OLD BILL

Evening Star, Issue 19276, 15 June 1926, Page 8

OLD BILL

In a drowsy valley on the upper reaches of the Paterson River (New South Wales) lives “ Old Rill,” a veteran sailor. They talked of him in tho township, and how he hail found sanctuary among tho undulating hills far from men’s haunts, and how glad he was to shelter anyone who sought serenity. That is how, a. visitor to him came to he on horseback ambling over tho hills one summer's morning a week before Christmas. The sun had not yet risen and fragrant bush scents drifted ou the fresh breeze that heralded the sunrise. There was a delicately wild aroma from tho native roses—those pretty little ladies in pink who always seem to ho ou the verge of stopping out to do a minuet; the late blooming wattles sent a, kiss through tho air; a suspicion of scent came from the glowing scarlet Christinas hush. Occasionally all mingled with the faint odors of tho tiny wild flowers hiding in the grass, making a spuiphony in scent as different Irom other flower scents as a water color by a master in delicacy is from a florid oil painting. The shy dog violets turned their faces upwards as I rede into a deep gully. The trees grew taller and tho undergrowth closed in. All around was the mysterious scuttling of wild creatures. A wallaby broke from cover, hopped a great moss-covered tree, and disappeared. The brush of a fox whisked past. The , Diamond Sparrows strutted about like stout little gentlemen in frock coats, and their plaintive calls harmonised with the sad spirit of the bush. It grew darker and darker, until, suddenly, the gully twisted and there was revealed the colorful kaleidoscope of “Bill’s” garden. In the background was a, deep green river, girt bv weeping willows, and against it a dozen bright colors flashed—the red of ripe pomegranates, the yellow of ripening bananas, the rosy tints of apples which heavily burdened picturesquely twisted branches, the deeper green of orange trees among whose while blossoms tho bees hummed drowsily. All over the little flat, strangely hewed ornamental shrubs inextricably mixed with vegetables and flowers, water melons, and strawberry plants around a plum tree with its royal purple fruit. There was even a walnut tree in that luxurious disorder.

On one side of the patch a tiny stream trickled from the month of the gully wound round through leafy bowers past a quaint shack, and on to the river. Half of the shack was covered by passion fruit vinos, with their saucer-shaped flowers and brown and green fruit. Under a wild cherry tree a few fat chickens scratched, and near by grazed a cow on whoso back hopped that cheeky little bird, friend of all the world, the Willy Willy Wagtail. From afar there came the hum of the cicadas, and occasionally the sharp report of the whip bird echoed and re-echoed down the river. “Old Bill” rolled to tho slip rails, bright eyes beaming welcome from his walnut-stained face. Ho took tho bridle and saddle off the horse. “Let him go,” ho said when asked if the horse would not eat the vegetables. “ Plenty more’ll grow,” he chuckled. Showing his guest round, the inevitable Australian gesture of hospitality, he explained that the bananas never came to much as it was too far south. They and the pomegranates “ just growed theirsclvos,” but he had planted all the grapo vinos along tho bank. He pointed out the white and black hunches of fruit, the muscatels, and the lady’s fingers. He showed mo where ho grow his own cotton. “ I just put iu anything,” he said. “ I send to Sydney for ’em. I’m a beggar to send to Sydney for things. Half the time 1 don’t know what they arc. Those hushes there, thev’ro icthy something. I’ll know when they got bigger, mavhe.” He said he did not bother to sell anything, but if anyone happened along they could help themselves. “ I’ve gob all I want,” he said. He dismissed the cow with a gesture. “Just use a bit of milk and tip the rest out,” ho explained. Around tho shack everything was as neat as tho ships on which he had worked so long. Halters and ropes were neatly coiled and hung. He had tied dried herbs, seeds, and a hundred other odds and ends into neat bundles and made wall adornmerits of them. The shack was built by himself, but he was_ prouder of Id’s Goolgardie safe, or ice box, an idea ho had picked up on the goldfields of West Australia in bis youth. It was a wooden frame covered in sacking, with a bowl of water on top. A piece of flannel conducted the wafer to the sacking, and it automatically spread all over the safe, keeping the contents cool in the hottest weather. “ I’m always mnekin’ around at somethin’,” ho explained. If I feel like it, I dig around in tho garden. This ain’t work, Nothin’s work if you like it. I often think of all those poor fellers clown there in Sydney, worfcin’ just for money.” It was soothing and restful to watch tho old fellow paddle about in his hare feet and to follow the easy swintr of his movements. And as the •lav "wore on and the shadows began ,o* lengthen on the blue lulls, tho cares of the world ’ slid away and a great peace fell.