Australia.

Otago Witness, Issue 1585, 8 April 1882, Page 25

Australia.

By E. Hudson.

Author of ' Broken Fetters,' ' The Qoldies of Qoldon Terrace,' ' The Heir of Thorwell Manor, 1 &c.

(Specially written for the Witness.)

Chapter IX.

The sound of the church-going hell These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sighed at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared. —Cowper.

B last chapter having been' taken up with relating an incident in Australia's childhood, I must return to the commencement of it, and once more repeat that eighteen years have passed since the Smiths landed in the colonies to ' geek their fortune,' and that they have found it. • It is a fine warm evening, towards the latter end of February. The intense heat of summer has passed, but its effects are still visible in the brown, parched look of the vegetation ; not yet revived by the winter rains. But still it is a fair scone which mjeets the eye of yonder horseman, as he emerges from the dark Hue of bush. Parallel with him, as he canters easily along, rolls a br"oad and rapid river— the Murray; on his right stretches an .extent of, open, park-like CQuntry, lightly timbered with magnificent trees, and covered with sheep, cropping the short brown herbage. It is bounded, miles away, by a rknge 'of mountains, showing purple in the sunset , light. Across the- river, the same description of country continues far as the eye can reach. In front, about a quarter of a mile from the bush, rises a gentle eminence, crowned by a well-built wooden house. The broad expanse in front of it, sloping gently down to the river, is a mixture of flower garden and orchard ; and the luxuriant growth, the brilliant colouring of the flowers, and the blossoms or rich ripe fruit of the various trees, make it at all times a pleasant picture ; though just now its glory is dimmed by the ardent rays of the Australian summer sun.. Far in the rear of the house extend farm buildings ; down by the river side are the shearing sheds; On the side next the bush, a large piece of ground (called the home paddock) is laid down m grass, and enclosed by a pqst-an'd-rail fence. A couple of tame emus are parading it with stately solemnity. ' '■> ■> [The horseman, disdaining the" slip-panel, vaults lightly over' the fenfce, arid Quickening his pace, soon reaches tfye house. ] On the back verandah are, the'twp"maids,',in crinoline (for-, bidden on week; days), and dresses, ..with I'm afraid to, say how many. flounces,! carrying on .vigorous flirtations with the - stock-driver and two shepherds," who' have ridden' over 'from their hut on purpose. ' The former' is a lively little Irishman, with.yery red ,hauy and only one eye, the other having been fatally injured in a drunken row. Pat is 'coortin,' Sophiashe with the pink dress and green ribbons — but Sophia refuses to listen to him Until her' rival is completely discarded. "' That rival is the whisky .Dottle. The shepherds, ,are dull, heavy fellows, with that peculiarly vacant ,ex: pression of countenance^ the consequence, of living so much-alone," with 'no intellectual re*

sources. , • '' On the front 'steps' sits 'their master, arid fhe, owner of this house, and the country for miles round. It is our old friend William Smithnow Esquire. He is altered since we saw him last ; that stout figure and purple countenance betoken that— his fortune made— he hsid ceased to 'keep teetotal.' 1 ' And, I am ,sorry to, say, it is so. Though, no" one ever saw Aim intoxicated, as Mr, Smith, with all his old contempt for drunkards, is fond of boasting— yet he is far too fond of his glass. Last time he was in Melbourne, not feeling well, he consulted a doctor, who plainly warned him that' the continued use of intoxicants would prove fatal, which so offended Mr Smith, who considers himself a most temperate man; that he vows he will never consult another doctor as long as he lives. He is leisurely'smpking his, pipe just now— in shirt-sleeves and ;vvxiite,pantaloons. For it is Sunday, a day on, which the residents of Emu Flat— as -the run is called — do less work, and put on their beslt clothes. It is the only outward visible sign' of the') Sabbath in too many such households ; where,' situated miles away from any place of worship, the spiritual significance of the day of rest is too apt to be lost sight of . ' ' On the verandah, in an American rockingchair, sits Mrs Smith ; her short, comfortable person squeezed into a rich silk dress of bright green, crossbarred with white — you can see the pattern yards off. Her rubicund face is surmounted by i a marvellous construction of yello.w and pink— called by the vulgar a cap. On , her lap lies a volume- of the ' Sunday at Home.' She invariably takes refuge ,in that, as being undeniably Sunday reading ; though, I am ■ bound, to confess, the pictures attract more attention than the print. Mrs Smith, good woman, is no reader, and her fingers are even now itching to be at the rest of the fruit preserving, and wine making, which business the Sabbath has so inopportunely interrupted. But, though this one day's rest should ruin the remainder of the fruit, Mrs Smith would still adhere ,to her idea of duty. „ , i Some of her neighbours— old Oaryll for instance — never ,make , the least difference between the days ; but Mrs Smith prides herself on having been well brought up ; she arid ' William ' are old Sunday school scholars ; and so they 'keep Sunday.' On the back, of, her chair, as she sways gently to and fro, a cockatoo and a lovely shell parroquet balance themselves. There is undying hatred and in-, veterate jealousy between those two, yet they are scarcely ever separate. They 1 aTe quiet just now, for a wonder. At his mistress' feet lies a tame kangaroo, stretched at full length, his head reposing on the hem of her dress. ' Wife,' says Mr Smith, after a long silence, slowly removing his pipe ; 'we miss the girls a deal o' Sundays.' 'So we do ; ' is the assenting answer. 'We shan't have any hymn singing to night ; it made Sunday seem more like Sunday.' ' Yes, it's lonesome enough now. I'm thinking — Why,' if hero ain't Yankee Sam acoming through the home paddock ; what brings him here to-day, I wonder ?' In an instant all is commotion — the birds fly shrieking off to the nearest tree, the kangaroo bounds away to a safe distance ; while half-a-dozen hitherto invisible dogs rush out, barking furiously ; and the servants troop round to the front, to welcome that rarity— a visitor. ' Yankee Sam,'— and as he approaches you can see how appropriate the sobriquet is ; the peaked beard, yellow, lantern- jawed countenance, and loose-jointed figure, proclaim his nationality unmistakably. Yankee Sam rides leisurely up, and surveys tlio group before dianimmtinf.'. ' What's the rot ?' he demands. ' NoLhing,' is the answer, * Ain't nobody married?'

'No.'; 'Nor buried?' „ „ . _, ' Why, no ! what's got you, Sam ? cries Mrs Smith. . , 'What's got youV retorts the horseman. ' What in thunder are you all settin' around in your go-to-meetin' duds for ?' ' Because it's Sunday, of course.

'Whew!' . „,, This expressive whi&tle is all the answer they get until Sam has dismounted. Then he ' Wai ! we Yankees thmk we can whip creation ; yew bet ! but yew Ostreylans beat us holler. We havn't been able to make two Sundays meet yet.' ' Ain't it Sunday?' demands Mrs Smith. 'Then what day is it?' . , •Wai, it was Monday this morning, when I left Henderson's run,' was the cool reply. Mr and Mrs Smith looked at each other in dismay. 'Then we've lost count,' they exclaimed, simultaneously. 1 That's so ' said Sam. „ , . f Dear, dear 1' cried Mrs Smith ; to think it should have been Sunday yesterday^ and we up] to our eyes in work the whole day" Nevertheless, there was a feeling of relief in the thought that it, was weekday once more, arid everybody could go to work again. Only thfe two young lady helps failed to appreciate thp discovery— it meant instant banishment for their finery until Sunday came round again. , { You'll stay the night,' said Mr, Smith to his , visitor, with the usual bush hospitality. ' Here, Pat, take the horse, and turn him into thfe home paddock; and don't forget to water - 1* Wai, boss,' said Sam, ' I don't mind if I dm stay. I've been in the saddle since sunup, and feel considerable kinder tired. Here, Missus,' he added, as Mrs Smith was disappearing to get rid of her finery, ' I was to Melbourne last week, and Miss Mary Jane gave < me this for you, handing her a letter. I* Bless us!' cried Mrs Smith, scanning the envelope, which was addressed in sprawling characters, with a superabundance of flourishes, ' Mrs Smythe, care of W. Smythe, Esq., Emu FJat,' ' has the girl forgot how to spell her own name?' j' Thinks Smythe genteeler, likely,' suggested Sam. ' Boardin'-school ideers.' > ;' Humph !' said Mrs Smith, significantly. ' {And then, entering the house, she .called loudly for * Sophier, who, having .appeared, and received directions concerning the supper, her mistress retired to the dining-room to read the letter. First, however, restoring her volume to a large bookcase' (holding every description of literature— from the last new novel to the . Australian .Farmer's Guide), there to remain until the next legitimate Sunday. It was a handsome room, that diningroom—large and lofty, with windows opening on to the broad Verandah; handsomely furnished, too. The house* and all 'it contained was. scarcely a year old. A small rough cottago, built on first' coming to ' Emu Flat, had been made to do' duty as a dwellingplace far longer than it heed have' done. At length, however,, yielding to ,the incessant entreaties of his wife and ' the girls,' Mr Smith bHiilt this house, and it was furnished under ,the joint superintendence of Mrs Smith and the said 'girls,' Australia's instinctively correct taste being everywhere visible. ? But to return to.the mistress of the mansion. After turning her letter over half a dozen I times, Mrs Smith opened it and read — 1r ' Melbourne.— My dear ma,' ' 'Mercy on us I' commented^ that individual ; ' only been at boardin'-school 'three weeks, and already " mother " isn't good enough.'

■ ' I met Sam this afternoon, and he offered to take this if I have it ready by to-morrow morning; which I hope to have, if Miss Matilda does not discover that it is not my French exercise I'm busy over. We like school very much ; at least, I like the living in Melbourne. I'll never marry a squatter and go and be buried in the country again. Ever since wo arrived I have been looking out for a suitable house for 'us to live in. There is one at the corner of this terrace, but I knew it was no use looking at it - } you, being so afraid of fire, would not live in it' for money. 1 ' ' Catch me !' soliloquised Mrs Smith.'

' Well, this afternoon we discovered, one that would just suit. • Stands by itself, in agarden that would content oven Lia ; nice iron railings in front, and two bay windows. It is for sale or to let. Now I hope, dear ma, that you' will try and convince pa that it's his duty to take it (until he can build one for himself). How are we ever to get married if we are always to be stuck up in the bush, never seeing a soul from one month's end'to another. I want you to keep on talking to him ; and when Aye come home for the holidays I'll set to. I hope you won't object to being called ma and pa. 'I found when I came here that not one of the girls would own to having a father or mother - it's so horribly low. And that reminds me about my name. I wish ■it had been anything but Mary Jane. However, I'm going to drop the Jane, and always call myself Marie— which is the French for Mary, you know. I hope you and pa will always remember to call me so in future. Lia laughs at me ; but she may. All the girls adore her name. By-the-by, she has come to grief already; not much— only a sprained ancle. We were taking cur usual constitutional last week— two and two, like a gang of genteel lady convicts, with the two warders— l mean teachers— mounting guard over us, when Lia trod on a stone and turned her ancle. She had on new boots, with the military heels— quite the fashion, but awfully uncomfortable to walk in. Well, here we were,' in a pretty fix — Lia unable to put her foot to the ground, and we on a lonely road, a mile from home. We could not carry her,! and if we could it would not have been proper, Miss Matilda said. (She is just out from England, ■ and knows nothing.) She was just making up her mind to go and, ask help from the nearest house when a carriage turned the corner. Oh, such a love of a carriage ! low and open, and drawn by two of the most charming little grey ponies you ever saw. I mean to tease pa into ' getting us one just like it. A gentleman' was" driving, and beside him sat what looked at first like a bundle of furs (fancy, it was an awfully hot day), but turned out to be his invalid mother. Of course, seeing us clustered like a flock of scared slice]) by the roadside, he stopped to inquire what was up, and equally, ' of course, they both offered Lia a seat in the carriage. As Miss Matilda happened to know him, and his mother was present, she decided that it was a perfectly proper proceeding— so Lia drove off m state. He is aMr Allon, a famous lawyer, and an old bachelor— about fifty, I should think. They have sent to inquire for Lia every day since ; and we are to dine there to-morrow. Six o'clock ! only fancy ; isn't it stylish ? It is what we must have when we leave school.'

' I think I see William waiting till six for his dinner,' remarked Mrs Smith, sotto voce. ' I sco Amy Eston has just finished my French exercise,' continued tho writer, ' (I'm to do up lipj' hair for >i we« s k in payment) so I must conclude. Lin, sisndfe hor lovo to you and yn. Gins will wviujfioon. Her nnclu is nearly well now. With love to yourself and pa, I remain, your affectionate daughter, Mabie

Smythe. — P.S. — Smythe is a little more genteel than Smith.' 'Humph!' muttered Mrs Smith, refolding the letter, ' the girl's gettin' fine grand notions at that school ; but, bless me, how clover she is. Now, I could never ha' writ that letter. NoAvonder she Avanta to Ua;6 in the city. t I must try and persuade William. Im j getting tired myself of being buried alive here.