into peals of laughter at the worried look on Doris’s face.
“Oh, I think they’re sure to be nice,” said Mollie, hopefully.
“But supposing they’re not,” groaned Eileen. “Supposing we wish the Greys were back again?”
“We’ll fix ’em up,” said Willie. “If they’re not nice when they come, we’ll make ’em nice.”
“Well, young man, they’re coming the day after to-morrow, so you’ll have to get ready for your task very soon.”
“The day after to-morrow!”
They all sat still for a while, with the wonder of it.
“I didn’t think it would be for another week, whatever. The day after to-morrow!”
“I wonder will they go past here, and will we get a look at them?” cried Eileen.
“No, they’re coming past Frazer’s old place.”
“Oh, bother them!” she cried. “We mightn’t see them for weeks. I’ve a good mind to camp at Frazer’s old place, just to get the first look at them. I wonder how many children there are, and do they like the country, and can they ride, and what are their names? Did Mrs. Grey tell you anything about them?”
“No, she doesn’t know them at all.”
“Oh, dear! I don’t know how ever I can live till they come,” groaned Eileen. “I bet I’ll dream about them to-night.”
Sure enough she did, and she recounted her dream to a wondering group next morning.
“Yes, there were five of them, and what do you think—they were all exactly the one size?”
“Oh!——”
“And they all had red hair. Real red hair, everyone of them.”
“Oh, they must have looked funny!”
“All the one size?” asked Eva.
“Yes, the five of them; all the one size, with little red heads.”
“They must have all been twins,” shrieked Doris.
“Twins!” echoed Willie, in tones of disgust. “Triplets, you mean!”
“Triplets—oh, listen!” cried Eva. “Fourlets or fivelets, more like.”
“Oh, dear, they must have looked like five little carrots!” said Doris.
“Yes, that’s what they looked like—five little carrots, all dressed up.”
There were shrieks of laughter at this, but the dream made them all the more anxious to see the new people. As the days sped on, they grew nearly frantic with curiosity.
“See them?” they’d ask Dadda and old Joe, as they came in, in the evening. But they were always doomed to disappointment.
But one day old Joe had good news.
“Yes, I seen ’em to-day,” he said, as he unsaddled his horse. “I called there with a sheep notice.”
“Oh, Joe! How many—what are they like? What did they say?”
A volley of questions were hurled at him.
“She seems a nice lady——”
“But the children, Joe—what about——”
“Children?” echoed Joe. “Who said there was children?” he went on, in his most tantalising manner.
“Oh, Joe! but there are, aren’t there? Oh, tell us, Joe.”
“If there’s no children, I’ll go—I’ll go and drownd myself,” cried Doris, bursting into tears. “I will—I’ll go and drownd myself——”
“Steady, there—yes, there’s children. Well, there’s none real little—least, not what I seen.”
“Oh, tell’s all about them!” cried Doris, with the tears still standing in her eyes.
“There’s a boy looks about fifteen—a nice lad, he seems, with red hair.”
They all gasped.
“Red hair! Oh!”
“You didn’t see five of them, did you, Joe? Five of them with red hair? Because, if you did, that’s my dream out.”
“Dream? Who’s talkin’ about dreams?” answered Joe, testily, for he was always cantankerous till he had his tea. “If you’re goin’ to start talkin’ about dreams, I’ll tell you no more about them.”
“Oh! go on, please, Joe.”
“Yes, a nice lad he seems, and his hair ain’t real red; leastways, not that bad-tempered ginger red. It’s more like the reddish-brown colour of a myall log just where it’s chopped.”
“Yes, I know the shade,” said Eva, eagerly.
“He’s got a nice fresh face, and he seems a real nice lad. And there’s a girl about the size of Eileen there, and there’s another one in a sort of a pram or chair.”
“Oh, she must be the baby!” they gasped.
“No, she ain’t the baby, but I think she must be delicate. She looked about nine or ten.”
“Oh! Any more?”
“No, that’s all I seen.”
“You didn’t hear any more laughing or—crying anywhere, did you, Joe?”
“No,” he answered, testily; “of course I didn’t. Wouldn’t I know there was more if I heerd ’em laughing or crying?”
“Oh, the poor little delicate one. I’d love to see her. What a pity she won’t be able to join in our fun!” said Eileen.
“Now, that’s all I know about ’em,” said Joe. “So don’t you ever mention the new people to me again. If you want to find out any more go and see ’em for yourself, and don’t let on I said anything about the little delicate one—for there’s no knowin’ how they’ll take it.”
“All right, Joe—all right,” they shouted after him. “But what a pity!” they said among themselves, “there’s not more of them. If there were only five or six.”
“I wish dere was a tousand,” declared Doris.
“Why don’t you say a million thousand while you’re at it?” asked Willie.
“Well, anyhow, it’s time Mother went to see them,” said Eileen.
“Yes, of course it is,” they all agreed. “Let’s go and tell her to go soon.”
“Wait a while. Who’ll go with her?”
There was a pause.
“Whose turn is it? It isn’t mine, because I went to Bragan Junction last week,” said Eileen. “I suppose Mother and Miss Gibson will go and one of us. Let’s see—it’s Eva’s turn.”
“Oh, no! you go, Eileen; you go first, and tell us all about them.”
“But supposing I don’t like them. You go, Mollie.”
“Oh, no! you always get more news than any of us. You go first.”
“Yes,” agreed Willie and Doris. “And, another thing,” went on Willie; “I don’t see what Miss Gibson wants to go for. Mollie ought to go instead.”
“Oh, no, Miss Gibson must go,” said Mollie, hastily. “It wouldn’t be nice to leave her at home.”
“No, and, besides, let them see we have a governess,” said Eileen. “It’s just as well to let people know you can afford it.”
“I never thought of that,” agreed Willie. “I hope your Mother wears her best dress.”
“Of course she will,” they chorussed. “And now let’s find Mother, and get her to name a day, because once the day’s named half the trouble’s over.”
Off they scampered to find Mother.
The visit was paid at last, and Eileen went as a kind of “scout,” to seek news and information, and the others waited with what patience they could for their return. But the time seemed very long as they watched up the road, long before there could be any possibility of them appearing; and at last Eva suggested that they should walk up and meet them. Willie joined them, and they all marched forth and walked to the Big White Gate, a mile and a half from home, before they met them. Eileen sprang out to tell them everything.
“I’ll walk home,” she said, “because I’ve got such a lot to tell them.”
“Won’t you get in and have a drive, Doris?” asked Mother.
“No, tanks,” answered Doris. “I want to hear about ’em.”
“Oh, they’re boskers! A lot better than I thought, and we’ll be able to have great fun together. What do you think—there’s five of them. Old Joe must have missed two the day he was there.”
“That’s great!” they cried.
“There’s Colin, about sixteen. He’s nice, and his hair’s hardly red at all, although there’s a bit of red in it, and he can ride and shoot and skate and——”
“Does he wear long pants?” asked Willie.
“Yes, and he had a lovely Norfolk suit on, and looked like the nice fellows on the catalogues.”
“I wish I was in long pants,” grumbled Willie.
“What! A boy like you? A nice sight you’d be in long pants. Why, you’ve got five years to go yet. It isn’t long since Colin took to them.”
“Did you call him Colin?” asked Eva.
“Yes, of course I did, and he said we must all call him Colin. We’re all going to meet them to-morrow down at the river bridge, because Colin’s promised to take Meta there, and it’ll be great fun. Meta’s the delicate one. She’s not always delicate, but she hurt the spine of her back, and she has to have a long rest. That’s why she has an invalid’s chair, but she’s real nice and cheerful. Then there’s Edith—she’s next to Colin. I should have said her before Meta; and there’s two little boys—Keith and Kossie. They are little dears, but very wild. I mean they chase round and make a noise, but they’re lovely looking. And they’re twins.”
“Oh, dear, I wish to-morrow would come soon!” said Doris.
“It won’t be long,” said Eileen, consolingly.
The next afternoon they met, and became firm friends. They told each other their ages and dates of their birthdays, and their favourite names and favourite flowers, and they made up their minds to be friends always, no matter what happened.
“You look real nice in that chair,” said Eva to Meta, impulsively.
“Do I?” she laughed. “Well, I’ll be real glad when I can leave it. Sometimes since I have come up here I’ve had some nice little short walks, and it is just lovely to be on my feet again. I never knew how nice it was to walk till I’ve been lying down so long.”
“I’ll read all my poems to you some day, if you like,” went on Eva.
“I’d love it,” Meta answered.
“Yes, I have a nice collection of stamps,” Colin was saying to Mollie, “and some of them are very valuable, and I have some beautiful foreign post-cards, too——”
“Any money in post-cards?” asked Willie, with his hands deep in his pockets.
“Oh, no, it’s just a hobby.”
“I believe in money-making,” asserted Willie. “Some day I’m going to start and make a big lot of it.”
“Good luck to you,” laughed Colin. “You’re thinking of it early.”
“A man has to start young,” answered Willie, as he strode off with his fishing line. He would have dearly loved to have a game of chasings with the two little boys and Doris, but just on the first meeting he wanted to appear dignified.
“He’s a queer little chap,” laughed Colin to Mollie.
“He thinks he’s a man when he talks like that,” said Mollie, hastily. “He’s a real nice little boy when he’s natural.”
Meanwhile the two little boys were becoming unmanageable. They would race backwards and forwards over the bridge, like two young horses, and up and down the steep banks of the river, until they became more daring, and started to jump from one stone to another across the water.
“Come out at once, you young rascals!” commanded Colin, “and don’t attempt to go in there again.”
So for a time there was peace while they played at making houses with sticks with Doris and Baby. Then Mollie looked up and saw a sight that made her blood run cold, for, perched high on a tree overhanging the deepest part of the river, were the twins far out on a slender branch that swayed with their weight. One false move, and they would be dashed into the gurgling water that lapped round the cruel sharp stones just beneath them. Colin saw them, too, and his face blanched.
“Not a word, Mollie,” he gasped. “Go and talk to Meta. Talk for all you’re worth, and don’t let her see them, whatever you do.”
Mollie never quite knew how she reached Meta, and what she talked about to make her laugh so; but she caught hold of the invalid’s chair and wheeled it away down the road and around the bend, out of sight of the fatal tree, after she had whispered to Edith and Eileen to go to Colin.
The twins could see their danger, and looked appealingly to those on the river bank, for they had all joined Colin by this, and Doris and Baby waved and clapped their hands in fear.
“Keep still, the pair of you!” commanded Colin, “and I’ll come up to you.”
He tore off his coat and boots, and attempted to climb the tree. They were a long way out, but it was easy enough to reach them if they would only keep still. At last Colin, lying on a strong branch, put out his hand and drew Keith back to safety, and when halfway down handed him to the watchers on the bank. He then went back again for Kossie, who was beginning to cry and getting restive. Suddenly one of the branches he was clinging to broke, and the next instant Kossie would have been tossed into the water, had not Colin, with a mighty effort, grasped him. For a minute he swung in mid air, and then he was drawn back to the branch. For a time the two of them hung there. The watchers on the bank held their breath. If the branch should snap, and send the two clinging figures into the stony depths below! A few twigs and bushes broke off and dropped into the gurgling water, and the watchers shuddered. Supposing it should have been Colin or Kossie! But at last the tension was over, and Colin slowly descended, with Kossie in his arms. Then Doris, Baby, and the others rushed the twins and kissed and hugged them, and told them never to do it again, and gave them all kinds of advice and warnings.