Bush days

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A BusK Calendar AivA

BUSH DAYS

BUSH DAYS

AMY E. MACK

(MRS. LAUNCEI.OT HARRISON)
Author of " A Bush Calendar " and " Bushland Sto>

With illustrations from photographs by
J. Ramsay and L. Harrison

. SYDNEY
ANGUS & ROBERTSON LTD.

89 CASTLEREAGH STREET

Printed by W. C. Penfold & Co., 183 Pitt Street, Sydney

for
Angus & Robertson L,td., Publishers to the University

London : The Australian Book Company, 21 Warwick Lane, E.C

SRLR
URL

\°u\

FOREWORD

My mother tells me that when she was a girl she used to gather wild
flowers in Woollahra, and to walk across the paddocks from Surry Hills to
Ultimo. Sometimes she would go in a rowing boat to Garden Island,
where the picnic parties danced upon the grass to the music of a fiddle ; or,
on gala days, cross by the little sixpenny ferry to the bush-clad banks of
North Shore.

I, in my turn, remember many a picnic to Mosman's Bay, where the
thick green brush and the little waterfall at the head of the bay made a
picture which even the modern Mosman cannot wipe out. Once, on a
never-to-be-forgotten occasion, we walked by a bush track to the far-off
Military Road, whose very name suggested the botmdary of civilisation ;
and on that walk, where now rows of suburban villas cover the ground, the
tea-tree spread its arms on every side of us with a wealth of pink and white
blossom that set my childish heart a-throbbing for sheer love of it.

Sometimes, on rare occasions, we went by boat to Manly, that wonder-
land of childhood, which seemed at the very end of the world. There the
most venturesome of us scrambled over the rocks to Fairy Bower, or even as
far as Shelly Beach itself ; or sometimes we climbed the hill behind the old
Kangaroo to look for native roses and flannel flowers in the thick bush
beyond. Queenscliff, with its solitary little summer-house and its carpet of
wild flowers, was a journey only to be taken when one lived in Manly ; and
Freshwater — well, the South Pole seems nearer to us now than did Fresh-
water in those childish days.

And that is barely twenty years ago. But in the last twenty years
Sydney has grown so wide, that on every side the bush has had to give way

1467336

FOREWORD

before bricks and mortar, trams and trains. And every day the city grows
quicker, and spreads fa) ther, till it seems as if, in a very little while, there
will be no bush left at all.

77iose of us who love the trees and flowers and birds, watch with sad
eyes the passing of the bush. Sometimes we raise our voice iu protest, or
lift helpless hands against the onwjrd rush. But it is in vain. The city
grows and grows, and the country must give way. While it is still with
us I have tried to catch with my pen a picture of some of the spots most dear
to me. If, in the pages of this little book, I have been able to keep for others
a memory of some greenwood spot, a fragrance of some bushland floiuer,
then I am content.

I give my thanks to the proprietors of the "Sydney Morning Herald"
for permission to reprint these articles, which first appeared iu the pages
of that journal.

A. E. H.
Sydney,
IQ/I.

To

THE MOTHER WHO NEVER GROWS OLD

CONTENTS

PAGE

WHERE: TIME STANDS STILL - . i

SUMMER RAIN - -.--___ g

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY - - - . - 11

THE WELL BELOVED - - - ... 17

THE SONG OF THE SILVEREYE - - - - - 21

THE PASSING OF THE GULLY - - . - 24

DWARF APPLE - - - - 29

To ADELAIDE BY TRAIN - - - 32

THE FLAME TREE - . - ... 39

A BUSH BREAKFAST - ----- 41

AN OCTOBER DAY - ... 47

CALLISTEMONS - - - - 51

THE CITY PARK - - . - 54

JACKY WINTER - - - 59

THE NORTHWARD FLIGHT - - . - . 62

THE ROYAL MANTLE - ... 73

A HOLIDAY - ... 77

THERE WAS A CHILD WENT FORTH EVERY DAY - - - 82

COPPER TIPS - ... ss

AS I WAS GOING TO ST. IVES - - - - 90

THE GORGEOUS GULLY - . - 96

THE SWEET o' THE YEAR - ... 99

ON THE REEF -------- 105

xii. CONTENTS

PAGE

THE SNOW BUSH

AUTUMN JEWELS • U6

NATURE AND THE MATERIALIST • 119

ALONG A GARDEN AVENUE -

THE FIRST DAFFODIL . • I-6

LAPPING UP THE STARS - I-9

BUSH DAYS

Where Time Stands Still

V KNOW a place where the hands of Time have almost
^ stopped. All round and about progress marches with axe
and hammer, and civilisation sweeps beauty out of sight ; but
the invading army has missed my quiet corner, and left it un-
disturbed. Why, it is impossible to say, for there is every-
thing to tempt the barbarian's hand; there are lovely aged
trees, green undergrowth, and all the beauties that civilised
man loves to banish. Nor is it too far away for him to reach ;
indeed, it is within sight and sound of the city clock, and a
bird could wing the distance in a few short minutes.

I must not tell you where my beauty haunt is, for if I did
you would all rush off to the boat which carries one there —
yes, it is as close as that to the beaten track — and my place of
peace would soon become as unrestful and disturbed as all the
other places. But if you are tired of " improved " pleasure
spots, and long so much for a quiet haven, that you will take
the trouble to find out for yourselves where my secret garden
is, I tell you that your trouble will be more than repaid.

From the moment you step off the slow and half-empty
boat on to the little wharf, you will realise that you have
entered into a different world. The clear, green water round
the weedy piles, the clean, brown rocks at the water's edge,
the group of silver gulls on the tiny beach — will all tell you

2 BUSH DAYS

that here is at least one place unspoiled by improvement com-
mittees and holiday trippers. And as you climb up the rocky
path and brush beneath green pittosporums and grey wattles,
past blossom-laden tea-trees and drooping she-oaks, you will
wonder what special providence it was that saved this happy
corner from the hands of the iconoclast.

But you will not wonder long, for it is a place for idle
dreaming, not for perplexing problems. You will cease to
question " why/' and will be content that it is so. The sight
of that hillside will fill your heart with peace and thanksgiving ;
and, if you are the sort of person that I think you must be, to
have come so far, you will stretch yourself out on the long,
green grass that clothes the hillside, and, half-closing your
eyes, will watch with lazy joy the queer shadows of the red
gums as they sprawl across the grass, and the shimmer of the
sunshine as it turns the bracken silver. Spread out before you
will lie the waters of the bay, where idle colliers rest darkly,
and further off the white sails of racing yachts will skim the
sunny harbour. The outline of the city will come to you.
broken by the leaning branches, and will but add to your feel-
ing of isolation and content. The " hoot " of a distant ferry-
boat wrill come like a pleasant dream sound to your ears, which
are filled with the sounds close about you. You will hear a
whole chorus of bird notes, sweet and soft, shrill and loud,
whistling and warbling, calling all together — thrushes, thick-
heads, silvereyes, and peewees, all mixed up with honey-eaters.

WHERE TIME STANDS STILL 3

cuckoos, and a dozen others. And if you lie very still, you
will presently hear a running lilt come closer and closer, and
a little brown fantail will perch on the branch above your
head, and spread her tail coquettishly while she watches to be
sure you are admiring her. And if you do not move, she will
come still closer, and dart daringly right past your face, before

Spreading her tail coquettishly L-H-

FANTAIL

she flies back to her branch and her flirting. You will want
to lose your whole heart to this wee coquette, but I warn you
not to fall too ready a victim to her charms, for she will soon
desert you, and fly off, with her ripple of joyful song, to inspect
some new wonder.

4 BUSH DAYS

Besides, there is so much else for you to admire. When
you have rested for an hour beneath the red gums you will
want to find fresh wonders in this happy corner, and if you
stroll along the sun-decked slope you will not want in vain.
No longer now must your eyelids droop, for there is much to
be seen. A brown and golden butterfly will show you the way,
and if you follow him he may lead you, as he led me, straight
to the foot of a tall peppermint, where on a leaning branch a
mother morepork sits cuddling twro fluffy big-eyed babies.
And if these babies gaze down at you with their great, round,
yellow eyes, and open their wide, pink mouths at you, as they
did at me, you will see a sight that will set you gurgling with
amusement. Or perhaps that butterfly will not show you the
morepork's family, but will lead you further on to where a
kookaburra has built his house in a knobby ant's nest. And
if you wait and watch a little while, you may see — as I did —
Mr. Kookaburra fly up to a neighbouring branch, and call
" Kook-kook," and then Mrs. Kookaburra put her white face
out of the door to ask what he wants. Or you may see her
fly out and go off for a spell, while her lord and master takes
his turn at the domestic duties.

If you are not lucky enough — as I was — to see either more-
pork or kookaburra's nest, perhaps that wandering butterfly
will lead you to the tree where a crow has just brought out her
noisy family. Or perhaps you may miss all -three, and find
yourself in the creek bed, where the sassafras and pittosporums

With great, round, yellow eyes
YOUNG MOREPORK

BUSH DAYS

grow, and there you may
see the shy red fantail
upon her nest, and hear
•the little scrub wrens
whistling noisily amongst
the thick undergrowth.
And perhaps —

But I think if you see
and hear all these things
you wrill have had enough
to satisfy any ordinary
mortal; and when the
evening boat calls to
carry you home across
the opal-tinted water you
will take with yon a
smiling memory, and a
deep content that, in the
midst of all the whirl
and turmoil of our city,
there is still this one
sweet spot, where Time
has stayed his hand.

The shy red fantail

WHERE TIME STANDS STILL

SCRUB WREN

Summer Rain

it had come drifting up the Kan-
imbla Valley it would have been
called mountain mist; but a gentle
south wind drove it in from the sea,
and so it was only summer rain.
But it floated, soft and white, up
the harbour, and drifted in smoky

clouds across the craggy headlands, drenching rocks and trees
as it went. The big branches stretched out eager arms for its
embrace ; the poor, scarred trees, which the fire had tortured,
lifted their maimed heads for its soothing kiss ; and over the
blaze-blackened surface of the earth tiny green sprouts shot
up joyously to meet it.

The butterflies didn't like it, for it damped their silken
dresses of brown and gold, and clogged their flittering wings ;
so they flew about dejectedly looking for a hole in which to
hide from its penetrating wet. The swallows didn't like it
either, for it drove all flying insects into shelter, and so robbed
them of their breakfast. They sat in gloomy rows on rain-
decked telegraph wires, or grumbled to each other on dripping
tree-tops. But the Jacky Winters loved it, for it drove the
little earth-hiding insects out of their water-logged holes to
look for better shelter ; and as the tiny creatures crept about

SUMMER RAIN 9

in search of a dry spot, the Jacky Winters' sharp eyes dis-
covered them, and their broad bills quickly snapped up a
dainty breakfast.

NEST OF LINEATED TIT

The ants didn't like it very much, or at least they did not
venture into it, but stayed at home where they could keep dry.
Even the big white blossoms of the dwarf apple did not tempt

io BUSH DAYS

them out. The spiders seemed to enjoy it, for it turned their
round webs into chains and chains of glistening pearls, which
attracted more admiration than the spider usually knows.
The honey-eaters did not seem to notice it, and, as long as it
did not spoil the honey in the big bottle-brushes, where they
were greedily feeding, they did not care whether it rained or
not. The little tits enjoyed it as they hopped about in the
diamond-dewed sheoaks, and shook the fine drops on to their
yellow breasts. The wattles, heavily laden with tiny, tiny
buds, loved it, too, for they knew it meant the promise of a
golden, gorgeous harvest in the months to come.

And I — I loved it most of all. With the brim of my hat
turned well back from my face, the collar of my coat well up
round my ears, and my hands in my pockets, I walked along
the soppy track across the uplands, and felt the soft mist soak
into my very being. Sweet and cool and full of health it was,
as it curled in my hair and kissed my face. The poor burned
trees were not more glad of its gentle healing than was I, as
it folded me in its embrace, washed the tiredness from my
brain, and filled my soul with that peace and contentment.
which only Mother Nature can give to her children.

The Birthday Party

MESTERDAY I had a birthday— and a birthday party.
Perhaps none of my visitors are on your calling list, and
I don't think you will find any description of their dresses in
the society column; but all the same they are well worth
knowing, and no fine lady in the land is more elegantly
gowned. The first visitor came before I was up— Fm afraid
these friends of mine are not very fashionable — for while I was
lying half awake on my verandah bed I heard a cheery voice
at my ear, and there was Jacky Winter sitting on the rail,
dressed in his very neatest grey coat and white vest.

" You're rather early," said I, " and the party hasn't begun
yet."

He wasn't the least disconcerted, but just flicked his white-
edged tail, cocked his head on one side, and called in his
friendliest voice, " Get-up, get-up, get-up."

" No, it's too early, and the grass is all wet, and the ground
is cold, and the breakfast won't be ready for ever so long, and
I'm very cosy and comfy here, thank you, and here I'm going
to stay for another half-hour," said I ; and straightway turned
my back on him and hugged the blankets closer.

He wasn't in the least offended, but called again, " Get-up,
get-up, get-up," and there was something in his tone that
seemed to suggest that he had been up for hours, and that so

12 BUSH DAYS

had all right-minded beings. And then, as if to support him,
just at that moment the second visitor arrived, a spine-bill
who came flying into the garden in hot haste, calling, " Hurry-
up, hurry-up, quick, quick, quick !" He, too, seemed to think it
was quite late to be beginning a party, and was more insistent
even than the Jacky that I should hurry up.

" There's evidently to be no peace for me this morning,"
said I to myself — but loud enough for them to hear me — and
so I took their advice, and got up.

Apparently the two gossips went round and spread the
news that I was really up, for when I came out on the verandah
again there was quite a crowrd of visitors to wish me " many
happy returns." A wagtail greeted me straight away with the
embarrassing remark that I was a " sweet, pretty creature,"
and a pee-wee shouted loudly his opinion, " You-are, you-are."

"Dear me," said I, "this is quite overwhelming"; and I
ran inside to breakfast, leaving them all behind. Incidentally
I looked in the glass as I passed, and — but never mind that.

Although I had treated them with such scant ceremony
my visitors were not in the least offended ; while I ate my
eggs and toast they enjoyed a second breakfast among the
bouvardias and in the gum leaves. And when after breakfast
I took my book and cushion out on to the grass which pre-
tends it's a lawn — I never do any work on my birthday —
the reception really began.

All the morning I sat out in the warm sun, and welcomed

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY 13

\ •. \

my visitors as they came and went. The gum saplings near
the fence were really the reception room, for here most of them
came and called their good wishes to me. Amongst the
earliest arrivals were the chick-ups, and though they were very
hearty in their greetings I didn't think it quite good taste for
them to call so loudly, " She's-up, she's-up, she's-up," as if it
were something quite unusual. The little tits, too, were not
very polite, for they kept on flying in and out, expressing their
surprise, with a fussy " Tsz-tsz !" like a great-aunt who has
just heard something amazing.

The silvereyes were much nicer ; they simply sang the
sweetest song without words, and I could fit any meaning I
liked to it. And the blue wrens were dears, too; they didn't
stay in the saplings, but hopped right across the grass to me
with a real gush of welcome. Then a shrike-tit came, dressed
in his party clothes, and, though he didn't say much, his bright
yellow vest and black and white-striped head lent quite an air
to the scene. The thrushes and the butcher birds came up
from the valley, and stayed a little while in the saplings to sing
a birthday song; and a razor-grinder stopped a few minutes
on the fence, and, instead of his usual harsh scold, uttered a
few, soft tender notes. He couldn't scold me on my birthday,
for no one must be cross then.

As I sat lazily enjoying my party and the dancing sun-
beams and the little white clouds sailing over the blue sky, it
seemed more like summer than mid-winter. I was just think-

14 BUSH DAYS

ing so, when by flitted a tiny black butterfly, the white edges in
his wings gleaming vividly in the sun. I sat quite still and
watched him, and he came close to my face, and then settled
for a moment on the cushion at my cheek. Just for a second
he stayed, as if to say, " See ! here I have waited till the
summer is past to wish you joy " ; then off he went across the
grass, beyond the fence, and away.

Very soon afterwards came another tiny visitor to my party.
A bee flew from the next-door garden, straight across the lawn,
and settled himself on my skirt. There doesn't seem to be
much sweetness in a blue serge skirt, but this bee seemed to
like it, for there he stayed ever so long, washing his face and
smoothing his hair, and generally enjoying himself, and it was
only when at last I moved that he flew off lazily. I was sorry
to disturb him, but I turned to look at two ravens flying over-
head. They were too shy to come to the party, but they passed
very slowly, and I could hear the " swish, swish, swish " of
their wings quite plainly, as they went across the sky. They
were almost out of sight before they greeted me with " more,
more," and I knew that was their awkward way of wishing
me many more happy days.

A big grey moth, which had been resting for ever so long
on the trunk of a gum tree, where he could scarcely be seen
against the grey wood, now flew lazily away, as if he were
too shy to stay by himself; and just when I thought no more
guests were coming, up flew a kookaburra and settled himself

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

GREY MOTH

16 BUSH DAYS

down on the- post outside the fence. He looked at me very
solemnly for a while, and flicked his absurd little tail ; then
suddenly he burst out laughing. "Ha, ha, ha!" he said,
"birthdays are great fun, aren't they? But wait till you've
had as many as I have ; then you may not enjoy them so much
Ha, ha, ha !"

*' Horrid old cynic," said I, " of course I'll always enjoy
them, as long as there are birds and bees and butterflies to
come and see me."

But all the same his sarcastic remarks had rather spoilt the
party, and I was not very sorry that at that moment the lunch
bell rang — and the reception was over.

The Well-Beloved

HE Christmas bells are here
again in their ruddy beauty.
Out on the uplands, amongst
the grey rocks and dry sand,
they rear their grey clusters
at the end of slender stalks.
In marshy places, where the
tall red gums spread shady
branches casting the earth
beneath them into a soft
gloom, the bells, trying to
reach the sun, lift their
heads on stems quite four

feet long, which wave and sway above the bead fern
and the harsh green cutty grass. But those whose red
is deepest, and whose gold is purest, grow in the dry sand
amongst the rocks. The short suckers of the grey gums, with
their broad purple and silver leaves, are their only shelter; all
around them are burnt and blackened branches of stunted
banksias and dwarf apple, which leave dirty marks upon your
hands and clothes as you stoop amongst them. From a little
way off, the scene looks as dingy and unpromising as any piece
of bush could be; the great grey spiders, which have spun

i8 BUSH DAYS

their thick webs from branch to branch, seem to be the only
living things in that blackened scene — unless perchance there
is a snake or two hiding amongst the grass-trees. And yet it
is here, amongst these arid rocks and burnt-out bushes, that
the brightest and biggest of the bells are to be found.

From earliest morning the pickers have been arriving.
The little station, which throughout the year never sees more
than half a dozen passengers a day, now receives a crowd
from every train. All sorts and conditions leave the carriages
— first and second-class passengers, elderly gentlemen, school-
girls, and little ragamuffins. From all the countryside they
congregate — for this is the spot far-famed throughout the land
for the Christmas bells. Other places there are in plenty
where the bells grow freely, but nowhere are they so fine and
so plentiful as in this one gully. And so, every year, for a
week or more before Christmas Day, the bush is thronged
with hundreds of seekers after the precious flowers.

People who never go into the bush from one year's end
to another come out at this time in quest of the bells; young
men, who would scorn to spend their time picking any other
flowers, come in sulkies and on bicycles to carry home the
dearly-prized blossoms ; pretty girls brave sunburn, sandflies,
and torn dresses to gather the bells ; and even the small boys
neglect their cricket and their caddying to go in search of the
red beauties. The bush, usually so silent, re-echoes with the
sound of laughter and voices, calling now and then to know

THE WELL-BELOVED

the whereabouts of a companion.
Down the hillsides the pickers
are scattered, each one intent
on massing as big a bunch
as he, or she, can possibly
hold. Sometimes one of a
party will come across a tree
of Christmas bush all red in its
summer glory, and then indeed
is the bunch a thing of joy and
beauty. Some of the gatherers
add the flannel flowers to their
bunches, making a glorious
contrast of red, white and
yellow. But the majority are
out after bells, and nothing but
Christmas bush will divert them
from their quest.

For of all the flowers that
grow there are none so dear to the
heart of the Sydney-sider as
the Christmas flowers. Even the
waratah and the rocklily, prized
as they are, must give way
before these flaming beauties.
But it is not merely their

GRASS-TREE

20 BUSH DAYS

beauty that draws staid elderly men and little children out to
the bush in search of them. It is something that goes deeper
than mere artistic appreciation ; it is sentiment, pure and
simple. For Christmas bells and Christmas bush are to the
Australian what holly and mistletoe are to the Englishman ;
they are emblems of the season of happiness, and stand for the
brightness and good-fellowship of Christmas-time.

And as the flower-seekers scour the gully and the hillside
in their eager quest, the summer breeze creeps softly down the
hill, and bends the clusters before it. To and fro they sway,
swinging out to the sunshine their gentle peal. It is the
music which they have rung, year in year out, through all the
ages — the music of love and peace and Christmas-time.

The Song of the Silvereye

J HERE'S a canary up that tree," said a small boy, point-
ing' to a large Moreton Bay fig, fifty yards along the
path.

" How do you know?" I asked.

" I heard him. Listen, and you'll hear him too."

I listened, and on the air there came the song of a bird,
gentle, sweet and soft, but increasing in volume as i neared the
fig tree.

There was something very familiar in the tones, and yet it
was not quite the song of a canary. It was sweeter, and
softer, and less embodied. For a moment I was puzzled as to
what it could be, then a sad little sigh broke the twitter of
the song, and I exclaimed, " Why, it's a silvereye ! "

The small boy looked at me in scorn. " A sivie !" he said,
with a world of derision in his tones, " A sivie couldn't sing
like that. It's a canary."

A fuller gush of music came from the tree, making me
incline to his opinion ; but I was not quite satisfied. One
sight of the singer would have settled all doubts, but that
sight was hard to get. The thick leaves of the fig made an
excellent cover for the bird, and though I and the small boy
both craned our necks, not a glimpse could we get of it.

It does not take long to collect a crowd. In a few minutes

22 BUSH DAYS

two men came along, stopped, and looked curiously up into
the fig.

" It's a canary," said one.

" Yes, and a fine singer," said the other.

The small boy looked at me in triumph ; " Er-r," he sneered.
" I told you so."

But I was not yet convinced.

"Can you see it?" I asked the men; but though they too
were gazing into the branches with penetrating eyes, they
could not get a glimpse of the singer.

Just then we were joined by a youth, who, after staring at
us for a time, addressed me —

" Lost your canary, Miss?"

" I'm looking to see if it is a canary," said I, all the
stubbornness in me aroused to the settling of this question.

" What else could it be?" asked one of the men.

" I think it's a silvereye."

" A silvereye !" exclaimed all three in astonishment, and
their subsequent silence left me in doubt as to whether they
thought me a lunatic, or merely an ignoramus. That they
did not agree with me was more than evident, and the small
boy sniggered at my expense.

But my triumph was at hand. A movement in the leaves
above caught my eye and at last I was able to locate the singer.

There, seated on a small grey twig, was a small olive-grey
bird, whose size alone proclaimed him no canary, even if the

THE SONG OF THE SILVEREYE 23

silver ring round his eye had left any doubt as to his identity.

He was sitting in a rather hunched position, the only move-
ment being in his throat, which swelled and throbbed as he
poured forth his song of joy to the blue sky.

In triumph I pointed him out to the others. There could
be no possible doubt about him. Even the small boy was
convinced, and admitted in an almost awe-stricken voice —
" It is a sivie."

" I had no idea that silvereyes could sing at all," said one
of the men, still gazing up into the branches.

I laughed. " It is a case of the prophet in his own
country."

" Evidently," agreed the man. " I must listen for them in
future. It's a good thing to know that we have birds that can
sing."

" It is," I assented, " the pity is that more people don't
know it."

Then we all went on our ways, leaving the small singer
alone. And he, regardless of his audience, and heedless of their
ignorance, still sat amongst the glossy leaves, pouring forth
his song of joy and thanksgiving unto the world beautiful.

BEETLES ON TEA-TREE

The Passing*
of the Gully

OU know my gully,
don't you ? That

gully where the big
red gums stretch pro-
tecting arms over the
sweet grass, where the
she-oaks and turpen-
tines bend towards
the creek-bed, where
the herringbone ferns
and maidenhair soothe
the eye with their
fresh green. You know
how the orchids, pink
and mauve, white and
yellow, sprinkle the
ground in the spring-
time, and how the
golden-haired dillwynia
chases them away with
her gorgeous mantle.
You know how the

THE PASSING OF THE GULLY 25

clematis creeps, snowy white, over the old logs, and how the
purple hardenbergia and the creamy tecorria drape the tree-
trunks. You have seen the saplings' tips glow red in the young
year, and the big trees' trunks gleam rosy pink and tender grey
in their new season's dresses. You have not forgotten, have you.
how the native canaries build their hanging nests in the sapling
clumps; how the tits and diamond-dicks feed in their leaves?
You have not forgotten the yellow bobs and Jacky Winters, the
honey-eaters and thickheads, the fantails and shrike-tits, and
all the other dear, soft things that sang amongst the trees
and built their nests and brought out their small families ?
And, if you have ever seen them, you must remember the
flittering blue butterflies and those of yellow hue which turned
the grassplot to a field of gold.

If you have known my gully with its thousand treasures,
you must have loved it, and will carry its sweet memory with
you for many a day to come. And so you will weep with me,
when I tell you that the days of my gully are numbered. All
these years it has lived untouched by the hand of man ; the
outskirts of civilisation have crept to its borders here and there,
but the gully itself has been left undisturbed, a sanctuary for
the birds and blossoms and butterflies. Now, alas, the fiat has
gone forth, and very soon the sweet bird-songs will give way
to the raucous tones of the auctioneer, and hideous red-roofed
" villas " will blaze where all was once so green.

Already the wreckers have begun their work. Last week
I saw them setting off to their hateful task, a little band of

26

BUSH DAYS

TECOMA

executioners armed with axes and
theodolites and all the other im-
plements of destruction. They did
not walk as executioners should,
with saddened steps and bowed
heads, but tramped cheerily by
with their swags and bags, talking
and laughing as gaily as if they
were going to a picnic. And all
through the week the bush has
echoed to the sound of their axes,
till now a path of fallen saplings
and marked trees shows which way
the work of devastation is to go.
All the week the birds have been
filled with alarm at these strange
doings. The honey-eaters have
darted in terror from bush to bush,
seeking some explanation ; the
butcher-birds have called forth
their disgust in ringing notes ; the
wrens and tits and all the smaller
birds have chattered and scolded in
vain fury; and a lone fan-tailed
cuckoo has wailed in misery for the
fate that has befallen him.

THE PASSING OF THE GULLY 27

But it has been all in vain. The wreckers have heeded
none of them, and the work of destruction has continued.
They have driven in their pegs, made signposts of saplings
and pieces of paper, blazed big gums and turpentines, chopped
ruthlessly at native cherries and she-oaks, and turned the
happy sanctuary into a place of terror and pain.

And they are only the forerunners, just a token of worse
things to come ; for soon will come the builders, the carpenters
and bricklayers, plumbers and glaziers. They will come with
their dray-loads of bricks and mortar; big bonfires will be
made of the red-gums, grey-gums, and the turpentines; new
paling fences will take the place of the clematis-covered logs ;
and fowlhouses will rise where once the shy whip-bird brought
out her young. The little ground orchids will make way for
pansies and freesias, the dillwynia and tecoma will be ousted
for cactus dahlias and stock. The birds which have filled the
bush with beauty and song will fly away in search of peace ;
another of the few remaining bush spots will have been swept
from our city ; and my gully — my dear, beautiful, sun-kissed
gully — will have passed into the land of memory and dreams.

28

BUSH DAYS

YOUNG COACHWHIP BIRD

Dwarf Apple

!|^ II E brow of the hill would be a dreary place in summer
without the dwarf apple. In the winter and spring it is
gay with a hundred blossoms — wattles, heaths, boronia, spider-
flowers, and bottle-brushes; but the summer flowers — the
Christmas bells, Christmas bush, and flannel flowers — love the
more sheltered spots, and it is only a stray blossom that creeps
to the brow of the hill. Here and there you may see the
orange of a lonely Christmas bell against the sand ; a few red
honey-flowers shine out from their sombre leaves; a solitary
pink orchid — the wild hyacinth — shelters beneath the bushes;
but these stray blooms are not enough to lighten the melan-
choly of the sad-hued banksias, with their dry dead cones,
which do their utmost to turn the landscape into that dreary
wilderness it is so often accused of being.

The banksias almost succeed in making the scene a desolate
one, but — and there is always a " but " in the Australian bush
— the dwarf apples are there to save the situation. It seems
that wind-swept country is their special care, for as soon as the
spring blooms begin to disappear — and they make an earlier
departure from the brow of the hill than from the sheltered
gullies — the dwarf apple begins to tinge the country with a
rosy glow. It is the deep blush of the young buds, which
grow in warm and woolly clusters that are as beautiful as any

30 BUSH DAYS

crimson rambler; and for months onward the dwarf apple
keeps the flag of beauty flying on that rocky hill. For Aveeks
the buds grow deeper and deeper, until the woolly jackets
burst open, and show a soft creamy flower folded snugly away
inside ; there is no blossom in bush or garden more enchanting
than the half-opened bud of the dwarf apple. Slowly the red
jacket gapes wider, and the creamy stamens unfold, till the
full-blown blossom is there — a lovely ring of silky filaments.
One after another they come bursting out in quick succession,
till the tree is a thing of beauty, with bud and blossom mixed
together in a bewildering mass of cream and red and green.

It is in mid-summer that the dwarf apples are at their finest,
and the rise is curtained with their lovely blooms. If you
would see them at their loveliest, you must go out in the early
morning ; for then you will see the treasures that lurk within
their silky folds — the myriad insects that love their sweet
shelter. The slanting sun will shine upon the burnished backs
of tiny beetles, whose blue and brown, green and red, gleam
like jewels against the creamy background. Honey-heavy
bees drowse in the silky clusters ; green-backed ants creep
happily amongst them ; while bright honey-eaters dart to and
fro, poking their sharp beaks and long, fringed tongues into
the flowers' hearts.

The dwarf apple is the happy hunting ground of the
entomologist ; he calls it " Angophora cordifolia," and
approaches it with a cyanide bottle, or some other death-

DWARF APPLE 31

dealing device. But, as he seldom sallies forth while the day
is young, the tiny creatures have their happy hour, and it is
only the laggards that are trapped by the hunter, and end
their days in a collecting tube — as pleasant a fate, perhaps,
after all, as to serve as a bird's breakfast.

Though the end of its little visitors may be tragic and
sudden, that of the flower itself is one of beauty. By and bye,
when the creamy stamens shake themselves free on the summer
breeze, a gay red fruit will be seen, just as lovely as the buds
and blossoms that have gone before it. In its turn the fruit
will ripen and open, scattering the seeds on the wind, and
leaving a dry brown husk to speak of fulfilment. But even
then the plant will not have lost its beauty, for, beside the
dead husks of the past, " the folded leaf is woo'd from out the
bud " — the tender pink shoots which are the forerunners of
the wroolly red buds.

And so, through all the changing seasons, the dwarf apple
spreads its beauty on that windy hill — an emblem for its lovers
of eternal hope and courage.

To Adelaide by Train

J O Adelaide by train ! Oh, poor you ! You will be tired,
for it's such a dreary trip — through absolutely un-
interesting country."

So my friends, when I announced my intention of going
overland to the little white city of the south. I was not
depressed by their sympathy, for the prospect of travelling
over new ground, however well-worn by others, always sends
a thrill of excitement through me, and I have never yet seen
the country which was *' absolutely uninteresting." Still, I
would not let myself anticipate too much, and kept my rising
spirits in check by remembering that all the visitors from
overseas who have most harshly condemned the monotony of
our scenery, have formed their opinions from the windows of
the Sydney to Adelaide express ; and so it wras possible that
part of the land might be lacking in the beauty and interest
which is so common elsewhere.

To one who is not a wearied traveller there is something
exhilarating in the rapid rush of an express train. The feeling
of intense speed gets into your blood, and as the lights of way-
side stations flash by quickly, and ever more quickly, as
suburbs give way to paddocks and trees, which, in their turn,
sweep by like a cinematograph picture, you become possessed
by the idea that it is you yourself that is hurrying. Though you

TO ADELAIDE BY TRAIN 33

have the most comfortable sleeper the train can provide, rest
is impossible, and you lie looking out on to the fleeting moon-
lit scene, longing for the daylight, that you may see more
clearly what manner of country this is through which you are
flying.

And when at last the dawn comes creeping, your ask your-
self, " Is this the land they call monotonous?"

Or at least I did ; for the dawn showed me a scene which
rilled me with delight. Close by the rail ran a red, red road,
and beyond it a clump of white-limbed gums flung their long,
purple, morning shadows over a green grass carpet. It was
a fairy scene, and the flocks of parrots, that swept through the
trees, looked like birds from the fairy world, as their gorgeous
colours flashed in the sun. Then all too quickly, the mystic
wood was past, and a sea of brightest green stretched across
the land breaking here and there upon a darker clump. It
was a field of young wheat, studded with native pines, which
stood as straight and symmetrical as the trees in a Noah's ark.
A pair of blue cranes floated lazily overhead, the low sun turn-
ing their wings to silver as they flew. Even before they had
reached their destination, the wheat fields had given place to
stretches of rich, red-brown earth, newly ploughed, where the
early-rising magpies were busily looking for their breakfasts.
Once or twice a faint echo of their carolling came on the
breeze, but the " thumpity-thumpity " of the wheels drowned
all other sounds.

34 BUSH DAYS

But I did not miss the sounds so much, for my eyes were
too busy devouring all the beauties of this " absolutely un-
interesting country." It was spring-time, and the paddocks,
which soon came flying by, wrere filled with young creatures ;
long-legged foals stepped daintily beside their mothers ; soft-
faced calves stared wonderingly at the rushing train ; little
white lambs sped away across the green as the noisy monster

\l' ait ing for their breakfast L-H-

YOUNG WOOD-SWALLOWS

drewr near. On a stump a family of young wood-swallows
were waiting for their breakfast, too intent upon their appetites
to bother about the train, while a snow-white butterfly
flittered unconcernedly to rest upon a blue-bell, which swayed
to and fro in the panting breath of the engine.

TO ADELAIDE BY TRAIN 35

And of all the sights that charmed my eyes as they gazed
from the train windows, there was nothing more delightful
than the flowers. All along the line they grew in masses and
patches and straggling lines. Between the rail and the road,
spring, undisturbed, had laid a carpet of many colours, so
bright and varied that the traveller longed to descend and fill
her hands with their beauties. From end to end of the
country the prevailing colour was yellow, for during October
Australia is indeed a field of cloth of gold. In the southern
part of our own State the early sun shone upon the soft
evening primroses, not yet closed before the heat of day, and
buttercups dotted the grass all along the way ; but, from Albury
to Melbourne the green fields were changed to golden carpets
by the bright, round faces of the Cape weed. Oblivious to the
cold welcome it receives, and heedless of the fact that it is a
" pest," this black-eyed daisy spreads itself for miles and miles
over the paddocks, and in one place has even changed a grassy
hill into a golden mountain. Within the railway boundaries
many of the native plants grow untrammelled, as yet, by this
alien, and here again yellow was the dominant tone. Clumps
of bluebells waved dainty heads, a delicate white blossom
sent little spikes up from the grass, but the majority of the
flowers were the sun's hue, gold and gleaming. Mile after
mile the ground was covered by a plant with a yellow spike
of blossoms, which a bronzed countryman told me, rather
shyly, was called " yellow posies."

36 BUSH DAYS

As the South Australian border drew nearer the flowers
changed in shape and growth, though yellow still prevailed.
In the paddocks where the white-backed magpies of the south
were busy all the day, the great clumps of gorse and broom
glowed in marvellous beauty, and filled the air with their scent.
These plants have taken possession of South Australia, and
very lovely they are — though, no doubt, the farmer sees them
with a somewhat different eye. From Murray Bridge to
Adelaide one is struck by the variety of introduced plants
which thrive all too well. In places there is still a good
deal of the original bush left, and a beautiful tetratheca covered
whole hillsides with its purple blossoms. Adelaide people
call it " purple heather," and prize it highly — as indeed it
deserves. It is of a freer growth than the one we know round
Sydney, and can be plucked in long sprays, while its scent is
very sweet. It was the wild flower most in evidence, for the
time of blossom was quickly passing, and only stray flowers
remained of many species. In sheltered spots were clusters
of deep red, the last flicker of the blaze of epacris, which, I was
told, glorified the bush a few months ago. Another red flower
which was to be seen in the cuttings was a pea-flower called
a " scarlet-runner," which from the distance looked like a
small, vivid kennedya. At a wayside station a small boy
earned a penny by running across the road and plucking a
bunch of gorgeous blue blossom, for which I could learn
no name, though its beauty certainly should have placed it on

TO ADELAIDE BY TRAIN 37

the list of first favourites. But with the exception of these
blossoms, and a few stray wattles, all the flowers that graced
the landscape there were introduced. Small red poppies lent
an English aspect to many a field — to the owner's disgust, it
must be admitted. Irises, white and purple, were to be seen
at every passing stream, with clumps of arum lilies disputing
the position with them. Hawthorn bushes looked springlike
in their gowns of pink or white ; briar and hedge roses
sweetened the air with their fragrance, and amongst the hills —
which are Adelaide's pride and beauty — myriads of ixias,
white, yellow and red, grew wild along the railroad. These,
it is said, were introduced by a man who, every time lie went
through in the train, scattered handfuls of seeds and bulbs
from the window. The result is charming at present, though
the future may tell a different tale.

And so I went by rail to Adelaide, not through dull, un-
interesting country, but through a world of wonder and beauty.
It is true that most of the way is over plain level ground — but
that gives a better view of the distant hills, and of the wood-
decked streams that cross the path. It is true that wild
flowers are but weeds ; that foals and calves and lambs, young-
birds and butterflies are the commonplaces of every spring;
so is the sun the commonplace of every day — but it
never loses its wonder. If the thought of snow-capped Alps
tropical forests, Italian lakes, and mighty canons, has blinded
you to the beauty of all else, then you may find the journey

38 BUSH DAYS

" absolutely uninteresting " ; but if you set out with love of
your land in your heart, and eyes that can see clearly, then you
will find that there are more joys than the globe-trotter sees
on the road to Adelaide.

The Flame Tree

1 N some lands it would be worshipped as the living in-
^ carnation of the great fire god, for all the warmth of the
ages seems concentrated in its glowing mass of blossom. Set
round by the glossy green of palms and tree-ferns, cedars and
blackwoods, it stands out, a blaze of vivid scarlet that almost
bewilders by its startling beauty. The holiday-makers that
pass up and down the road above it, stop and gaze in open-
mouthed amazement at its gorgeousness.

" What is it?" is the question on their lips; and many and
varied are the answers given. Some, with an air of learning,
say it is a flowering palm, others declare it is a coral tree ; but
one and all wonder how it comes to be there, " away out in the
bush."

And yet it is not at all an uncommon tree in the South
Coast brush, where it chiefly flourishes. It is known to
botanists as Sterculia acerifolia. and is sister to the familiar
"currajong" (Sterculia diversifolia) of the inlands. Some
fine specimens of it are to be seen in the Botanic Gardens,
and in several gardens round Sydney it grows splendidly. It
is always a handsome tree, with glossy, palm-shaped leaves;
but when it is covered with its scarlet bell-flowers, it stands
as a burning protest against the accusation that there is no
colour in the Australian bush. Before its vivid scarlet the

40 BUSH DAYS

Christmas bush looks dull, the wattle pales, the Christmas
bells seem almost tawdry. It is a gleaming, glowing wonder
that transforms the green gully into an enchanted garden.

There, at our very door, it grows ; magic, wonderful, a
brave ensign of a sun-girt land. And on the road above,
hundreds of Australians pass up and down, gaze at its beauty,
and ask what's its name, and whence it came. Not one in a
hundred knows, or cares, that it is a native ; not one in a
hundred glows with the pride that must come from possession
of so much beauty. But, one and all — thinking it too strangely
beautiful to belong to their own land — they wonder aimlessly
how " it came to be out there in the bush !"

A Bush Breakfast

AVE you ever taken your break-
fast into the bush? If you
have not, you have missed much
of the joy of life. Lunch and tea
we have all eaten in the open
many and many a time, and have
all enjoyed to the utmost; but the
morning meal eaten under the
gum boughs, while the day is

yet young, is unlike any other meal known on this prosaic
earth.

Breakfast is proverbially the unsociable meal of the day,
and the most contemptuous thing that has been said about
people is that they are " brilliant at breakfast." According
to all traditions the correct way to begin the day is with a
silent meal, attention divided between the bacon and the news-
paper, not a smile for anyone, and not a word beyond a " pass
the butter, please," or similar phrase. And as for the visitor
who arrives for breakfast, there are no words to describe him,
so unheard of and unwelcome would he be if he dared to come.

But when' you take your breakfast into the bush it is quite
different. You leave the silent and unsociable self behind, and
only your friendliest, happiest you goes out. The horror of

42 BUSH DAYS

morning guests, which is customary at home, leaves you, and
you look forward with delight to the visitors who, you know,
will be the best part of your meal.

Quite early this morning, while the dew still spangled the
grass and leaf tips, we took our bag and billy, and set out for
our bush dining-room. Such a lovely room it is, with its blue
ceiling overhead, its soft grey walls, and a carpet of the
freshest, greenest velvet, that out-rivals the finest Axminster.
On one side the walls are draped with a curtain of royal
purple, where the hardenbergia hangs in loops and clusters ;
here and there great golden masses of dillwynia stand in nooks
and corners, while right where our table is laid tall blue
orchids wave fairy flowers upon their slender stems. The
rugged boughs of the red gum overhead stretch a bold design
against the blue of the ceiling, and throw cool, quaint shadows
over the velvet carpet ; and the brown, crusty loaf, the pot of
yellow butter, the red-cheeked apples, and the hard-boiled eggs
look very inviting in the flickering gleams.

The thread of blue smoke, stealing up from the fire where
the billy is boiling, has evidently told our friends that we are
there, for they soon begin to arrive. First come the thrushes
in a great state of excitement ; indeed so agitated are they,
that we guess there is a nest in the hole of the old grey gum
.just beyond our breakfast-room, but we are too comfortably
indolent to go and look. But Mr. Thrush is more inquisitive,
and wants to know all about us. "Who, who, who, w/i0-are-

A BUSH BREAKFAST 43

they?" he asks in a loud, ringing voice, and his mate answers
quickly, " It's that couple again."

" What-what-what-?c'/za/ are they doing?" he asks again,
and again his mate answers immediately, " Boiling a billy."
But Mr. Thrush does not seem to be satisfied, and he comes
nearer to see us better, and asks again and again, " What-what-
what-what are they doing?" At last his wife grows tired of
telling him " They're boiling a billy," and flies off to see about
her domestic duties.

Then a sweet-voiced honey-eater flies up, crying, "Oh dear,
oh dear, oh dear," in a plaintive way ; but whether he is sad
at not being asked to breakfast, or merely disturbed by the
thrush's questions, we cannot quite decide. Of course a
yellow-bob comes to see what's happening, and he sits on the
tree overhead, gazes down at our breakfast with his big black
eyes, and then says, " Tschau, tschau," with a scornful tweak
of his tail. But he need not be so contemptuous of our humble
fare, for hard-boiled eggs have an ambrosial flavour with billy
tea; fresh crusty bread with hedge-plum jam is food- for
the gods, when blue orchids bend towards it ; and rosy apples
are a heavenly fruit when the sunbeams dance upon them
through a red gum's leaves.

And so the little lizard thinks, who has crawled out of the
corner, and run across our green carpet to see what he can
find ; he thinks that even the core of an apple is worth waiting
a long time to get, and nibbles at it with evident approval.

THE DEW-SPANGLED PATH

A BUSH BREAKFAST 45

The big ants that come hurrying over the carpet also think
ours is a most desirable breakfast, and are so impatient for their
turn that one or two even venture on to the white table-cloth.
But their gleaming heart-shaped bodies look much prettier
on the green carpet or the grey floor, so we gently drive them
back with a twig to wait in patience. They are not the spite-
ful, ill-natured ants that love to bite mortals, but they just run
about busily, waiting until we have finished, and do not worry
too persistently.

Indeed, it is not a morning on which any living thing would
be ill-natured. The breath of the opening flowers on every
hand fills the air with peace, and the dancing sunbeams fill the
heart with joy. The magic song of the spring has begun again,
and everyone that hears it must come under its spell.

As we are shaking out the crumbs for the ants' breakfast,
we hear a footstep on the rocks above, and see a youth walking
towards us. His clothes are old and not too clean ; his hard,
black hat is battered; his neck is guiltless of a collar; if you
saw him walking slowly past your house you would perhaps
shut your gate more firmly ; but here in the bush no such
suspicious thoughts come to you.

Nor is there any need. The little bulky packet beneath his
arm tells of a meal to be eaten under the trees ; the tiny sprig
of boronia in the old hat tells of a love of beauty hidden
beneath the ragged coat. He walks along with his eyes on
the ground, apparently seeing nothing, but the influence of

46 BUSH DAYS

the day is on him, for as he passes, and we call " Good
morning " to him, his dull face brightens into a genial smile,
and he answers readily, " Good-day; lovely mornin', ain't it?"
And the day seems still more lovely for that little flash
of human understanding.

An October Day

j^jk N every side shone the wattle in a golden, shimmering
^^ mass ; it stretched across the empty paddocks, climbed
up the hillsides, reared its long heads to peep over the grey
fences, doing its utmost to turn the ugly little mountain village
into a field of gold. The wind, which came whistling from the
west, took the flower spikes in its boisterous grasp and shook
the sweetness from them ; and the odour went wafting through
the breeze, beating down the smell of dust, and creeping with
a delicate fragrance into the little weatherboard mountain
cottages. < I

" The wattle has never been better than it is now," said
the residents. " It must be due to the dry winter." And the
visitors agreed with them that, whatever the cause, the long
golden spikes could not possibly be longer or more golden.
" It is little wonder," they said, " that poets break into song
in the spring. The sight of that golden sheet of blossom
under the bright blue sky is enough to drive the most un-
imaginative to verse."

And, instead of tearing headlong to the bottom of the
gullies, as they generally do, the visitors stayed awhile in the
village, just to feast their eyes upon the wattle, and to fill
their arms with the fluffy balls, which shrank into little hard
knobs almost immediately. Even the golfers on the way to

48 BUSH DAYS

the links waited a moment to gaze and admire ; while the flame
breasted robin sang his loudest song from the top of the old
grey fence, in praise of wattle and spring time.

That was in the morning of the golden October day. By
midday the wind, which had been playfully boisterous, grew
really angry, and chased the clouds, big and little, in a scud-
ding race across the sky. He blew them right before the sun's
face, and dimmed the light; and he shook the poor flowers'
spikes in rage, till they almost broke before his fury.

" Spring, is it?" he seemed to say, in his roaring voice.
" I'll soon show you whether it is spring or not." And he
blew the clouds so hard and fast that at last they could stand
it no more, but broke in wet protest, pouring their heavy
showers upon the wattle sprays, the flame-breasted robin, the
golfers, and the hundreds of picknickers in the gullies.

The flowers bowed their heads before the onslaught, and
the golfers, picknickers. and robin all ran for shelter from the
deluge.

" Ah, ha!" laughed the wind. " How do you like this kind
of spring? Or perhaps you like this kind better?''

He puffed once more, and the watchers saw some tiny
white flakes come floating through the air. At first they came
in ones and twos ; but soon they were arriving in myriads,
faster and faster, and whiter and whiter ; and the robin crept
closer to his sheltering branch, for it was a snowstorm.

AN OCTOBER DAY 49

" A snowstorm in October !" said the visitors. " Pre-
posterous! It can't be snow." But it was; and soon the hills
and valleys and trees and wattle sprays were all hidden by the
softly-falling curtain.

All through the afternoon and well into the night it fell,
and the starlight shone upon a glistening white world, which
drew the fascinated children out from before the big log fires
to enjoy the unusual excitement and fun of a snowball fight.

"Hurrah!" they shouted, scraping the white wonder from
verandahs and fences, and pelting each other with balls.
" Hurrah ! Hurrah ! This is something like a springtime ! If
only it would last a week !" And they laughed and screamed
with delight in the freezing air.

But that was not at all what the wind expected. He had
meant to give pain, not pleasure ; so he blew all the snow-
clouds back to their winter quarters, and when the children
ran out next morning to make more snowballs, there wras
nothing but slush in the garden, and over the fence the wattle
sprays were waving as brightly as ever beneath the shining sun.

" This is more like spring," said the mothers, packing the
picnic baskets. " This is really spring," sang the robin as he
picked out a grub from the old grey fence. " This is a decent
spring," said the golfers, making an early start for the links.

And the wattle shook its golden sprays out in the morning
sunshine, and laughed to the passers-by. " Of course it is

50 BUSH DAYS

spring. Haven't we been telling you so for weeks? The wind
must have his little joke, but it takes more than a snowstorm to
blight an Australian wattle grove !"

And from the grey fence the flame-breasted robin piped:
" It does, it does !"

Callistemons

HE heavy rains have brought them out in hundreds, and
the swamp is afire with them. Beneath the white,
sprawling branches of the scribbly gums, they stretch away
across the sodden bush in a mass of crimson and scarlet. The
passers-by are few ; but those who have wandered from the
high road, and braved the mud and slush of the track, forget
the wet, and, regardless of dripping skirts and soaking feet,
stand spellbound before the feast of beauty. Well do they
deserve their pretty name, which, formed of two soft Greek
words, means " beautiful stamens." The glowing spikes of
colour are inches more than their usual length ; the vivid
scarlet of the newer flowers tones gently into the softer
crimson of the older ones, and the soft, greyish pink of the
leaf tips completes the colour scheme ; while the whole picture
is thrown into relief by the grey sand beneath and the grey
sky above.

A minute before, we had been annoyed at finding that our
short-cut to the ocean had led us into an impassable swamp,
but a bend in the path had brought us face to face with the
callistemons, and how could disappointment or annoyance
live before such beauty? What did it matter that we' had
already come half a mile from the road — half a mile which

52 BUSH DAYS

must now be retraced by reason of the quagmire — when
the swamp held all this loveliness?

" It is worth it, a hundred times," we agreed ; and then,
drawing nearer to the flowery fire, learned how very much it
really was worth while. For, as we moved towards them,
the bushes broke into life with a myriad birds, which added
a still greater beauty to the scene. Redheads went squeaking
across the track with a protest at our intrusion ; scrub wrens
chattered in the safety of the thick bushes ; silvereyes
" peeked " plaintively at being disturbed ; thickheads burst
into song as they flew into the white branches above ; spine-
bills flashed by, uttering an agitated cry ; tits fussed and
scolded at the disturbance ; white-cheeked honey-eaters darted
hither and thither, calling to each other " Who's this? Who's
this?" A blue crane rose silently from the path ahead, and
flew with slow wing-beats towards the open marsh; and from
the reed beds beyond came the strange note of some water-
fowl.

But more than all the other birds together were the black-
caps. The bushes were alive with them, and though dozens
flew past us, disturbed by our presence, dozens more went
on feeding quite unconcernedly amongst the flowers. In the
graceful attitudes that only a honey-eater knows, they sucked
the honey from the fiery stamens; sometimes they stood
poised upon a bending tip, " making it tremble with pleasure,"
as they stretched sharp beaks into the flowers' hearts; some-

CALLISTEMONS

times they hung head downwards, their
white breasts gleaming against the
scarlet blossoms ; sometimes they fluttered
in the air, their bright olive wings
quivering in support ; and always they
were most beautiful, with the vivid colour
of the flowers for a back-ground to their
bright black heads, white breasts and
.olive backs. The wet summer had held no
terror for them ; it had robbed them of
their second nesting time, perhaps, but
it had given them this gorgeous, luscious
feeding ground, this sumptuous field
of red callistemons ; and like true
philosophers, they were taking the good
)the gods had provided, without a
thought of the good they had lost.

Some of their philosophy imparted
itself to us.

" What a good thing we came this
way!" we declared as we began to
retrace our steps over the wet paddock.
Then, as we plunged ankle-deep into a
puddle, we laughed aloud and bade each
other " look not down, but up " — an easy
thing to do when the callistemons are in
flower.

BLACKCAP

The City Park

lies midway between two crowded
eastern suburbs, within a few minutes'
run of the city's heart. On either
boundary electric trams rush past
with clanging haste. Motor-cars
race along the asphalt paths, motor-
bicycles snort from gate to gate ;
civilisation, with its feverish unrest,
surrounds and invades it, and yet,
in spite of all, it holds a peace and
special sanctuary, undreamed of by
the noisy, bustling crowd, that casts
a careless eye on its beauty, or hastens
through unheeding.

Just a step from the made path will lead you to the long,
deep grass, which skirts the pond. The water is somewhat
low, and each lake boasts a few feet of soft, clean, white sand,
which gives it the appearance of an inland sea in miniature.
A fresh breeze which ruffles the surface into wavelets adds
to the likeness, and a flock of gulls driven inland by the rough
weather, ride on the waves, or whirl screeching overhead.

THE CITY PARK 55

completing the illusion. On the banks of the island a mob
of glossy black shags, standing in queer human attitudes, hold
court; round about them swim teal, black duck, wood duck,
and the quaint little white-faced coots ; and from the clump of
pampas grass behind comes the sweet-ringing song of a reed-
warbler. In the centre of the lake black swans are feeding,
their beautiful red bills out of sight as they pick the weeds
from below ; and close by a flock of tiny grebe duck in and out
of the water with a ridiculous regularity. Up in one corner
of the pond some children are feeding the birds, and ducks,
geese, swans, and coots hustle each other to pick up the
morsels. A tall Nile goose grabs all he can get, and bullies
the smaller fry if they come near; he is the only foreigner
amongst them, and he certainly has no company manners, but
gobbles greedily. The natives suffer it quietly as long as they
can, but at last a black swan swoops angrily down upon him
with a hiss, and the stranger takes himself off to the other side
of the pond, where an old man has just appeared with bread
in his hand.

One could spend hours watching the antics of the birds,
but there is an inviting dip beyond the rise, which promises
fresh pleasures, and we turn towards it. Oh, that all " dips "
were as rich in their fulfilment ! This is no fraudulent penny
dip, with hidden treasures turning to a worthless bauble; here
are jewels rich and rare, and scattered with a prodigality un-
dreamed of in mid-summer.

56 BUSH DAYS

Floating from end to end of the pond is a gorgeous carpet
of blossom — water-lilies in every shade. The tall blue Aus-
tralian lilies bow stately heads to the little white English ones
which nestle down on the water; a clump of daintiest pink
gleams against olive leaves; brilliant crimsons flash against
the clear water, and bright yellow beauties shine like fairy
gold. And their names, too! — Nymphaea aurora, Nymphaea
suavissima, Nymphaea gloria; even science grows poetic over
their beauty, while from the shelter of the papyrus which edges
the pond, a choir of reed-warblers pour forth their praise, in
a burst of song which fills the listening world with glory.

But the beauties of the lakes are obvious, and for all to see.
It is amongst the rough grasses, which stretch between the
ponds and paths, that the rare treasures are found. Two little
dottrels, twinkling along the sand, lure towards the water's
edge, and as if by magic we are in another world. Chitwees
flit across our path, blue wrens and honey-eaters pass in the
low bushes, and a sudden " whir-r-r " makes us jump back a
pace as a swamp quail rises at our very feet. Before we can
recover from our astonishment, his mate whirrs off in the
opposite direction, and a tiny thing like a mouse runs into
cover.

Baby quail ! It is almost impossible to believe our eyes.
We poke about the clump of grass with a stick, making enough
noise to frighten a dozen ordinary birdlets, but no sign or
sound. Then, kneeling low, with careful hands we slowly part

THE CITY PARK 57

the blades of grass right at the roots, and at last catch sight of
a weeny, striped brown chick, lying as if dead. But one touch
of the finger calls it back to life with a squeak, which is
immediately echoed, and the clump, which seemed so empty,
suddenly becomes alive in all directions. We catch two and
put them down on the sand to see them more plainly. But
they don't like such publicity, and with a squeak they both
make back for cover, and are instantly invisible. We do not
disturb the small shy things again, but walk on, quite satisfied
at having seen such rarities within walking distance of the
city's heart.

A few feet further on another bird rises from the grass
before us. This time it is a little light-brown thing with a
golden cap — the grass warbler. With lark-like flight he soars
straight up above our heads, uttering a pretty little song as he
flies. Higher and higher he goes, till he is just a speck
against the blue, and all the while his little song comes down
to us. Then suddenly, like a bolt, he drops to earth, and is
silent. But immediately the silence is broken by another sky-
bound singer — the English skylark, whose gush of song
shimmers through the golden afternoon, and leads us into
fairyland.

As he

" Singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest"

the inarticulate thoughts which have haunted us throughout
the golden afternoon, find voice in the words of that poet, who

58 BUSH DAYS

in the far-off days caught the spirit of the embodied joy, and
set it in a song for all to hear :

" Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures

That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground."

Some day, it may be, one of our poets will hear the singing
of our birds, and translate it into golden words. But while we
are waiting for our Shelley or our Keats, the skylark of the
poets lifts his glad voice within our city park, and pours his
song from heaven's gate, the golden mouthpiece of all sweet,
neglected singers.

Jaeky Winter

cc CERTAINLY one of the least ornamental of the Aus-
^^ tralian birds " was the way the great Gould des-
cribed him, and later ornithologists, following in the steps of
the master, have spoken in the same depreciating way of our
friend, Jacky Winter.

But never was there a clearer case of libel and wrongful
description. That he does not possess the gorgeous colouring
of the parrots, or the grace of the swallows, is true; but his
actions have the brightness and vivacity of a child, and in his
scheme of colouring his tints are just as perfect and beautiful
as those of any of his more gaudy brothers.

Had he been known in the days of the dandies he might
have served as a model of elegance for the great Beau himself;
for nothing could be more harmonious than the shades of grey,
which range from the pale pearl of his breast to the deeper
clove-like hue of his back. He is a regular dandy, too, in the
way he flicks his tail from side to side as he alights, showing
the white lappets which brighten his costume.

But even if one can see no beauty in the quietness of his
clothes, his very cheeriness and sweetness should put him
beyond all charge of plainness. He is the embodiment of
peace and good temper.

60 BUSH DAYS

Nothing could be more cosy and restful than he, as he sits
on the point of an aloe or a sharp stick, with his feathers fluffed
out, looking as soft as the answer that turneth away wrath.
Xo bird is more joyous, as he chases playfully after a brother,
at times fearlessly darting within a few inches of your face.
All through the winter months, when other birds are silent or

The embodiment of peace and good temper J-R-

JACKY WINTER

skulking, his voice may be heard from the tree tops, proclaim-
ing joyously that the world is " sweeter, sweeter, sweeter."
That is his message in life, and no matter what the weather
may be he calls it forth, and to many a world-weary heart his
glad voice comes, bringing a message of hope and courage.

JACKY WINTER 61

And yet, in spite of all his lovableness, he has been called
dull and plain. If the grey of a mother's hair is plain, then he
is plain ; if the soothing quietness of home is dull, then no
bird is duller ; for he can boast no flaunting colour, no exciting
song, but just the softness, the peace and the love that soothe
the heart and rest the weary mind.

The Northward Flight

a chirping and a cheeping! Such a darting hastily
up to the line, and a skimming over the blocks ! Such
a chattering and a fussing, till the man in the street stands to
gaze in surprise, and even the tired tram traveller looks up
from his evening paper, and wonders what it is all about.

It is the annual meeting of the swallows, preparatory to
taking their northern flight. Every autumn for years they
have met in hundreds and thousands on the telegraph lines at
the Haymarket, and there each year, apparently, they discuss
the question as to whether migration is advisable or not. For
many of them stay with us all through the winter, though the
majority, following the faith of their forefathers, travel to the
warmer climes of Northern Australia for the cold season.

For weeks they blacken the wires every day at sunset, rest-
ing there all through the night ; then one evening the wires
are bare, and they are seen no more, except in stray instances,
till the spring. And though they must depart in flocks, there
is no record of anyone having noted their going.

It is one of the eternal mysteries of bird life, this coming
and going, and though of late years ornithologists have given
great attention to the subject, there is still much to be learned.
So great a part of the travelling is done by night, that there is
little chance for observation, and with birds the method of

THE NORTHWARD FLIGHT 63

locomotion is so rapid that it baffles the casual observer. It
is little wonder that the poets — the naturalists of the past —
conceived such ingenious theories for the annual disappearance
of the birds. For centuries the popular idea was that the king-
fisher built her nest on the waves of the ocean in calm weather
— hence the term " halcyon days." The belief that swallows
went beneath the water to hibernate was quite undisputed, and
Dr. Johnson even describes their method of going. " A
number of them," he says, " conglobulate together by flying-
round and round, and then, all in a heap, they throw them-
selves under water, and lie in the bed of a river." Even
Gilbert White held the theory of hibernation, till his belief was
upset by a duck being shot in a neighbouring \aHage, bearing
on its neck a silver plate engraved with the arms of the King
of Denmark. This seems to have turned the great naturalist's
thoughts towards the theory of migration, which eventually
quite superseded the idea of hibernation.

And now the question which puzzled the philosophers of
the ancient world is an every day fact, and every schoolboy
knows that the kingfisher builds no watery nest, and that the
swallows do not lurk beneath the mud of a pond, but leave us
to spend the winter in Northern Australia.

With such a range of distance and climate as our conti-
nent possesses, there is no need for our birds to leave Aus-
tralia itself, and very few of the birds that breed in Victoria,
New South Wales, or Tasmania, go further afield than North

64 BUSH DAYS

Queensland. The smaller birds, such as the native canary,
the caterpillar-eater, and some of the fly-catchers, which arrive
here in August and September, go north again during March
and April, to spend their winter in North Queensland, but they
do not leave the continent. At the same time go the bee-
eaters, which build so freely along the banks of the Xepean all
summer, and the dollar-birds. These both go further north,
spending their winter in New Guinea, Molucca, the Celebes,
and thereabouts.

Other regular spring visitors are the cuckoos. With the
first bright days of August and September comes the rollicking
note of the pallid cuckoo, and the sad wail of his cousin, the
fantail cuckoo, both having just arrived from North Queens-
land. At the same time, from further north — Timor, and New-
Guinea — come the two little bronze cuckoos, whose woefully
plaintive voices are heard night and day throughout the
country; and the brush cuckoo, a shy fellow, who frequents
the brush country, and fills the gullies with his almost
hysterical whistle. From the same region comes the koel,
also a dweller in the brush, where he utters his loud
monotonous note day and night. By the middle of April all
the cuckoos have departed for their northern homes, except a
few lone birds that occasionally seem to be left behind, and
sadly bewail their fate the winter through.

In direct contrast to the lugubrious cuckoos is the reed-
warbler, one of the most delightful of our summer birds, which

THE NORTHWARD FLIGHT

65

comes south in August. Only
those who live near a reed bed
can appreciate these., birds to
the full. For months the reeds
will have been silent and
deserted, and then suddenly,
without a note of warning, you
wake one spring morning and
hear a gush of song from the
creek, and you know the reed-
warblers have arrived. Day and
night for about five months you
hear their voices, sweet and
ringing, as they build and breed
amongst the rushes. Then, as
the summer fades, the chorus
lessens, and grows thinner and
thinner, till one morning there
<:omes no sound at all, and you
know the birds have joined the
northward flight in quest of
warmth and sunshine.

All the birds mentioned so fat-
are, properly speaking, Aus-
tralian, for they all breed here, The home in the rushes J-R-
and with a few exceptions, do RKKD-WARBI.BR AND NEST

66 BUSH DAYS

not leave the continent. But there is another class of birds
that also spend the summer with us, but go far north across
the world to build in the northern spring. This class includes
some of the best-known of our birds, amongst them the swifts,
which may be seen on summer evenings circling round in the
upper air in search of insects. Though most of us are familiar
with the long sickle-shaped wings and graceful flight of the
swifts, but few of us know that these same birds, which are
better known to us than many Australian forms, are really
aliens, and have travelled thousands of miles from their birth-
places. The two species, the spine-tailed swift and the vvhite-
rumped swift, are often seen in company throughout Aus-
tralia and Tasmania, but while the first-named builds in Japan,
the latter travels on to Central Siberia. The flight of these
birds is amongst the marvels of natural history, and the dis-
tance that seems so awe-inspiring to us, is no more than a
few beats of the wing to them. There is no authentic record
of their resting in Australia, but they seem to be possessed of
tireless energy, and, according to Gould, the great bird
observer, think nothing of breakfasting in New South \\ales
and lunching in Tasmania.

With such powers of speed and ever soaring flight, it is
easy to believe that the swifts have come from " far beyond the
horizon's rim " ; but it needs more imagination to realise as
globe-trotters the birds w^e are accustomed to see walking
slowly and sedately upon t*he ground. And yet of the forty-

THE NORTHWARD FLIGHT 67

five species of shore birds — plover, snipe, and so on — which
frequent Australia, quite half the number belong to the old
world.

Anyone who has walked round the shores of Botany Bay
at low tide must have seen a large grey bird with a long
curved bill stalking about in search of crabs and marine insects.
It is the curlew proper — not to be confused with the stone
plover, popularly so miscalled. This bird arrives in New
South Wales about August and September, and for five or six
months lives peacefully and unobtrusively at our doors ; but
with the flight of summer it also departs, and travels north by
the East Indies and Japan, till it reaches Siberia, where it stays
throughout the northern summer.

People living in the western suburbs of Sydney may often
hear during the summer nights little faint bird cries, sounding
weirdly through the dark. They are the voices of the godwits,
flying over from their feeding grounds at Botany to the mud
flats on the Parramatta River. This is another native of
Siberia, and with its friends the greenshanks, curlews, sand-
pipers, stints, and whimbrels, joins the northern flight for the
Arctic circle.

Among these long-distance travellers are several birds
known as game to all sportsmen. The spur-winged and black-
breasted plover we have with us always, but the grey and the
golden plover breed among the tundras of Siberia. Our
friend, Jack Snipe, the well-beloved, which, as all men know,

68 BUSH DAYS

arrives here in September and October, if lucky enough to
escape the guns, departs from these shores in March for his
home in Japan. There on the grass-clad uplands, at the foot
of the famous Fujiyama, our little friend of the field and table
builds his nest and fulfils his domestic duties.

But though these globe-trotters come here year after year,
they do not appear to have instilled a love of gadding into our
native birds. Of all the shore birds and waders that build and
breed in Australia, none are really migratory. True, they
wander continually throughout the country, but that is a
question of food supply. In a continent like ours, where one
part may be suffering from drought, while another is flooded
out, it is natural that the birds must move their quarters if
they do not wish to be starved. And as the insects follow the
crops, grasses and other vegetable attractions, so we have the
herons, the ibises, the cranes, and the spoonbills following in
the wake of the insect pests and keeping them well under con-
trol, too.

Drought is the bird's greatest enemy in Australia, and has
more to do with forcing them from their native haunts than
any other cause. At times whole colonies of birds are driven
from one part of the country to another for want of water.
Perhaps the most marvellous instance of this on recond was in
1840, when the little black-tailed native hens positively
stormed Adelaide. They ran about the streets, crowded the
rivers and tanks, and did much damage to the fields. They

THE NORTHWARD FLIGHT

NEST OF ROSE-BREASTED ROBIN

70 BUSH DAYS

had been driven south by the severe drought inland, and for
some months literally took possession of the town. Another
instance of a bird irruption was in the dry summers of 1895
and 1896, when the beautiful white-eyebrowed wood swallows,
or martins, came to the neighbourhood of Sydney. They came
in thousands, and for a few weeks the western suburbs
swarmed with them. They built everywhere and anywhere,
on trees, stumps, and even on the fences. For several summers
they came, then disappeared, and were seen no more till the
dry weather again drove them seawards. The drought of 1896
also drove to the coast some of the inland finches, including
the very rare painted finch, which had never before been re-
ported from Eastern Australia ; nor has it been seen here since.

Most of the fruit-eating birds are nomadic in their habits,
and, as every orchardist knows to his cost, parrots follow up
the food supply, as do also leather-heads, and, to a certain
extent, the black magpies. All the honey-eaters are wanderers,
though sometimes the distance of their travelling may be very
short. Anyone who has a gum or coral tree in his garden will
notice that when they are in blossom dozens of honey-eaters
will appear as if by magic to feed amongst the flowers.

Other birds which also move from place to place are the
robins. The familiar " yellow-bob " stays with us all the year
round, but the red-breasts, rose-breasts, and flame-breasts,
though seen in open country and round about the farm-houses
during the autumn and winter, disappear from sight in the

THE NORTHWARD FLIGHT

NEST OF WHITE-CHEEKED HONEY-EATER

72 BUSH DAYS

spring-time. They do not migrate, as it is sometimes
supposed, but retire to the gullies and sheltered brush of the
mountains for the nesting season. The gill-birds, too, so dear
to the heart of the sportsman and gourmand, are plentiful
along the heathlands of the coast during the winter months,
but retreat to the recesses of the Blue Mountains in the spring,
there to build and bring out their young. It is strange that the
gill-birds should be so shy about their nests, when most of the
other members of the same family (the honey-eaters) build
quite openly in heathland and open forest.

But then isn't all nature full of strange and inexplicable
things, about which even the most careful scientist can only
theorise? \Yho can understand the workings in the mind of
a small creature, which compel it twice a year to travel
thousands of miles, braving the elements and innumerable
dangers, without any absolute need? For the question of food
does not sufficiently explain this annual southern invasion and
northern flight. It is one of the many mysteries which are
always facing the naturalist ; the subject of migration opens a
wide field for observation on the part of the nature-lover, and
is a question in which the student, by quick perception and
careful watching, may give invaluable help to the scientist.

The Royal Mantle

1 T is with no niggardly hand this mantle is cut; there is no
^ skimping of material, no saving or sparing of yards and
inches. With a reckless sweep the great scissors go. and the
mantle spreads out and falls into lavish folds beneath the
designer's hand. There is no need for sparing, for the maker
has the whole store of spring to draw upon ; and no matter how-
prodigal and reckless her planning may be, she knows there is
an unlimited supply ready to her hand.

At all seasons of the year the great designer dresses her
child, the bush, with taste and beauty. There are robes of
green, or grey, or brown for different months, robes of softest
pink and richest copper ; but of all the garments in the
daughter's wardrobe, there is none in which Mother Nature
takes so keen a pride as in the royal mantle of gold and purple
which is donned to greet the spring.

The foundation of the mantle is the rich purple creeper.
soft and satiny as a baby's cheek. Over every part of the
bush the regal colour climbs. Charred trees are turned to
columns of beauty, green saplings are garlanded through and
through by the purple trails. All the sad and ugly bruises
made by man's hand are hidden beneath the masses of blossom.
The great red scars, which the railway cuts, are softly hidden
by the purple veil, and the fences, which show where man

74

BUSH DAYS

IKI

A clump of starry blossoms
ERIOSTEMON MYOPOROIDES

THE ROYAL MANTLE 75

means soon to chop and clear, are turned into trellises for the
support of the gay garment.

The foundation is purple, but the trimming is of every
shade and tint, as befits a regal robe ; the chief embroidery is
gold, and never artist yet wove such a gorgeous mass of colour
as runs in waving, lovely lines throughout the mantle. In the
least expected parts it is placed. Sometimes at the hem it
sweeps along a shady gully; sometimes at the shoulder it turns
a hillside into a golden glow ; again it is found in the folds
between two crags, or on the skirt of the thickly wooded
brush. But, wherever it is seen, it is always just in the
right place ; for there it is put by the artist's hands, not a
chance effect, but part of the carefully planned design.

But gold and purple, regal though they are, do not satisfy
the proud mother. Her daughter must be decked in all the
beauty of all the fairest colours ; so delicate shades of mauve
and pink, blue and brown, are skilfully woven into the gorgeous
garment. On the gently sloping breast of the hill, pale lilac
orchids are loosely strewn, while at the waist, where hill and
valley meet, a pink girdle of starry blossoms is set. Here
and there throughout the mantle the vivid blue of the lily
makes a bold contrast, while ever and again the deep red of
spider flowers or wild fuchsia stands out in daring relief. Such
shades she weaves together in the great flower mantle, this
wonderful designer, Mother Nature! Colours that no human
artist would dare to unite, she throws together without

76

BUSH DAYS

restraint, and never does she make a
mistake.

Every year, as spring draws near, she
begins her weaving; and every year the
mantle is more wonderful and beautiful to
all beholders; and whether she works in
masses of gorgeous blossom, or deftly
throws a single rlower upon the cloak, it is
always just the perfect touch that was
needed to complete her daughter's beauty.

And is it any wonder that all eyes are
Turned with admiration upon the lovely
daughter? Poets try to voice her beauty
in their verses, painters try to capture it
upon their canvas, the wrild birds almost
break their hearts in their desire to sing
the anthem of her praise, while even the
trees grow higher in their tip-toeing for a
better look at her.

But no words, or songs, or painter's
brush can do her justice. Only the hearts
of her lovers respond with a silent thrill of
ecstacy and admiration, as she passes by
in her regal mantle of the early spring.

BLUE LILY

A Holiday

TM£ HERE was a tang of autumn in the air; the sun shone
warm and bright, but from the hills beyond came a
sharp, cool nip that made its way into the sunny day, and
caught you when you left the sunshine for the shade. Out
on the ocean the sunbeams played on water of a blue that only
autumn knows — a deep, dazzling, sapphire blue. Between the
mountains and the sea lay the paddocks green with the fresh-
ness of spring, stretching in waving lines to the southward.
From the little orchard came the mingled scent of a stray
lemon blossom, the first small violets, and a scented verbena —
the meeting and mixing of two seasons in their perfume. In
the lingering purple blossoms of the solarium, which curtained
the verandah, a bumble bee buzzed drowsily, pretending it was
still summer, and a white butterfly came drifting by, as if there
were no such thing as winter in the world.

" There is only one thing to do to-day," we said, " We will
walk across the paddocks till we come to the bath in the rocks,
and there we will swim all day."

When autumn is in the air it is as easy to act as to think,
and in a very little while we passed through the white orchard
gate, and were out on the road with our faces set south. The
old stile, which led into the paddocks, was almost hidden
beneath the bracken and bramble, so lush have the wild things

78 BUSH DAYS

grown this year ; but we climbed over with only a scratched
wrist and a torn veil to tell of the struggle. And once inside
the hedge the way was clear. The little track across the grass
was just wide enough at first to wralk single file, for here again
the blackberries had overspread their bounds, and tried to keep
us back. A few luscious berries still hung upon their stalks,
and tempted us to stay awhile ; but the brambles could not
keep us long, for our faces were set seaward, and we knew the
joys that awaited us.

Xot that we hurried — oh, no. Who could hurry across a
paddock with grass so soft and springy to the tread? Briskly
we walked, just for the joy of swinging across the responsive
turf; but hurry, never. There was too much to see upon the
way. The field of sorghum up the hill waved its tasselled tops
to us in greeting ; red cows, knee-deep in the long grass of the
valley, turned their friendly white faces upon us as we passed ;
a grey pony, feeding in the shade of the sheoaks, threw back
his head and whinnied to us. Swallows circled round our
heads before they flashed ofif to dip into the pool ; and across
the paddocks the magpies chortled and gurgled as if they too
were glad we had come. Who could hurry from such friendly
greetings?

But the paddocks stretched ahead, and the swimming bath
was far to seek; so we left the stream and the shady she-oaks
behind, and went on up the hill and out into the open again. A
ground lark ran with twinkling feet before us, her striped

A HOLIDAY

79

brown body barely perceptible against the grass, and we
suspected a cosy nest hidden under one of the full green tufts.
Here and there a tall cabbage-tree lifted its quaint head into
the blue air, telling of the days when thick luscious brush
covered the land which now lies so clear and calm. Their

GROUNE-LARK AT NEST

loneliness struck a note of sadness, and we thought with a sigh
of the brave bush gone. But a little green frog hopped out of
the grass at our feet and made us laugh — and the cloud had
passed.

Do you know anything more fascinating than a little slim

80 BUSH DAYS

frog all gleaming green and yellow? I do not. And these
paddocks of ours were full of the little creatures, which darted
up every few yards and hopped away, looking at us with bright,
black eyes, or slipping quickly into the grass, where they were
lost from sight at once. The grass itself was in flower, and
the scent of its tiny blooms filled the sunny day. Here and
there a small bright blossom showed against the green — a tiny
yellow pea, or a wee pink star — but mostly it was just the
flower of the grass itself, pale green or dull purple, which gave
the autumn bloom to the paddocks. And over the grass, as if
in love with the humble flowers, flittered and fluttered the
butterflies. Of every shade and size they were — the big
" wanderer " of brilliant orange-brown, who loves all lands ;
the little one of pure gold, which looked like an embodied sun-
beam as it skimmed across the paddocks ; the tiny one of pale
mauve, which hung to the grass stalks like a sweet, frail violet ;
and the one of purest white, which hovered here and there
across the grass, then fluttered off up the wind like a wander-
ing thought.

Frogs and butterflies may seem a world apart, but out on
those scented paddocks in the sun and the breeze, they came
together as parts of the beautiful whole.

The waves boomed louder as we went forward, for now the
paddocks were curving out to the white beaches. The fences,
which stretched in soft dull lines across the green, were grow-
ing fewer, and the last boundary was a running stream, which

A HOLIDAY 81

rippled along over grey shingle, purling and sparkling in the
sunshine. A nimble-legged dottrel ran along the bank before
us, uttering his small, sharp note as he went ; he gained the
shelter of the shingle, and was at once lost to sight amongst
the grey stones which seemed to swallow him up. We looked
in vain for a while ; then saw him again as he left the stones
and showed up against the water. There was no bridge across
the stream, and no stepping stones ; so we followed the dottrel,
and went barefooted over the shingle, down the path of the
stream. And so at last we came to the sea itself.

There in the dark brown rocks lay the swimming-pool, like
a blue jewel beneath the midday sun. Xot a living creature
was in sight, except the cows in a distant paddock, and some
gulls resting on the rocks. The day was ours — sunshine.
breeze and water — all our very own, to loaf and play in as we
liked. And we seized it with both hands. In a very few
minutes we were standing on the rocks ready to plunge into
the sparkling, dancing water. The tide, which was still run-
ning out, had filled our bath afresh for us, and the water was
sharp and buoyant. In we plunged, splashing and laughing as
the fresh salt bit our skins ; and there for an hour or more we
stayed, swimming and diving for the big white shells, which
showed clearly at the bottom of the bath. The sun laughed
down upon us, the terns flew overhead, and the sea splashed
a fine shower of spray towards us now and then — all joining
in our happiness.

SEA-GULLS

A HOLIDAY 83

But there is no day will stand still, and the sun was work-
ing steadily westward.

" Just one more dive, and then for lunch," we said, and took
one, and yet one more leap into the laughing water.

But at last we were satisfied, and left the pool, tingling and
glowing, to find a grassy knoll where we could sit and rest,
and have our lunch. The old drift-wood was soon ablaze, and
the chops were soon a-sizzling. There is no meat in the world
that tastes like a chop grilled over a drift-wood fire, and eaten
with the smell of the sea in one's nostrils. And when you
have earned your lunch by a three-mile walk over paddocks,
and an hour-long swim in the sea, you need no other sauce.
Then after lunch to lie on the short, dry grass, with the sun
warming us, and the breeze fanning us, while we gazed, now
seaward, to the white-capped waves, now shoreward to the
purple hills, and the paddocks, shimmering in the afternoon
light — surely that were joy enough to still our voices, and
shed a silent mantle over us.

The cows, gathering towards the upper paddocks, told us
that it was milking-time — and time to go. So with a lingering
sigh we set our faces homeward — along the seashore this time,
where the wet sand made firm walking, and already the first
pink glow of evening was beginning to paint the white wave
crests.

There was a Child went forth
every Day

ROM the high crown of her
feathered hat to the broad
toes of her calf boots she
was " well groomed." Her
perfectly-fitting tailor-made,
her faultless white gloves, her
fashionably-dressed, brilliant-
ined head, with every hair in
place beneath a net, her smooth,
pink cheeks — all spoke of the
infinite care and time and
patience spent upon her toilet.
On her face was a look of

complete self-satisfaction, of utter content; but it was the
content of one to whom a good meal, a new dress, and a
reserved stall are the " summum bonum " of life.

The child who sat beside her was equally " well groomed."
The broad-brimmed, white felt hat, the coat of softest blue
cloth, the shining curls, all told of care and attention. But
the look of satisfaction on the mother's face was lacking in
the child's. The wide grey eyes, and sensitive red mouth
were hungry with the hunger of one who desires to know.

THERE WAS A CHILD WENT FORTH EVERY DAY 85

The mother's pale blue eyes were fixed in comfortable contem-
plation on the hat of the woman in the next seat. The eyes
of the child were pressed to the window-pane, gazing with
wide-open wonder at the passing scene.

Suddenly she turned to her mother with a little cry of joy :

" Oh, mother, mother, look at the beautiful blue flowers !
Look, look, mother; what are they?"

As her mother apparently did not hear, the child turned
back and craned her head to gaze once more at the blossoms,
now left far behind. But there were many more things to
hold her gaze, as the train rushed forward past trees and
paddocks : every few yards brought some fresh wonder to the
childish eyes; and ever and ever again she turned to her
mother with an eager little cry :

" Oh, mother, look at those big birds ! What are they,
mother?" Or else, "Mother, why are those sheep shut up in
that paddock?" Or again, "What are those men going to do
with that wood, mother?"

But whatever the question, however loud the voice and
eager the tone, the mother's eyes remained fixed in the same
placid contemplation of the hats in front of her. Either she
did not hear her little daughter's questions, or hearing, would
not heed.

At last, as if realising the hopelessness of response, the
little girl ceased her questions ; but, glueing her eyes more
closely to the pane, she gazed out at the passing scene, every

86

BUSH DAYS

GUM TRKES

THERE WAS A CHILD WENT FORTH EVERY DAY 87

now and then a little sigh of ecstasy or wonder escaping from
her delicately-parted lips.

The train began to slacken speed, and at last the mother's
eyes were turned from their hatward gaze. She looked round
at her little daughter, and straightened the child's hair.

" Come, Myra," she said, as the train slowed into the
station, and, gathering her sables round her, she walked out
of the carriage, still with the look of complete satisfaction on
her face.

For into her mind had entered no tiniest suspicion of the
golden chance she had missed.

Copper Tips

JHE coach sways from side to side as it rattles down the
mountain road, and the wheels crunch under the brake.
Then the corner is past, and the dangers that lie behind are
forgotten in the sight before us.

Rising up from the road in an almost perpendicular line is
the hillside, gleaming and radiant with a thousand young gum
trees.

Their new tips of deepest, brightest copper sway in the
afternoon breeze with a glitter that dazzles. Right up the hill
they go from base to summit, scintillating like a million
polished sovereigns, and behind them the tall mountain
glows soft and blue, heightening by contrast the glory of the
hill.

I hold my breath at their beauty, and forget to clutch the
seat bar.

" Are they always like that?" I ask the driver, when I can
find words.

" Which, miss?"

" Those gum trees on the hill. Are they always that
colour?"

" Yes, miss, they're always like that now ; pretty, ain't
they? But you should have seen them a few years ago, after
the bush fires. Thev weren't much to look at then. The

COPPER TIPS 89

fires came all down these hills and burnt out every man-jack
of them. There was nothing for miles but black bush. But
they do say that a good fire's the very best thing for the
trees — when it don't kill them/'

Then the driver attends to his horses, and I turn in my
seat, so as not to miss one glimpse of that gleaming slope.
And as I gaze the fullness of the splendour bursts upon m)
mind. It is not merely the passing beauty of spring that
glorifies these trees ; theirs is a beauty which is a joy
for ever, for it tells of dangers overcome, and indomitable
courage. They have been through the fire, and come forth
again, not cowed and conquered, but filled with new life and
glory. Their leaves and branches have been blackened, but
their brave hearts have withstood the flames.

And now the gleaming copper tips blaze out on the hill-
side, a glorious legend for all Australians — " Fire is the very
best thing for us all — when it doesn't kill."

And while the sap of courage runs high, fire never kills.

As I was going* to St. Ives

V MET — not " a man with seven wives " — but many other
^ things more pleasant to look upon, if not as exciting.

The path to St. Ives, as everyone knows, leaves the main
road with a sharp turn under the railway line; it dips at once
to a little creek, then up the hill again ; and thus the whole
way — down a valley and up a rise. But though the road
stretches white and inviting, with bush and orchards on either
side, we deserted it to-day, and travelled to St. Ives by a cross-
country route. It was not sheer perversity that made us leave
the high road ; we were driven from it by the stream of motor-
cars and their trailing clouds of dust. The road, which a few
years ago was a joy to the pedestrian — firm and smooth, and
easy to walk upon — has now been turned into a howling wilder-
ness by the " honk honk " of motors and their attendant dust
clouds. So we left the main road long before the corner where
the St. Ives road branches off, and set out to find our way as
the crow flies.

There is always an exciting flavour of adventure in setting
out on such a quest. The path may be quite well worn and
known to many, but if it is at all off the beaten track, and you
find it for yourself for the first time, it has all the joys of an
undiscovered countrv to you.

AS I WAS GOING TO ST. IVES 91

And when the path leads, as ours did, into a lovely gully
whose very existence is undreamed of, you know that it was
well worth while to leave the dusty high road. We had been
following a tame suburban street, with neat cottages and tidy
gardens on either side, when a sudden bend in the path
brought us, without any warning, to the edge of a gully as
green and wild as one would find in the heart of the mountains.
Sassafras and black wattle struggled together over the rush-
ing stream, maidenhair grew thickly under the cutty grass, the
young fronds of the herring-bone fern made little pink blushes
amongst the grey rocks, while over all bent the beautiful red-
gums. The road crossed the creek by means of a white
bridge, but the gully had hardly been disturbed by the builders.
It was a fascinating beginning to our walk, and we congratu-
lated ourselves in having ventured on a new way. And, as the
road led us up on the other side to a stretch of open country,
we felt quite superior to the stupid people who trudged along
in the dust and smell of the motor-cars. There was no dust
here, no smell of petrol to wrinkle up our noses with disgust;
but the autumn sun drew the fragrance from the gum leaves, a
little breeze came across the open space, gently laden with the
scent of orange blossom, and the real bush smell rose from the
ground as we crushed small plants beneath our feet. A fan-
tail flirted by us with a friendly flutter of her tail, and amongst
the trees a wagtail called in his cheery way — " Aren't you glad
you came here?" And, indeed, we were glad. A cuckoo

92 BUSH DAYS

tried to persuade us that we were not, but we took no notice
of his peevish wail, and were just as glad as glad could be.

THE EDGE OF THE GULLY

The scent of orange blossoms on the breeze told us that
we were on the right way ; for St. Ives is renowned for its

AS I WAS GOING TO ST. IVES 93

oranges, and the breeze was blowing- from that direction.
Some bits of yellow peel upon the path told their own tale, and
when a bend in the track brought us out on to the road again
we were not surprised to see and hear a group of boys. It was
indeed " hear " them, for the air was noisy with their shouts of
laughter. They were all busy tobogganing, and no travellers
to Kosciusko or the Alps ever enjoyed the pastime more. True,
there was neither snow nor sleds, but that didn't matter. They
had formed a track down the hill between cart ruts, and from
its neat appearance it was evident that they had spent the
morning sweeping it in preparation. The sled was just a
board fastened to the wheels of a lawn-mower ; but it was
good enough for these boys, and they crowded round to take
their turns each time it was dragged to the top. The track
was not a clear, straight line, but wandered from side to side,
as is the way with country lanes when they run down hill, and
it required some clever steering to keep the sled from running
into the ruts ; and if a boy less skilful than his fellows did not
keep it on its proper course, the spill which followed only
brought forth more shrieks of laughter.

They stopped their game as we passed, and we asked them
the nearest way to St. Ives. They all knew, and all answered
together, but there was a difference of opinion amongst them
as to whether it was quickest to " keep right along Plum-
street," or to go up the hill and on to the main road. Anyway,
we found we were going in the right direction, so, leaving them

94 BUSH DAYS

to settle between themselves which was the nearest way, we
passed up the lane and found Plum-street.

We did not hesitate long in our choice. Up on the left
was the high road, which we knew so well, but to the, right.
Plum-street, a grassy lane, ran down the gully between green,
green fields, and over the top, and away. A flock of peewees
flew across the paddocks, calling loudly 'k this-way, this-way,"
so that way we went, and a quarter of an hour's walk along
the grassy path and through the bush brought us out at the
foot of a long red lane, with orange orchards all along one
side. Little neat cottages with shining windows faced the
afternoon sun, and the golden balls gleamed amongst the
glossy leaves. On the opposite side of the road the big uncut
timber reared tall tops, and the rays of light came in long
shafts through the gum trees and the she-oak needles ; while a
couple of tip-carts, resting in wreek-end idleness at the side of
the road, made a little patch of blue against the red of the
earth and the green of the bush. Over the rise of the hill we
could see a group of pine trees which looked familiar, and as
we drew nearer we found that we were right at St. Ives itself,
and nearly at the end of our walk.

For our walk had an object this day — the object which
draws most people to the little old-world village. We were
in search of oranges, and there is no fruit so sweet and juicy
as the oranges picked from the trees at St. Ives. Perhaps the
name lends a flavour, and perhaps the walk in search of them

AS I WAS GOING TO ST. IVES 95

gives an added sweetness ; but these oranges of St. Ives are
worth going a long way to taste. So we walked through the
orchard and picked the yellow fruit, and ate it as we went,
without the aid of knives or plates ; and believe me, that is
the only way to get the best of an orange. Then we came
across some trees of Sevilles, and my housewifely soul turned
to thoughts of marmalade ; so we added a dozen of the pretty
things to our bag, and then made once more for the road and
home.

We chose the highway this time, for the gullies are dank
when the sun has left them. Far to the westward the trees
on the hilltops made a fine black etching against the topaz sky ;
to the east the tall timber stood behind the orchards;
away to the south glittered the lights of the city, twinkling
like brilliants in the clear air, and overhead the comet streamed
across the sky. The bag of oranges was heavy, and a good
six miles lay before us ; but our hearts were light, for the
motors had all gone home, and what is six miles on a silent,
starlit road?

The Gorgeous Gully

I KXOW a gully which would set a miser's heart aT
^ beating, for from end to end it is lined with purest gold.
Weeks ago the warm weather drove the wattles from our
bush, but " yellow-haired September " has brought in their
place a blaze of gold, before which the wattle pales into
insignificance — the gold of a million million pea-flowers.

The gully is long and steep, and the sides go up and up
by rocky ways; but the roughness is hidden beneath that
gleaming carpet, and the steep slopes only serve the better
to display its gorgeousness. Wherever you stand you look
up or down upon this yellow bed of blossom. The graceful
flower stems of the tall dillwynia floribunda wave towards
the stiff regal heads of the pultenea stipularis, till all are
mixed and mingled in a riotous confusion. Through the
sprawling branches of the scribbly gums the sunbeams come
dancing down, and are caught in the growing sunshine of
the flowers. Sometimes a big grey rock tries to frown upon
the scene, but the gay blossoms wave their arms before him
and hide his roughness. The bees do not frown, for they
love the honey-laden blossoms, and the air is heavy with
their drone. The spinebills love them, too, and dart hither
and thither, as if unable to choose where all is so desirable.
The little stream that goes singing down the valley bed

THE GORGEOUS GULLY 97

makes a mirror for the beauties here and there in a rocky
pool; and if it murmurs now and then at leaving- the flowers
in the upper slopes, it does not grumble long, for it is
hastening to fresh beauties in the lower gorge.

For the wealth of this valley seems inexhaustible, and
never has spring poured forth her treasures with so lavish
a hand. From the upper slope you look down across the
myriad yellow flower spikes to the lower vallev. where
amongst the deep soft green of the sassafras and water-gums
countless splashes of gold tell of the existence of still another
pea-flower (pultenea flexilis). This one is sweeter and more
graceful than its stately sister on the hillside, and spreads in
tall slender shrubs all over the creek bed, till the sun itself
seems to have slipped into the valley and lost its way.

And then, as if this wealth of gold were not enough, the
" flaunting extravagant queen " has spread the slopes beneath
the rocks with a carpet of the pale pink boronia. All amongst
the taller golden blossoms it grows, and if it cannot vie in
gorgeousness with them, its sweetness and delicacy give it a
charm of its own, unknown to the more flaunting flowers.
And down in the rocks of the creek itself great clumps of the
wild dog-rose (bauera rubioides) add an old-world note to
the scheme.

If you had to travel a hundred miles to see my gully I
am sure you would set off in your cars and carriages at once.

g8 BUSH DAYS

But as it is only a few miles from the city itself, and the little
creek runs down into Middle Harbour, you whiz past it,
and in searching farther afield for the beauties of the spring
you miss the loveliest spot in all the bush — my gorgeous gully.

The Sweet o9 the Year

j||WEET of sound and scent and sight, the sweetest month
^** of the year, sweet September. The world is full of
sweetness, the song of birds, the scent of flowers, and the open-
ing buds all joining in the eternal spring-song. In the garden
the little baby flowers are a-growing and a-blowing — pansies,
daisies, and the tiny banksia roses, have all come out to
enjoy the freshness of the world. Later on the more gorgeous
sisters will arrive in all their glory, but at present the smaller
blossoms bloom unrivalled. Over fences and arches hang
cascades of lilac glory where the wistaria reigns for a few brief
weeks ; shining red tips show where the new leaves have
sprouted out on the rose bushes, which but a month ago
were bald and clipped ; in the borders, primroses gleam against
soft leaves, almost compensating for the loss of the violets
which so lately enriched the edges with their sweetness ;
stocks and phlox, anemones and ranunculus, make brilliant
patches on green lawns, and beds of poppies hold their own
against all comers. The garden is an unending joy and a
bower of sweetness.

In the orchard are rows of trees all gaily decked in pink
and white. Near by, the soft, red blush tells where more
blossoms are waiting their turn to dazz1e the world
with beauty, while the tender green on the other trees

too BUSH DAYS

speaks of blossoming done, and the approach of an early
harvest.

But sweet though garden and orchard are, it is out in the
bush that September has been most bountiful. Every tree
and shrub and little weed is clothed in beauty. On the
heathlands the wealth of sweetness is bewildering to the
senses. Tall bushes of the lemon-coloured phebalium scent
the air with a citron perfume ; beneath them the prickly, white
leucopogon sheds a nutty odour, softening the aromatic harsh-
ness of the native roses which start up from the sand all
round. Beneath the shelter of the taller bushes a sister
boronia flourishes finely, and sends up masses of bright pink
flowers through the branches of the protecting bush. Pink
is the order of the day — where gold does not prevail. The
eriostemons — daintest perhaps of all the spring blossoms —
are showing masses of pink stars amongst the rocks and sand;
tall sprays of the pink epacris stand in regiments amongst
the green tea-trees, and wherever the land dips down to a
hollow, sprengelia spreads a rosy carpet over the marshy
places. On the uplands the woolly buds of the dwarf apple
are flushed to a deep crimson with pleasure at the knowledge
of the creamy blossoms they will soon unfold — blossoms
which will intoxicate the bees by their wealth of sweetness.

In some places the reign of the pink is disputed by the
yellow, where the dillwynia, pultenia, bossiaea and many
others wave golden blossoms which dance and flutter on the

THE SWEET O' THE YEAR

breeze like a thousand tiny
butterflies. At times the
gold stands out in bright
relief against some vivid
green, at times melts feel-
ingly into the soft brown
tints of the neighbouring
she-oaks; but always it
catches the eye with its
intensity and brings the
sunshiny feeling to the
heart.

The flannel flowers are not
yet properly opened, though
here and there a white star
flower gleams out. In the
half-blown buds little bright
beetles rest snugly, nestling-
down on to the soft woolly
bed with its velvet cover-
let. There never was a
sweeter, cosier cradle than
the half-shut bud of a
flannel flower, and they are
happy beetles that rest
thereon.

Tall sprays of pink epacris

102 BUSH DAYS

But sweeter far than blossoms, or buds, or beetles, are the
birds. The air is rilled with their sweetness, the liquid note
of one honey-eater, the sharp call of another, the ringing cry
of a thrush, the clear bright call of a thickhead, the sweet
dropping notes of the native canary — they rill the land with
joy and melody, and by their swift and joyous flight they
seem to bring the world a little nearer heaven.

But sweeter even than their songs is the sight of the
baby birds. Of all the treasures that spring brings, there is
nothing more entrancing than the sight of a dainty bird's
nest, swung like a cradle on the twigs of a young sapling,
or rocking gently to and fro in the soft breeze, while within
two tiny nestlings snuggle together, or peep little inquisitive
faces over the edge into the big new world.

In their very earliest stages they are not always things
of beauty, these baby birds. They are blind, and all their
covering is a few tufts of thin down, and the greatest part of
them seems to be a huge yellow mouth, which they hold up
insistently to be filled. But a week changes all that, and the
little feather buds which follow on the down, throw off their
sheaths, and the ugly, squirming little object is transformed
into a soft ball of downy feathers, a stage at which all young
birds are wholly delightful.

Baby birds are easily seen. They have not learned
caution, and sing for their supper all through the day, reckless
of all the speering bodies who may be about. One has only

THE SWEET O' THE YEAR 103

to follow the gentle sound of their peckings, and they are
soon apparent, perching in some low sapling. Their parents
fly busily about them, and utter sharp warnings to them to

Swung like a cradle
YELLOW-TUFTED HONEY-EATER

be quiet, when the cracking of a twig tells of an intruder.
All birds have special warning notes for their young. The

104 BUSH DAYS

yellowbob says, " chut, chut." The coachwhip has a funny
throaty note quite different to her ordinary ringing call ; the
wagtail and the Jacky Winter both chatter angrily; the little
fantail utters a single note, sharper than her usual squeaky
warble, and so on. And the baby birds obey immediately,
and are dumb. But, like little boys and girls, they cannot
be quiet long; and if they hear no noise themselves, their
chirping soon breaks out again, and their little voices add a
new fresh note — the note of young lives — to the sweet spring-
song.

On the Reef

was Anniversary Day, and all the
world seemed to be going out to enjoy
itself. Boats and trams and trains
were laden with throngs of holiday-
makers, girls in shady hats and white
dresses, young men in light summer
suits, children and parents all in
holiday garb, and all wending their
way to the races, the cricket match,
the regatta, or to the sunny beaches
and the white-foamed breakers The

bluest of blue skies looked down on the bluest of blue seas,
scarcely rippled as yet by the light north-easter. White sails
of every size drifted slowly over the harbour's face, on their
way to the starting line. Flags waved from pole and mast in a
hundred shades and shapes, and from the excursion boats the
music of band and violin floated across the sunny day. It was
such a holiday as only Sydney knows — a day when young and
old join in their pleasure, and Nature herself seems bent on
celebrating the great occasion.

But though I love a good-natured happy-go-lucky holiday
crowd, a whole day spent amongst the noise and excitement
tires; the languor of the late summer was in my blood, and I

106 BUSH DAYS

felt that to mix and mingle with the moving crowd would be
a weariness to flesh and spirit. I loved to see them enjoying
their holiday in their own way, but I wanted to enjoy my
holiday in mine — and mine was a quieter and more peaceful
way.

" Let us go out to the Reef," I said, " There we are sure
to find quietness."

So to the Reef we went ; out from the village by the tram
which leads to the northern end of the beach; over the hill,
and through the Camp City on the other side, by a grass grown
track to the third beach ; across another cliff path more rugged
than before, along still another beach, and at last to the Reef
itself.

Have you ever spent an hour on a reef when the tide is
out? Have you paddled about amongst the fairy pools, and
watched the little fishes dart through the weeds, or the old
crabs scuttle away into the crevices? Have you seen the sea
anemones bloom in their own sea gardens, and watched the
star-fish gleaming beneath on the pale, clear sand? If you
haven't done all this — even at the risk of scratched feet and
draggled skirts — then you have missed a lot of the joy of
living. You may be absolutely ignorant of the wild life that
exists there, you may not know a limpet from a tadpole ; but
if you give youself up to it, the charm of the reef will fold you
and hold you with a powrer too subtle for words. And if you
have the tiniest knowledge of the wonders to be found amongst

ON THE REEF 107

the rocks, every step you take, every little pool, wilJ reveal
fresh treasures.

The tide was not at its best when we reached the reef, but
it was still low enough for us to spend a couple of hours among
the pools. Our walking boots were quickly changed for sand-
shoes, brought for the purpose, for the coralline growth on the
rocks is very cruel to tender feet. My short skirts were
shortened still further, and then we were ready for the fray.

If you go into the bush to watch the birds, or gather the
flowers, you often spend a whole afternoon in a fruitless quest.
If you go to collect shells on the beach, you often find it as
bare as if

" Seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year "

but on a reef you are never disappointed. There is always
something to be found among the rocky pools, some treasure
to be unearthed by the turning of a stone.

And this day was no exception. On the side of the rocks,
well below high-water mark, we found some rare and beautiful
chitons. The chiton, it might be explained to the uninitiated,
is that fiat shell beastie which every one has seen clinging to
the rocks at low tide, and whose shell is not in one solid piece
like the limpet's, but is a series of overlapping plates encircled
by a girdle. These beasties are often possessed of exquisite
sculpture in their shells, and when seen beneath the water are
radiant in colouring, although, like most seaborn things,

ioS BUSH DAYS

their beauty soon fades when carried away from their natural
surroundings. Across the sandy bottom of one pool a sea hare
was travelling. His bright yellow skin gleamed through the
shallow water as he dragged himself forward by a series of
curves, and a weird little creature he looked with his funny
long ears and crouched up body.

In almost every pool were to be seen the little soft molluscs
which have no shells, their varying hues of mauve, pink, lilac,
red, yellow, and brown glowing softly under the water. In
one pool, bigger and deeper than the rest, a tiny octopus lurked
amongst the weed ; he was no bigger than the palm of my
hand, and in colour of the loveliest indigo blue and black
With his little tentacles waving softly he certainly didn't look
as if he could do any harm, and as he never grows any bigger
he probably would not. Through the same pool darted some
old friends — the toadfish, or " toad-oes " of our childhood ;
quaint little chaps they are with their speckled brown and
white skins, and stumpy tails. They looked so happy in their
quiet home, that we were glad there were no small boys about
to disturb their peace ; for boys have a most horrid habit about
these little fish. They catch them and roll them with their
feet on the rocks, until the poor little creatures swrell out like
a balloon ; then the young savages — for boys are nothing else —
throw their victims at a rock, where they burst. Fortunately
there were no young monsters on our reef, so the toad-oes
swam in peace in the sunny water. Little crested rock-fish

ON THE REEF 109

moved about in the rock basins, too, and with their fern-like
fins and their skins of grey and brown and green it was hard
to pick them out from the seaweed. Down at the sea's edge
grew the cunjeboy, brown and red, upon the rocks. Everyone
knows what a fascinating squirt it has when it is touched, but
few realize it is a living creature. From a crevice in the rocks
a green eel poked his little sharp head out from the weeds ;
he also is an easy prey to the small boy, who, when he goes a-
hunting, pokes a stick into the water, at which the eel snaps
angrily and so is caught.

Then there were many, many shells, periwinkles, whelks,
tritons, Venus ears, all alive, and moving here and there
There were hermit crabs and sea-urchins, worms and other
strange sea-creatures that have none but long scientific names.

But its shells and fishes were not the Reefs only charms
this day. Strutting about on the outer edge were two black
birds with deep orange bills and legs. They were sooty
oyster-catchers in search of their lunch. They poked about
amongst the oyster beds, and whenever they caught an oyster
napping the strong flat bill was quickly prized between the
shells, and the occupant was taken out. This bill, flat like a
pair of scissors, is particularly suited for the work, and the
oyster has no chance once it is inside the shell.

Through the green clear waves just off the Reef came dart-
ing shorewards a shoal of big fish — kingfish we thought. Just
one glimpse of them we caught as they flashed forward, then

no BUSH DAYS

they disappeared into the darker depths. Then over the water,
splashing and dashing, came a school of porpoises in holiday
mood ; some darted rapidly through the sea, others rolled over
lazily in the still water, but one and all seemed to be enjoying
the day to the utmost. On the surface of the water, not far
from the rocks, sat a mutton-bird fast asleep. Up and down
he floated, riding dry and secure above every wave. We
watched him for a long time, as he drifted quietly southwards,
a rusty brown-grey speck on the green waves, until he was
lost to sight in the distance.

Then, while \ve wrere eating our lunch, came sailing up four
beautiful grey birds. " Reef herons," we whispered excitedly,
and kept very still for fear of frightening them. But they
took no notice of us. For they, too, were intent on lunch, and
swept gracefully down on to the Reef. We had seen the birds
before, just odd ones sailing along off shore, as wre had stood
on the top of some cliff; but to find them here, quite close and
quiet, and a wrhole four of them, was indeed a bit of luck. For
nearly an hour the four beauties stalked about the Reef, feed-
ing on the many crustaceans, and we were able to admire them
to our hearts' content. At last something seemed to frighten
them, and all four rose suddenly and swept away northwards .

But they did not leave us lonely. A flock of gannets had
come flying up from the south, and we watched them feeding
about half a mile from the shore. Evidently it was a regular
restaurant, for the birds stayed in one spot, diving again and

ON THE REEF

NEST OF SOOTY OYSTER-CATCHER

H2 BUSH DAYS

again after their fish lunch. There is something extra-
ordinarily fascinating in a feeding flock of gannets. High up
they fly, white specks against the blue sky ; then, with folded
wings, they drop, beak first, straight into the sea with a splash
that can be seen a mile away. For hours the birds were feed-
ing, and the supply of fish seemed to be endless, for as the
time passed, more and more birds joined the feeding throng;
and, mingled with the gannets, the black-capped terns, those
graceful swallow-like birds, also dived and caught their prey.
But the afternoon was wearing on. The Reef was almost
hidden now by the tide, and the walk back was a long one.
So we set our faces homewards. Back along the beaches, now
rosy in the setting sunlight, over the cliffs and away we
tramped, happy and healthily tired. \Ye carried no specimen
bag; we had left our treasures where we found them — "' AYith
the wind and the waves and the sea's uproar " ; but in our
hearts we carried the magic memory of a golden day.

The Snow Bush

1 T is no wonder that the red gums rear their heads so proudly,
^ no wonder that they blush a rosy pink with pleasure ; for in
the early spring they are the guardians of the most fascinating
parts of all the bush. They do not crowd together as some
trees do, but leave wide, open spaces beneath their branches,
where the smaller things can grow in freedom. And grow
they do, with a will and a vigour that tell of the rich bounty
of the good brown earth.

Here and there a young turpentine sends up his head, or
a she-oak turns a thousand dew-wet needles to the morning
sun, while every now and then a clump of young gum
suckers gleams a rosy red. But the chief joys of the red gums,
the treasure which they guard so proudly, is the snow-bush.
All the open spaces beneath their boughs are white with its
blossoms; a thousand thousand tiny snowy daisies shine from
every bush. Sometimes they form a small, almost solid white
mass, a foot or so from the ground ; sometimes the bushes
stand tall above your head, their long graceful sprays waving
gently as you pass. Their delicate fragrance, of a honey-
sweetness, floats on the clear air, and it is little wonder that
the bees drone drowsily amongst the blossoms.

For weeks past the bush has been a-gleam with these white
flowerets. Close beside them grows the little myrtle-leafed

H4 BUSH DAYS

\vattle, with its rosy buds and fluffy cream balls; but exquisite
as it is. it has to take second place to the snow-bush. Its

UNDER THE RED GUMS

botanic name, more suited than most names, denotes its right
to shine supreme above its neighbours — Aster ramulosus it

THE SNOW BUSH 115

is called, and its million stars make a " milky way " beneath
the trees. It belongs to the same big- family as the Michael-
mas daisy and the China aster, and can hold its own beside
them both. There are few bush flowers that look so sweet
in the house, and if you can put it into water soon after it
is plucked, it will last for a couple of weeks, and bring the
spirit of spring into your rooms.

It has dozens of
relations throughout
Australia, and some
botanists call them
olearia, instead of
aster. But. soft and
pretty as the other
name is, " aster " is
a more fitting title
for our snow-bush
which, with its million
gleaming stars, covers
the bush during July
and August, and
makes the red gums
glow with pleasure.

SNOW BUSH TASTER RAMULOSUS)

Autumn Jewels

[ESTERDAY it rained all day, but this morning the sun
rose up in a sky that knew no clouds. Not even a white
fleck remains to tell of the big grey clumps which lowered
angrily a few short hours ago. But the soft, sweet rain has
left its mark on tree and grass and garden bed. The paddock
across the road is gleaming like a jewelled carpet, the bracken
holds a million gems in its graceful fronds, the young gum
suckers wave their ruby tips towards the emerald of the
sheltered shrubs beyond. At the far end of the clearing
where the tall trees are growing, diamonds and pearls glow
and glisten on a myriad leaves of blue gum, turpentine and
slender she-oak. They are held in a setting of silver, when
the long grey branches of the gums enfold them, or in the
deeper-hued platinum when the turpentines and she-oaks make
the background; and no nimble-fingered jeweller ever yet
worked such a magic tracer}- as those wild bush trees. From
amongst their upright trunks come more jewels; the mite-
like notes of the magpie carolling in the crisp air, fall like
softly dropping pearls upon the autumn day ; high in the tree
tops the Jacky Winter sends his sweet, round voice across the
morning; his song is daily growing fuller and longer as his
beloved cold weather draws near. In amongst the saplings
and grasses two tomtits are sending forth a trickle of soft

AUTUMN JEWELS

117

NEST AND KGGS OF BUTCHER BIRD J'R-

n8 BUSH DAYS

music; as they flit about, the sunbeams catch their yellow
backs, and the world is the richer for two discs of purest gold.

A group of little tree runners have just come flying fussily
across the road and are now busily engaged in clearing my
side fence of insects ; as they move along, head downwards,
and fly from spot to spot the sun catches the orange band
across their wings, and they look like some rare Oriental
gems against the dull brown of the palings. Now a razor-
grinder has come to join them, uttering his quaint grinding
note, as if he were filing the gems.

Up on the hillside an autumn orchard stretches in beauty,
with a wealth of precious stones; the red leaves of the per-
simmons burn like fiery opals, and the late apples, filled with
" ripeness to the core," blush like tourmalines amongst their
green leaves, while here and there a solitary quince shines
out like a yellow sapphire from its silver setting. And from
the orchard come the rarest jewels of all — the full, round,
ringing notes of the butcher birds. Free from the domestic
duties which keep them in the valley during the summer, they
are now to be heard each day singing amongst the trees, and
springs holds no sweeter melodies. On the fresh morning air
their song comes with a richness that only autumn gives. It
tells of " mellow fruitfulness," of deeds accomplished, of a
happy harvest ; and as I listen, the words of the sweetest of
sweet singers come as a soft accompaniment to the bird's song :

' Wh
Thi

here are the Songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
ink not of them, thou hast thy music too."

Nature and the
Materialist

DON'T see what you get out of this
nature study," said the materialistic
one, helping herself a second time to
strawberries, and emptying half the
cream-jug on to them. " Of course
it's very pretty and romantic, this
caring for flowers and birds and
creepy things, but what do you get
out of it?"

" Nothing to eat or drink," I
murmured, with an eye on her
piled-tip plate.

" No, nor much to wear, I should say," she retorted, with
a glance at my washed-out holland.

I laughe.d. 4< Holland's a good colour for the bush ; it
doesn't show the 'stains when you crouch under a low bush
and squat on the ground."

" Ugh, and have things crawling up your sleeves and down
your neck. I know."

I looked at her pink, slightly puffed cheeks, her round,
clear, rather colourless grey eyes, her grey hair brushed
smartly up over a frame — and wondered if she did know. I

120 BUSH DAYS

could not imagine that placid face and immaculate head poking
through bushes and prickly undergrowth. I looked at her
slightly over-plump figure, well laced in, and erect in its most
correct gown of grey muslin. Xo, that was not the figure
for creeping stealthily through bush and scrub, for hiding
behind trees, or flattening on to the ground. It was the face
and the figure of one wrhose interest in botany would travel no
farther than a ripe, juicy peach or a strawberry plant, and to
whom the only birds that mattered were a fat goose or plump
young duckling.

I pushed the strawberries again towards her, and said, " Oh.
it just amuses me."

For how could one ever hope to explain to that placid, well-
fed person the joy of the bush. How could she be expected
to know the delight of rising with the rising sun to listen to
the world's great morning song, to know the thrill that comes
at the sound of the first nesting note, the tense excitement of
creeping, creeping quietly and stealthily through shrubs and
bushes to peep into the nest of some new bird friend? How
could she know the rush of pleasure which floods one's being
at the sight of the first spring orchid, or the scent of the first
spring bloom?

And how could one ever hope to explain to the owner of
those clear, colourless eyes, the peace that wraps one round
under the shade of the big gums and turpentines, or the feel-
ing of content that creeps into one's heart at the sighing song

NATURE AND THE MATERIALIST

of the leaves? Gladly
would she pay a guinea
to hear the singer of world-
wide advertisement ; but
the song of the bush is
free — and worthless. Those
not-too-well-shaped ears,
with their little diamond
rings, were never made to
listen to the gentle conver-
sation of the bush ; to her
it would bring no soothing
balm after the sting of
human tongues. She

would never know the
comfort to be had from
laying one's hot, angry
cheek on the cool grass of
some shady gully. When
the world had lost its
savour, the dash of the
cold sea spray could not
bring back to her the salt
and sweet of life. The
racing wind only blew
her hair out of place, and

The nest of a new bird friend
LARGE-BILLED SCRUB-WREN

122 BUSH DAYS

made her irritable ; it had no power to blow all dark thoughts
and phantoms from the corners of her mind.

But then, of course, her mind had no corners. It was
round and sleek like her body. Walled in by a narrow little
circle of things to eat and drink and wear and buy, how could
it ever reach out to the vast illimitable spaces? How could
she ever understand what you " get out of this nature fad?"

So I passed her the cream, turned the talk to the new
summer hats, and left her to the enjoyment of the things that
she could grasp.

Along a Garden Avenue

1 TS name is more suitable than names generally are, for,
though on one side it faces an open reserve and looks away
to the river, on the other it is bordered by garden after garden,
each with its different wealth of beauty. Black painted fences
succeed grey stone walls, white palings join red brick, and
over and above all grow hedges of hawthorn, privet and laurel,
with here and there an intruding briar to lend sweetness and
colour. Jealously these hedges hide the beauties behind them ;
but the unfettered scents of lilies, mignonette and roses float
over, bringing me a picture of white lilies and standard roses,
and of stiff box hedges surrounding beds of tall pink foxgloves,
Canterbury bells and pansies — for they must be old-fashioned,
those gardens hiding behind the tall straight hedges.

But, though the flowers are sheltered from prying eyes
there are treasures within the gardens that the hedges cannot
hide — and these are the trees. Oaks and elms, willows and
limes, ashes and sycamores — they lean out above the sentinels
of hawthorn and laurel, and throw their friendly shade across
the avenue. The eye revels in their beauty, and their very
names are a joy, each one laden with a message of old time
song or story. The black branches of the spreading oak rouse
stirring memories of brave deeds ; the sycamore recalls sweet
Desdemona ; " hard by a poplar shook alway," and a group of

i24 BUSH DAYS

sweet-scented limes are fragrant with memories of Heine
Each tree has its charm of romance and the soul should be
soothed and satisfied. Yet a vague unrest stirs within me, a
feeling of incompleteness which I cannot understand. Then
I turn a bend in the avenue and know what was missing.

Before me, rearing its splendid head above all others, stands
a gum tree. Covered with blossom, it is a mine of sweetness
to the hundreds of honey-eaters which are noisily feeding
amongst its branches. In this Garden Avenue, stocked with
trees and fowers from far-off climes, the gum tree, with its
honey-eaters, stands out in bold relief, fresh and strong and
free. Its tall, slim trunk rises above the tallest oak, and its
branches stretch proudly skywrards, as if to leave below the
thought, that here in its own land, it is a stranger amongst
strangers.

But to an Australian heart it fills a want that no trees of
old romance can satisfy. It does not send its branches across
the road to gossip with each passer-by, but it lifts its head
regally toward heaven, and speaks, not of a by-gone glory, not
of old song and story, but of a golden future to be. It tells
of a land where battles are bravely fought ; where courageous
hearts have won their way through drought and flood ; where
men have struggled hand to hand with Nature herself, and
conquered. It is rn emblem of the nation to be, strong, fear-
less and erect, living ro longer in the stories of the past, but
carving its owrn history through the unknown future.

ALONG A GARDEN AVENUE 125

And I pass along my way, glad with the knowledge that
beyond the narrow sweetness of the Garden Avenue there are
myriads of tall gum trees telling the same brave lesson to all
who will hear.

The First Daffodil

JHE year is full of joyful emotions and surprises to the
flower lover and grower, but of all the sensations that
a garden brings there is none quite like the joy of seeing one's
first daffodil for the first time. Daffodil growers are ad-
mittedly " daft " ; roses, dahlias, carnations and stocks all have
their devotees, but none have their lovers in such complete
subjection as the daffodil. The real daffodil-slave grudges
no time or thought or money given to his darling; it is all
poured out lavishly for the very best cause.

But, though the old admirer runs through the gamut of
delicious sensations every season, he never again experiences
just the same thrill as he felt when his first daffodil opened
her golden glory to the world. And, though the old grower
can count his treasures by the score, the latest comer has one
gem which he can never know again.

From the moment the little jagged crack runs across the
brown earth, and the tiny green spear shows its tip, the excite-
ment begins. Every morning the garden bed is carefully
scanned for more cracks, and the sight of each fresh tip gives
a new thrill. Every day the height of the first little spear is
noted ,and calculations are made as to how long it will be
before it is really " up." The days are no longer marked as
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, but as " the day when the

THE FIRST DAFFODIL 127

daffodil came up." With gentle impatience the gardener
watches the tiny spear shoot higher and higher, till, followed
by others, it has grown into a tall group of spears ; then one
morning it is found that the spears are parting and up from
their centre is gently pushing that most fascinating thing^ in
the whole world — a baby bud.

Now, indeed, the excitement really begins. " What will
it be?" is the question. " Long trumpet or short? Emperor
or Sir Watkin?" Not that it really matters, for whatever its
shape or size it will still be a daffodil. And so the ga'rdener
waits and watches, and by degrees the little bud comes farther
and farther into the sunshine ; the soft, fine sheath holds tightly
round the cnrled-in petals, as though loth to loosen its treasure ;
but the petals inside have felt the sun's kiss, and are striving
to reach the sunbeams, so the soft sheath stretches and
stretches its arms in vain ; the petals are too eager for it, and
push it away with all their might, till one morning the sheath
finds it is overpowered and gives way graciously. Slowly it
draws back and makes room ; and shyly, now that they have
really had their way, the silky petals uncurl, and shake their
crumples out in the breeze.

And the gardener, who has been anxiously watching the
friendly contest between sheath and petals for some days,
comes out very early that morning to find that the earth is
beautified by one new treasure, and a golden jewel is waving
across the grey-green of his flower-bed, From that moment

128 BUSH DAYS

his subjugation is complete, and he is bound hard and fast
by the fascination of the lady in the " frock of Lincoln green."
Her very name is full of charm. Shakespeare told us that
a rose might change her name and be as sweet, but he knew
that there was no other word could half describe the beauty of
the

" Daffodils

That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty."

Herrick knew it, too, and Spenser and Drayton and AYords-
worth, and all the poets and lovers that have ever been.
*' Daff-o-dil !" It is as softly sweet as the ringing of the
flower's own golden bell. It is as full of grace and stateliness
as rose or dahlia, yet can be as lovable and intimate as a daisy
in its homely guise of " daff-a-down-dilly/'

Soon the flowers will be with us in myriads, and our eyes
will feast upon them in masses in the flower-sellers' baskets,
or in golden clumps,

" Beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze."

But, though our hearts will rejoice in their beauty, and our
arms will be greedy to embrace them, there will never again
be just the same delicious joy that we felt when the silken
sheath gave way, and the golden trumpet of our first daffodil
sounded the opening note of the spring song.

Lapping* up the Stars

?6If|kON'T you think it is rather risky," said Mr. Worldly-
^^ Wiseman, " to throw up a fixed income for the sake
of something so uncertain?"

The Enthusiast's eyes sparkled. " I would rather earn a
shilling a day at the thing that's worth while, than a thousand
a year grubbing at work I loathe for people I despise."

" A shilling a day will hardly pay for crusts," said the elder,
dryly.

" But it will leave me the illusion of lapping up the stars,"
retorted the Enthusiast.

" And very little else ! Still, if you prefer stars to
sovereigns — well, it's your own life!"

" Yes, and the only one I'm sure of, so I mean to make
the most of it ; and piling sovereigns is a very poor occupation
for a lifetime. There's better gold than that to be had for
the taking."

" Perhaps you're right," with a most unworldly touch of
wistfulness. Then, with a shrug, " but I prefer the sovereigns
myself; they're tangible."

The conversation was finished ; Mr. Worldly-Wiseman had
pronounced the final judgment, had spoken the last grown-up
word on the subject. "They're tangible" — therefore desir-
able and comprehensible ; they can be touched and counted,

130 BUSH DAYS

saved and spent ; they are something that everyone can under-
stand and value. But this business of stars — well, leave it
for dreamers and poets; it's a harmless fad. And the
Enthusiast, with a laugh of good-natured scorn for the man
whose mind could not soar beyond the spending power of a
sovereign, went on his way with the whole wide world before
him.

What mattered it to him if the gleam ahead should never
turn into solid sovereigns; gold is not the only thing that
glitters. Age would have us believe so, but youth knows
better. For youth and enthusiasm together there are worlds
to be conquered whose very existence is undreamed of by the
worldly-wise. " Give me," says Age, " a fine house, a warm
coat, a big banking account, a motor car, and a good cook,
and I ask nothing more."

But Youth laughs, and demands a cause to champion, a
road to tramp, the scent of the grass, the song of the wind,
and the light of the stars, and Age can have the rest.

So it has been from the beginning and so it will be while
there are trees for the wind to whistle through, or stars to
shine on summer nights. And happy it is that things should
be so, and bad and sad indeed the day when Youth is content
to give up the ideal for the real.

Yet every day the pressure of Age is greater to force out
of life all that is beautiful and desirable. " Let us be
practical," cry the grown-ups. " There is no place, no time

LAPPING UP THE STARS 131

for dreaming." And Youth is dragged from his star-gazing
to learn bookkeeping; the poems are snatched from his hands
to make place for the ledger. Ideals are all very well for
poets, he is told, but there is no room for them in the business
world. He must give up dreaming now, and become a man
of common sense. They stuff his ears with business plati-
tudes, so that he may not hear the song of the wind; they
dazzle his eyes with electric lamps, so that he may not gaze
at the stars; they tell him that motor cars are better than
his own strong feet, so that he may think no more of the long
red road. And when they have robbed him of all that made
youth beautiful, and bound him tight with their cruel bonds,
they smile with satisfaction and say, " Ah, here is a sensible,
clever young fellow ; he will make his way — he will be a rich
man."

And not for one moment do they dream that they are
digging at the very foundation of all they most dearly prize.
It is the dreamer, the idealist, who through history has opened
the way for the man of action. It was the spirit of romance
and adventure that sent the old navigators out into unknown
seas — and they steered by the stars. It was the boy who sat
idly watching the kettle boil who gave us our railroads and
ocean liners ; it was the idealists who abolished slavery, and
who gave us the laws which guard and protect us. It is the
dreamer who coaxes from nature the secrets which fill the
coffers of the worldly-wise ; the man of action follows quickly

132 BUSH DAYS

and seizes the opportunity, but the way has been opened by
the man of dreams. Mr. Worldly-Wiseman, blind in his own
conceit, gives no heed to the seer who has opened up the way.
or else pushes him aside as a foolish fellow who does not
know how to use his opportunities. Or, unkindest cut of all,
he drags the dreamer's head down from the clouds, and claps
on it the silk hat of business commonplace.

But— -and happy for the world that it is so — despite all efforts
to bring the whole world into the kingdom of commerce,
where gold is the only sovereign, there are still to be found
foolish young men and women who cast aside the fleshpots,
turn their backs on cheque-books, and motor cars, and, like
dog Patou, prefer to follow the shepherd with a single crust
in his wallet, so long as they keep '* the illusion of lapping
up the stars."

Printed by W. C. Penfold & Co., 183 Pitt Street, Sydney

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