“No, never do it again,” said Colin, sternly, facing the culprits. “You might have been floating down the river now—two little corpses. I’ve a good mind to——”
But his words were drowned in the wail the twins set up at the thought of being two little corpses, and it was long ere they could pacify them.
“Me don’t want to be corpse,” shouted Kossie.
“Me don’t, eder,” cried Keith. “Me want to wide me po—o-ny.”
“Well, you’ll never ride your pony again, you’ll never see your pony, if you go doing things like that,” said Colin. “Come on, let’s have some billy tea to cheer us up, and then it will be time for home.”
“Oh, what a pity it’s nearly over!” said Doris. “I wish it was just beginning.”
“Never mind, we’ll soon meet again,” said Colin, as he threw a stack of twigs and bushes on the fire that crackled and blazed merrily. They all had a parting cup of tea, and gave three cheers for Colin and three cheers for all themselves; then Doris said:
“Three cheers for the twins!”
“They don’t deserve it,” said Colin, but he joined in the cheer, and caps and hats were thrown high in the air.
“What a beueful day it was,” said Doris, as they walked home across the paddock.
“Yes, lovely. Nearly an accident and all,” said Eileen. “It was just like what you’d read about. Oh, it was a lovely day, and I love the twins, although they’re wild and a bit bold.”
“Pity Kossie didn’t fall in and didn’t get hurt. It would have been great to talk about,” said Willie. “If he only fell in and sailed down the river a bit. It would have been real great!”
“Ye—es. As long as he didn’t get hurt,” agreed Eva.
“Yes. I wish he fell in and sailed away,” said Doris, briskly. “It wouldn’t ha’ hurt him, an’ we’d had great fun. Pity Colin didn’t push him in,” she cried, warming to the subject.
“Oh, well, anyhow, he nearly fell in, and it was real exciting, so we can’t grumble,” said Eileen, and they all agreed.
They all walked home through the cold, sharp-tinged gloaming, very pleased with themselves and the world in general.
As time went on there were many merry meetings, and the twins had some hairbreadth escapes, and the Gillong children wondered how ever they had lived so long without the Garlands, and the Garlands wondered the same about the Hudsons. Sometimes they would go fishing, and the twins would throw stones and sticks in the water, just to see the circles growing wider and wider. Colin would chase them up the bank with his rod, because he said they hunted the fish away; and then they would climb trees and “hoot-toot” among the branches and declare they were owls or other birds.
They were a source of never-ending joy to Doris, who dearly loved to watch them at their tricks, and she wished and wished that she knew a million thousand boys like them.
“Oh, dear, I wish something nice would happen!” sighed Eileen. “It’s a terrible long time since anything real nice happened.”
“Yes, not since Uncle came,” said Eva.
“Oh, wha—what about the baby?” gasped Doris, in amazement.
“Oh, yes, of course—the baby—well, the baby’s all right, but, still, I want some real fun. I’m sick of everything again, and I know the Garlands are great, and we’re lucky to have them; but I’d like something real different and real surprising to happen.”
“Yes, I wish something exciting would happen, too,” said Mollie. “Something real nice and exciting——”
“Yes, not Mrs. Grey getting sick, or anything like that,” said Eva.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Grey getting sick is not the kind of fun—er, I mean excitement—I want,” said Eileen; “that was right enough for a time, but I want real fun now.”
“So do I,” said Mollie.
“And so do I,” said Eva.
“And me, too,” agreed Doris. “I want some real fun—not Mrs. Gray, or the baby, or old Rose, or anything else.”
“Me, too,” chimed in Baby, who was beginning to feel quite grown up since the other baby came.
“Pity somethin’ wouldn’t happen to the twins or something,” said Doris. “Not too bad—only somethin’ or other, I don’t know what.”
“But, of course, nothing will happen,” said Eileen, dismally.
“No, of course it won’t,” agreed Eva.
“No, it never does,” went on Eileen. “It’s the same old thing over and over. Go to bed, get up, have your meals; go to bed again, get up, have your meals,” she repeated like a parrot, and she might have kept on repeating it for another hour or two, only that they saw the mailman coming in the distance, and they wondered if he would bring any letters; but “of course he wouldn’t,” Eileen said; he never did bring letters to them, only once in a blue moon, so what was the use of wondering about him or looking for him or anything else.
“If he don’t bwing letters I—I don’t know what I’ll do,” said Doris. “I wish—I wish a letter’d come to take us away to some place we never heard of,” she went on, not knowing what to wish for.
“Oh, yes, and it might be worse than here!” answered Eileen. “A lot of good that will do you!”
“I don’t know what I’d like,” said Mollie, “but something where we could have plenty of laughing and talking and great fun.”
“I wish we had another noo uncle,” sighed Doris. “He was the best ’sprise we ever had. Pity we hadn’t some more.”
“Oh, you’d soon get sick of uncles,” grumbled Eileen.
“There might be a letter from Uncle to-day,” said Mollie, brightly. “It’s a long while since we heard from him. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if there was one from him to-day.”
“I’ll bet there won’t be,” croaked Eileen, “so don’t be thinking there might, because you’ll only be disappointed.”
Mother opened the mail-bag, and out dropped some square thick envelopes.
“Oh, letters!” called Mother, and there was a scramble to see whom they were for.
“Mother and Dadda, Miss Gibson, and the Misses Hudson, and one for Willie, in the same writing,” she cried.
“I hope it’s not a bill for that whip of mine,” said Willie, as he tried to appear careless about getting a letter.
“A likely thing a bill would come in an envelope like that,” said Eileen, sharply.
Then there was excitement indeed, for the letters were invitations to a party at “Myall,” and not merely a party, but a plain and fancy dress party. There was great excitement at “Gillong,” as they discussed their dresses and “characters.”
“I think I’ll go as a Cowboy,” said Willie, as he swaggered round.
“Oh, no; go as something nice,” said Eileen.
“Nice? What do you call nice?” asked Willie. “There’s nothing nicer than a cowboy. You ought to see ’em at the pictures.”
“Oh, no! Go as Lord Somebody, or Sir Someone, or somebody grand. You can be an old cowboy any day.”
“No, thanks, I don’t want to be any of your grand chaps. I might be a footballer, or a cricketer, or a stockman; but none of your grand men that wear silk and satin. Ugh! And I might be a Red Indian yet. Yes, that’s what I’ll be—a Red Indian,” he cried, excitedly. “Oh! it will be fun rigging it up. Let’s come and make a start at it now. I’ll have feathers all over my head, and I’ll get the loan of that dingo skin of your Mum’s, and—oh, it will be fun!”
“No, you won’t be a Red Indian,” cried Eileen. “No one will dance with you.”
“Dance with me?” echoed Willie. “I don’t want ’em to dance. I want to have some fun. I thought you were all wishing for fun, and now it’s coming you want to dress up in fine clothes. Ugh!”
“What about Little Lord Fauntleroy? Oh, Willie, you’d look pretty!”
“Little Lord Fauntleroy!” gasped Willie. “Ugh! Do you think I want to look pretty? Do you think a man wants to lookpretty? Ugh!”
For the next week excitement and disorder held sway at “Gillong,” for there was so much trouble in choosing costumes.
One day Eva would decide on “Flower Girl,” another on “Erin” or “Rule, Britannia,” or some other character; and they were all the same, till Mother and the governess were nearly distracted.
“I don’t think I’ll go,” said Eileen one evening.
“Why?” they all asked in chorus.
“Because I don’t know what to be, and it’s too much trouble deciding. And, besides, it’s silly going in fancy dress, fixing up everything; and I’d rather go in a real pretty silk dress and nice silk stockings and pretty shoes and a fan, and all sorts of nice things; and I’m not rich enough for that, so I’ll stay at home.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Mollie. “It’s lovely to be going in fancy dress.”
“Oh, its all right for you—you’ve decided!”
“Well, why don’t you decide?”
“I can’t. Every day makes it harder, and I get more mixed; so I’ll just give the lot up and stay at home;” and she looked very disconsolate.
“What about a gipsy?” asked someone.
“Or a queen, or a mermaid, or—oh, lots of things!”
“Now, look here, Eileen; you’ll have to decide,” said Mollie, firmly. “Let’s fix it up now.”
So, after a great deal of talk, she decided on “Gipsy Queen.”
Then there was work getting their dresses ready. Mollie was “Night,” and the soft black dress, with the half-moon and stars cut out of silver paper, suited her splendidly. Across her red-gold hair she had a black velvet band, with a quaint little half-moon slanting across it.
The “Gipsy Queen” looked fine in her red dress, with slashes of gold paper and touches of black velvet, and coins and berries placed cunningly here and there. In the make-ups everyone helped, and the tags off tobacco were even pressed into service. Even old Joe would sit at the kitchen table after tea and cut out hundreds of stars and other shapes out of silver and gold paper; and many the argument he and Willie had over correct sizes, etc., and how many stars were in the sky, and thousands of other things; and, of course, the arguments were never decided, because they were both sure that they were right, and left it at that.
Eva was “Flower Girl,” and had a pretty white muslin frock, decked with flowers, and carried a wand (made by Old Joe) wreathed with flowers. Doris was “Winter,” and looked radiant in her red dress, bordered with wadding for fur, and a little white wadding cap trimmed with red berries. Baby was “Red Riding Hood,” and fancied herself in her little blue frock and white pinafore and red cape and hood; only when she had been at the party a while she grew tired of the cape and hood, and threw it off, and was just plain Baby in her little blue frock for the rest of the evening. At the last Willie had decided to go as a “Scout,” and his mother had to hurriedly post him a suit from Sydney; and Mollie fixed up one of Frank’s felt hats for him, and he was very pleased with his “rig out,” as he called it.
Two days before the party a letter came from Frank to say that he was coming home for a short holiday. “Just a week or ten days,” he wrote, “and I am looking forward to it. What a lot we will have to talk about! Tell Doris and Baby I’ll expect them to give me a picnic under the old picnic tree.”
They were all silent for a while, overjoyed at the great news, and then their tongues were loosened, and a babel of voices filled the air.
“Well, if it’s not the very best thing that could happen,” cried Eileen. “I’ve been wishing that Frank could be here to see us in our fancy dresses, and now he’ll be here. Hooray!”
“Oh, dear, dear! whatever’ll he go as?” cried Doris. “I wish he’d be old Father Christmas.”
“Father Christmas, indeed!” cried Eileen. “I fancy I see him!”
“Yes, an’ he’d be a mate for me, then,” said Doris. “He could have a red coat with fur on it and berries, and he’d look real nice.”
“Pity I didn’t know he was coming sooner,” said Willie. “I’d have saved postage on my suit. He could have brought it up.”
“So he could,” they agreed. “What a pity!”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Willie, lordly. “A fellow doesn’t have much use for money up here.”
They danced round Frank when he arrived, and all wanted to tell him all the news at once. They admired him, and said he looked “lovely” and “beautiful,” and all kinds of nice things, till Frank laughingly declared he’d grow too shy to talk.
But he was a different Frank to the boy who had left “Gillong” only about eight months ago. He was so alert and bright and keen, and his eyes were dancing as he talked and laughed. For he had found his niche, and was working hard at his heart’s desire: and Mollie thought gratefully of “Uncle,” who had put it in his power to take up the work he liked.
“I’m getting on fine, Mollie,” he confided later on, “and I’m sure as the time goes on that I’ll reach the top. Oh, it’s fine to be at something that you like—something that you can put all your energies into and use your brain power. Sometimes I think of the long, long days that used to seem so hopeless, and I shudder. But it’s great to be back among it all again for a while, and I’ll enjoy every minute of my holiday.”
They showed Frank their dresses, and there was much whispering and laughing among them.
“Guess what this used to be once,” cried Eileen, holding up Doris’s jaunty little “winter” cap.
“Couldn’t in a lifetime,” laughed Frank.
“The wadding out of the old tea cosy,” she cried.
“And Baby’s red cape and hood are made from an old cloak Mamma had when she was a girl. Do you see this wand? Well, old Joe made it, and we covered it with gold paper.”
“Marvellous!” cried Frank. “What a pity I wasn’t here sooner to rig myself out in something.”
“I’ll tell you what—go as a Red Indian,” cried Willie. “I wanted to, but couldn’t manage it.”
But Frank decided he would go in plain clothes.
The new baby came in for a lot of attention, too.
“Well, little chap, I wonder what you’ll want to be when you grow up,” said Frank, leaning over his little cart. “I wonder will you be fond of bush life, or will you have a hankering after other things.”
The new baby smiled up at him, as though it didn’t care what became of it in the future.
“Anyhow, I’ll keep an eye on you and find out what you do want, and see that you get it.”
Frank meant it, for in his heart was a great gladness, and life seemed worth while. He grew quite excited over the prospect of the party, too.
“Won’t Enid be surprised?” said Eva. “Won’t she be glad, too? You look lovely, Frank, and that suit of yours is beautiful. I bet you’ll be the nicest-looking grown-up boy there, and I’m real glad you’re here to come with us. What a pity you’re not a poet, Frank,” she concluded.
“A poet? One of those chaps that forgets to have his meals?” cried Frank, teasingly.
“No, a real nice, clever poet, and write big books of poems, and have pretty pictures in them. You know, I could paint the pictures later on, because I’m going to be an artist.”
“Oh, well, I’ll think about it,” laughed Frank, “and perhaps we’ll bring out a book in conglomeration—Eva Hudson and Frank Lynton.”
“Wouldn’t it be lovely?” she gasped.
“Oh! let’s talk about the party,” pleaded Doris. “Don’t be an old poet, ’cause it’s real hard gettin’ words to go, an’ you’d be always writin’ and writin’, an’ you’d never have time for games or anything. A party’s better’n poems a lot.”
They all fell to wondering what the Garlands would wear.
“Of course there’ll only be Colin and Meta there, I suppose, unless Edith goes to look on.”
“No, they’re all going,” said Mollie. “Even the twins.”
“What! the twins going? Oh, that’ll be better than ever!” they cried. “The twins will give us some fun. Oh, Frank, you’ll love the twins!”
“I’m not too sure about that,” said Frank.
“It’s the best news I ever heard,” cried Doris, dancing round.
“The twins will be there. The dear, darlin’, bold, noisy, darlin’ twins.”
They all went from “Gillong” except old Joe, and he came out to see them off, and told them that there wouldn’t be anyone as nice as them there, and to fly round and enjoy themselves. The station was a blaze of light as they drove up, and buggies were coming from all directions, and motor-cars and a few horsemen.
“Oh, dear, I’m getting shy!” said Eva. “I do hope I don’t keep like it, or I won’t enjoy myself a bit.”
They were all too excited to feel shy when they alighted, and were led off to take off their wraps.
“What do you think?” gasped Eileen, as she took off her cloak before going down to the party room. “I’ve seen four gipsies already. I’m sorry I’m not old Queen Elizabeth or Mary of Scots, or some of them.”
“Never mind, I’m sure you’ll look as nice as any of them,” said Miss Gibson. “Come along, now, and forget any grievances and enjoy yourself right merrily.”
Enjoy themselves they did, and after a while Eileen didn’t care if there were forty gipsies there. They danced and sang and played games in the moonlit garden, and there were such a lot of nice boys and girls; and how they did talk!
Young Harry Egerton, from a big station further north, danced a lot with Mollie, and he quite beamed when she told him she liked his name. When he asked her why, and she told him it was because she had a nice Uncle named Harry he didn’t look half so pleased.
“And we’re going to Sydney to stay with him again this summer,” she went on. “He’ll soon be back from the Continent now.”
Then Harry said he was going to Sydney for the summer, too, and they’d meet down there.
Enid was so pleased to see Frank again that she had the second dance with him, and then fat George Blackston came up and said she promised it to him a long time ago. She smiled sweetly, and begged to be excused, because Frank had been so long away, and was only staying up the country for a little time.
So George marched off and secured another partner, and said he didn’t think the party was going to be much good.
“Why?” asked his partner with wide-open eyes, for she had just been thinking how “lovely” it was.
All the evening the fun was kept going. At first Willie strolled round and watched them all; but after a while he, too, joined in the merriment, and what a time they had!
Doris was romping round, and tore the wadding on her dress, and after that little pieces of white fur were scattered all over the room. But she didn’t care, with her head thrown back, her eyes and cheeks glowing, she pranced round and said it was the beautifullest party she was ever at. And Eva, too, put away her flower-wreathed wand and joined in the fun.
Mother and a lot more grown ups looked on and smiled and talked about the costumes, and the baby slept through it all, never knowing the good time he was missing.
“You know,” confided Eileen to one of her partners, “we ought to have a lot of parties like this.”
“Of course we ought,” he agreed.
“Yes, every week or every fortnight, whatever,” and he agreed again.
What a crowd were there—nearly all in fancy costume! Gipsies and Flower Girls and Queens and Shepherds and Stockmen and Soldiers and Sailors joined in the throng.
Harry Egerton told Mollie that “Night” was the prettiest costume there, and Frank told Enid that “Dawn” was. For Enid was arrayed in a pretty costume of goldeny shade, merging into the rose-pink of dawn.
Colin came as a courtier, and Eileen said she would never have believed that Colin could look so nice, if she hadn’t seen him with her very own eyes. He picked her out at once, and said that the Gipsy Maid must dance with the Count, as in “the days of old.” So the merry Gipsy Girl danced happily with the gorgeous Count.
Meta was a Scotch Lassie, and the twins were the Little Princes in the Tower, and looked angelic in their dear little black velvet suits, lace collars, and patent shoes and buckles; and Edith enjoyed herself immensely looking on, and a very merry party of boys and girls gathered round her chair.
“Next party I hope you’ll be able to join in all the fun,” said Eileen, kissing her.
“Oh, yes! of course, later on I will,” answered Edith, brightly, for she had learnt while still young the great lessons of patience and unselfishness.
Then supper was announced, and Enid suggested that they should have a grand march in full regalia to the supper table, and they all agreed heartily. Wands and baskets of flowers, etc., were hastily gathered together, and Baby made a wild rush for her cap and hood, which were thrown aside; and they all marched out to the big covered-in verandah, where the supper was spread.
On they went, two by two, laughing and joking and making a pretty picture of color and brightness in their varied costumes. And if the fun had been bright and gay all the evening, it became even better at the supper table. There were jests and jokes and ripples of merry laughter, and Eileen confided to her partner that she was just finding life worth living.
“I wonder where’s the twins?” said Colin, looking round the table.
“Oh, yes—the twins!” echoed Eileen, and just then she gave a little scream. “Oh, dear! what’s that?” and on the other side of the table someone else gave a little shriek.
“Oh, a dog!” they cried.
“What? Where?”
“Under the table, and he bit my leg!” cried a little fair-haired girl.
“Oh, dear, you’ll go silly!” cried someone. “If he’s a mad dog, you’ll get hy—dro—pho—bia.”
“Oh!” the girl shrieked.
“And he’s bit me, too!”
“And me—and me——”
“Oh!”
Then there was a scramble. A lot climbed into their chairs, while heads were ducked under the table, to find—the twins! Yes, the twins, chuckling fit to kill themselves!
“We noo we’d fighten you,” they cried, as they popped out. “We noo you’d sing out. We was sittin’ under there ever so long.”
“You ought to be sent home,” cried Colin, hotly; but all the others laughed.
“Did you think we was mad dogs?” they cried, in great glee. “We said we’d fighten you a long time ago.”
Then they patted their little velvet suits and straightened their little lace collars, and looked nicer than ever. Then everyone roared with laughter, and the supper went on merrily, as though there was no such thing in the world as drought or hard times.
And when the buggies came round for the homeward return there were laughing good-byes and all kinds of promises, while the waiting horses champed at their bits, or a big motor throbbed as if in protest at being kept so long. Good-byes were flung back across the cold night air, as at last they rolled away home, saying it was the nicest party that ever was.
The time had come at last, and a merry party gathered to go off to the river. They had chosen a spot a few miles from “Gillong.” The Hudsons, the Garlands, Enid and some of her friends, and the governess made up the party.
Old Joe drove the cart with the tents, hammocks, and bags and boxes, and after a lot of persuasion he let the twins and Doris drive with him.
“But, mind you, none of your tricks or nonsense,” he threatened. “Doris is as bad as the pair of you now.”
“Oh, Joe, we’ll be good!” declared the twins, with their innocent-looking faces.
“All right, then, none of your pranks! D’you hear?”
“Yes, Joe.”
“Well, mind you ’eed,” he answered, as he started off.
For the first mile they were all right, and then they grew restive. When Joe wasn’t looking Keith would hang on to the tailboard of the cart with his legs swinging in the air, and execute a high kick now and again, much to the delight of the other two. Then, like a flash of lightning, he would be back in his place if old Joe glanced round. But he played the game once too often, and just in the middle of a high kick the cart wheeled round the bend, and he was thrown far out on to the soft clover.
“Oh, Joe, Joe, pull up quick!” cried Doris. “You’ve thrown him out.”
“Who? What?” cried Joe. “Threw him out!” and he pulled up with a jerk.
“Yes, Keith, round the last bend.”
“Sakes alive, you’d send a man crazy, so you would. I ’ope he ain’t ’urt,” and he turned back quickly, to see our hero racing along and crying at the top of his voice.
“Come ’ere and jump in. How did you fall out?”
“The c-a—rt bumped me—o—ut,” sobbed Keith.
“Where was you sittin’?”
“N—o—t far from de others.”
“Show me the spot,” said Joe, sternly. “You must ha’ been up to some of your tricks. Where was you sittin’?”
“I was near the back of the ole cart,” said Keith, sulkily.
“Was you hangin’ out of it?”
No reply.
“Come on, out with it! Was you hangin’ out of the cart?”
“Yes,” said Keith, defiantly.
“Well, serves you right for fallin’. You might ha’ broken your leg, fallin’ like that. You’ll never drive with me again as long’s my name’s Joe.”
Then he lit his pipe and drove on and didn’t speak to them again till they reached the river; but the young rascals were whispering and giggling together long before then—up to some fresh roguery.
Such a gay crowd set to work to pitch the tents and swing the hammocks, and soon the fresh smell of cut timber and bruised leaves filled the air, while laughter and merry voices were heard on every side.
The hammocks were mostly bags slung up with wire, and in some cases sheets of wire-netting, with a rug thrown over them. But they swung among the leafy branches under the fresh-smelling leaves, and there were never better beds in the world! It was delightful to wake in the early morning under a canopy of leaves, and see the sun peeping forth, transforming the dew-tipped leaves and grass and gossamer spider-webs into glistening jewel-like splendour. To hear the birds chirping and twittering along the river, or watch them plunge into the stream. To hear the flap of the fish as they sprang out of the water, and then to hear the fire crackling merrily. At times like this they all wished they were gipsies.
Then breakfast would come, with fish fresh from the river and potatoes cooked in their jackets, and there was nothing but goodwill and merriment from morning to night.
They would have tea as the evening shadows were creeping along the river, and hear the birds fluttering and cooing among the branches, or far along the river strange calls and chirps would be heard from strange wild bush birds. Then the merry jackasses would give forth their jolly, rollicking laugh, and wake up all the echoes; and the children would join with them, till there was perfect pandemonium. And by-and-bye a great golden moon would swing in the sky, lighting up the scene into fairy-like splendour, making the tents stand out whitely and transforming the broad stretch of water into a golden sheen. This was the time for stories, and they would gather round the camp fires and listen while the “grown-ups” talked; and sometimes they would declare that they could see gnomes and fairies high among the glistening gum leaves, and even hear them chattering.
One night they found Keith and Kossie, armed with two little tomahawks, just about to try and climb a great gum that had gnarled and knotted branches, and they declared they were going up to give the gnomes the fright of their lives.
“We wadn’t goin’ to hurt ’em; we was only goin’ to have some fun,” they answered when Miss Gibson protested with them.
“When I grow up I’ll settle some of dem old gnomes,” said Keith, shaping up to fight, “and I’m goin’ to find de ole wolf dat nearly killed Red Riding Hood and shoot him,” he ended up, tragically.
“Oh, but the woodmen shot him!” cried Doris.
“Well, den I’ll kill his brudder,” declared Keith.
“That’s right, you’ll kill someone if you’re not careful,” said Frank, with a hearty laugh. For Frank’s laugh rang out gay and clear these days, and oftimes Mother and Father would look at him and marvel at the change.
“I don’t think we did right by the lad, keeping him so long with us at the work he must have hated,” said Father.
“Oh, well! it will make him appreciate his good fortune all the more now,” said Mother. “And I don’t think Frank regrets the time he spent with us now, but it’s nice to see him so happy.”
The last evening came, as last evenings will, no matter how we try to stay their progress. The last evening of a happy, care-free week—a week to which many looked back in after years with a sigh or a smile, but always with a tender memory.
“I wonder will we ever have another week here. I wonder where we’ll all be this time next year.” And a great, great many more wonders were voiced, as they gathered round the camp fire for the last time. And how they did talk! The things they had meant to say for ever so long were said to-night. Fresh stories and jokes were recounted, and from being at first a somewhat saddened party, with the thought of the “break-up” in the morning, they became noisy and gay. Just in the midst of the laughter two little figures bounded up before them.
“Good gracious! Whatever’s that? The twins!”
Sure enough it was the twins—the twins, smothered in mud and dirty water, with dead leaves sticking to the mud that covered them, and dirty, muddy water streaming from their clothes.
“Where have you been? I thought you were in bed?” and other questions were put to them.
“So we wad, and we seen a rabbit and we jumped out an’ chased him, and Kossie fell in the river and I pulled him out——”
“An’ den he fell in——” chipped in Kossie, “an’ I pulled him out, and den——”
“He fell in again!” shouted Keith, roaring with laughter at the thought.
“Dear, oh, dear! I thought you were the gnomes or the wild men of the woods,” cried Eva. “You do look funny.”
“An’ de rabbit got away——”
“Of course it did,” said Colin. “It had more sense than you two.”
Then they had to be bathed and put to bed and given a lecture, which took no more effect on them than the proverbial water on the duck’s back.
There was more talking, followed by supper, and they climbed into their hammocks, to sleep under the open skies, under a star-specked dome, for the last time for many a month to come.
They were back again at “Gillong” a week after the week on the river. They sat on the wooden verandah, the five of them, and gazed at the great green stretch before them. Mother and Frank had driven to Bragan Junction that morning, and they should be back any time now. Inside, the governess wrote letters to Sydney.
“It’s only a year ago that we sat here, drought-stricken,” said Mollie. “What a big, big difference in one year! Then we didn’t know Uncle, and we didn’t know Sydney or Miss Gibson, or——”
“And Frank was here, working hard and sick of the drought, and——”
“And we didn’t know the twins,” chimed in Doris.
“No, and we didn’t think we’d be going to Sydney again this year. Why, in two months’ time we’ll be down there again, and Uncle will tell us all about his wonderful trip—my word, I must look up my geography,” said Eileen.
“And we didn’t know Willie,” shrieked Doris, at the top of her voice, “a year ago.”
“No, and now he’s nearly our brother,” said Eva.
“What a lot of good things have happened! I believe if we counted up we’d get a dozen.”
“And we didn’t have the baby,” shrieked Doris, louder still.
“Oh, no—no baby brother! I’d forgotten him,” said Eileen.
“I think we often forget him—for a little while,” said Eva. “We’re so used to talking about the five of us.”
“Let’s count all the good things; let’s count quick!” shrieked Doris, holding up her chubby fingers.
Baby held both her hands up.
“First—Uncle. Second——”
“Here they are. Here’s Mother and Frank,” called Eileen, “and whoever’s that with them? Why, it’s Uncle! It’s Uncle!” she shrieked. Sure enough it was Uncle, smiling and smart and distinguished looking.
“Uncle, Uncle!” they shouted, and the five of them were hanging round him, all asking questions at the one time.
“You didn’t think your old Uncle could come up here without you knowing all about it, did you? Well, Uncle is trying to be as clever as his little bush nieces, and your Mamma and Frank kept the secret well.”
“How long have you known? How long, Mum and Frank?”
“Ever since Frank came home,” smiled Mother, “but I wanted to surprise you.”
“Ever since Frank came home?” they repeated, blankly. “However could you keep the secret that long?”
“Why, couldn’t you?” asked Uncle, looking knowingly at the five of them. Then they all shrieked with laughter.
“It’s the best thing in the world that could have happened,” said Eva, “just to have you back here again.”
“Yes, and I want you all to hurry up and get ready to come to Sydney. Can you manage in a month? I’ve taken a beautiful big house with grounds, so I’ll be looking out for you.”
“Ready!” they cried. “Of course, we’ll be ready. Oh, it will be beautiful! Beautiful! Three cheers for Uncle!” they cried, dancing round him.
It was late that night before the lights were out at “Gillong.”
“I’ll never grumble again as long as ever I live,” said Eileen, as she blew out the candle and slipped into bed.
“Oh, you’ve said that hundreds of times,” said Mollie, sleepily.
“Yes, but I really mean it this time. I’ll—never—grumble—again—as long as—ever—I—live,” she repeated, as she fell off to sleep.
The moon rose slowly over “Gillong”—a great golden moon—and sailed high in a cloudless sky. Its rays lingered lovingly on the children in their little white beds on the verandah. It flickered on the quivering leaves of the gum trees in the garden, where Frank and Willie were wrapped in a dreamless sleep in their swinging hammocks. Then it sailed serenely on, casting its magic glow over the paddocks and scrubs and creeks on “Gillong,” till it paled before the glow of dawn in the eastern sky.
My dear Basil,The days are growing longer. There is a tinge of summer warmth and drowsiness in the air. The corn paddock at “Myall,” which has been a picture of vivid green, with the pale gold corn cobs peeping out of their golden tresses and swathing of tenderest green, is turning to rich, deep green, with red-gold and burnished cobs raising themselves proudly erect or swaying in the breeze. The wheat field, too, is turning to yellow with the rustling ears breathing ever a slight cadence to the breeze. And with the growing length of days my picture, too, is growing apace. I stand back and gaze at it ere I place my brushes away for to-morrow’s work. It is a picture of joyous young life, of early blossom and fresh born greenery, of tender leaflet and bud, of wattle’s gold and a glimpse of road winding among forest giants, and the spirit of the early tenderness and benediction of Spring time breathes over all. If in the years to come I shall ever again gaze on that picture, my thoughts shall go rushing back to glorious, fresh-tinged days when all the world seemed young; to lilting, joyous song of birds; to the gambols of those merry foals; to the teeming, indescribable hum of insect life among those forest trees; to the haunting perfume of that golden wattle—in fine, to all the charm and allurement of Spring time in the open spaces.The end of the year is not far off, and on the whole it has been a year of interest, of pleasure. When one studies human nature, as well as the great open Book of Nature around one, then the time flies by all too quickly.Soon I shall take a short holiday in Sydney, and just for a space become one of the busy, hustling crowd, and revel in the glimpses of shining water and twinkling fairy barques and harbour lights and white-winged yachts, and then back again to the life of the Bushland, and the pleasant task of teaching the dearest, funniest children I have ever met—Five Little Bush Girls.MARIE.
My dear Basil,
The days are growing longer. There is a tinge of summer warmth and drowsiness in the air. The corn paddock at “Myall,” which has been a picture of vivid green, with the pale gold corn cobs peeping out of their golden tresses and swathing of tenderest green, is turning to rich, deep green, with red-gold and burnished cobs raising themselves proudly erect or swaying in the breeze. The wheat field, too, is turning to yellow with the rustling ears breathing ever a slight cadence to the breeze. And with the growing length of days my picture, too, is growing apace. I stand back and gaze at it ere I place my brushes away for to-morrow’s work. It is a picture of joyous young life, of early blossom and fresh born greenery, of tender leaflet and bud, of wattle’s gold and a glimpse of road winding among forest giants, and the spirit of the early tenderness and benediction of Spring time breathes over all. If in the years to come I shall ever again gaze on that picture, my thoughts shall go rushing back to glorious, fresh-tinged days when all the world seemed young; to lilting, joyous song of birds; to the gambols of those merry foals; to the teeming, indescribable hum of insect life among those forest trees; to the haunting perfume of that golden wattle—in fine, to all the charm and allurement of Spring time in the open spaces.
The end of the year is not far off, and on the whole it has been a year of interest, of pleasure. When one studies human nature, as well as the great open Book of Nature around one, then the time flies by all too quickly.
Soon I shall take a short holiday in Sydney, and just for a space become one of the busy, hustling crowd, and revel in the glimpses of shining water and twinkling fairy barques and harbour lights and white-winged yachts, and then back again to the life of the Bushland, and the pleasant task of teaching the dearest, funniest children I have ever met—Five Little Bush Girls.
MARIE.
FINIS.