THE RIVER BABY

Otago Witness, Issue 3882, 7 August 1928, Page 78

THE RIVER BABY

By

M. H. Poynter.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness )

CHAPTER lII.—THE FIRST .MIGHT. It was a very merry little party that sat dawn to tea round the rough table in the little hut. The joys of camping do not appeal to everybody, but to the children and Aunt Sibbie the very discomforts were delightful. What did it matter to them that there was no cloth upon the table, that their crockery was composed of all the odd dishes that the homestead kitchen possessed, and that the light of candles had to serve them for the lamplight that they were used to at home? Good corned beef, homemade bread and butter, wheatmeal scones and honey, and the lightest of sponge cakes made a most delicious meal, which was made doubly enjoyable just because of their surroundings. Tea is never better than when boiled in a billy and poured, fresh and aromatic, into odd cups. Phil knew the art of boiling the billy, and his tea was excellent. “ J perceive,” said Aunt Sibbie gravely, as Phil handed up his cup to be filled for the third time, “ that you have been very, very hungry. Do you know I wondered what it would be possible for you to do if you became really desperate, and the only thing I could think of was that you might go across the river to the shepherd’s hut and beg for a meal. I wonder if he would have had anything to give you.” Phil laughed. “1 suppose he would have found something for us,” he said, “ if we had been melancholy enough—perhaps rabbit stew. Rabbit stew is a great dish with poor lonely men who have to cook for themselves. Don’t you think he must be a bit lonely living over there by himself? But it‘was he who visited us, Aunt Sibbie.”

They told her of his visit and of the conversation they had had with him, asking her to judge between them in the matter of the shepherd’s rudeness. Aunt Sibbie listened, and gave her judgment in favour of Phil’s view. ° "I don’t suppose he intended to be rude,” she said. “As Phil says, he must be lonely, and, I expect, has little to think of. I suppose it was he who passed us on the road. It was too dark to see his face, but I noticed his figure —that he was slight, and sat his horse well.”

KTT Yes ’, he P a ssed you,” Donnie said. He told us so. Do you know what I think, Aunt Sibbie? I believe there’s some mystery about him. Perhaps he’s done something he . shouldn’t—forgery or something of that sort—and that’s why he is shepherding now, I believe he’s a gentleman.” Aunt Sibbie laughed. . “My dear Donnie, your imagination is very vivid—you should certainly be a novelist. He looked to me quite an ordinary man.”

But Donnie persisted in her own view. He doesn t speak like an ordinary man,” she said. “ And what did he want to know about you for, Aunt Sibbie?” I m sure I don’t know,” answered Aunt Sibbie, still with amusement. “ But anyway, Donnie, I don't know why a forger should be more interested in me than an ordinary man—do you? I don’t know any forgers.” She turned to the fire, and for a few moments stood gazing at the flames, while the children finished their tea. It was silly of Donnie to get such notions into her head, but the foolish idea had set Aunt Sibbie thinking, and the passing’of the strange man upon the darkening road—his slight figure, his confident seat in the saddle—had already struck a hidden chord of memory in her heart. When tea was finished and the dishes washed, the task of setting the hut to rights was begun.’ The bunks in the inner room were prepared, one for Aunt Sibbie and one for Donnie and Evelyn, and a shakedown was made in the living room for the two boys. A couple of boxes of provisions were stowed safely against the wall, and dishes piled neatly on one end of the table—there were ne shelves or cupboards—and, last of all, kitchen utensils were grouped together on the floor by the fireplace, ready for use when required, and the arangements were completed. then the camping party retired

to rest, very tired, very happy, and full of expectation for the morrow.

Sleep came quickly to Phil and Evelyn, both having placid natures that few changes could disturb, but Aunt Sibbie, Donnie, and little Willie lay long awake. In ail their hearts there was that keen sense of the interest and the joy of life that will not be content with mere eating, drinking, and sleeping—that asks for something more than a tranquil passing of existence in the routine of every-dav concerns.

Donnie’s excited brain was alive with the pleasure of the realisation of her scheme, with vivid repetitions of every little incident of the day, and with very confident anticipations of the joys of to-morrow. That was why she lay so long with open eyes, listening to the tapping of the flax leaves on the wall of the hut, and to the sound of the running river so close at hand.

Willie’s imaginations were of a more subtle order than Donnie’s. It was the river itself and the night wind that kept him awake, for Willie .had the soul of a poet, and heard vioces that no one else heard. Everything spoke to him, telling him strange fantastic stories—the wind and the water, the clouds, and even the growing grass. They were stories so long and strange, and so curiously interwoven with the things that really happened as to make it quite impossible for most people to understand them, but to Willie they were very real. He lay beside his sleeping brother listening intently'. There is a mysterious sound in the rustle of the wind in the flax bushes, and Willie had never been so close to them before in the night time —they seemed full of little voices, and the river sang very loudly. He knew they were talking to him, and before he slept he had concocted a long, strange story', in which he and the shepherd played prominent parts. It was neither excitement of the present nor anticipation of the future that prevented Aunt Sibbie from sleeping, but that strange stirring of memory that twice already had visited her that day. To no one would she have spoken of her thoughts, and to her the voices of the night were full of sadness. Courage she had, and plenty of it, and because of this her life was still fresh and unspoilt. Because of it, too, she had a heart full of unselfishness and compassion, and a beautiful belief that all the wrongs and sadness of life must some day find a full compensation. It was long past midnight before she fell asleep, but when she woke in the golden morning the sadness of night had gone completely. (To he continued.)