THE RIVER BABY

Otago Witness, Issue 3889, 25 September 1928, Page 77

THE RIVER BABY

By

M. H. Poynter.

( Copyright.—For the Otago Witness ) CHAPTER X.—BY THE CAMP FIRE. Down by the river the most noticeable feature in the change of the seasons was the difference in the length of the days. The days themselves were still almost as warm and bright as those of summer time, but there was the chill of autumn in the evening, and the earlier twilight made the little party more eager for the warmth and comfort of the camp fire. They sat about it cosily, their only light the light of the flames, sometimes talking quietly together, sometimes singing, sometimes telling a series of stories in which each one must take part. They were strange tales full of a mixture of adventure, mystery and magic, and gave each teller in succession full scope for his or her imagination. Willie was, of course, the champion, for his store of material was an inexhaustible one, and he was never at a loss for an exciting or marvellous situation. While they talked or laughed together the River Baby slumbered in a big box which had been converted into a roomy and serviceable cradle. Her presence at the camp made their outing doubly enjoyable, and she was never without a willing nurse or playmate. There were so many arms eager to carry her' that the only problem that Aunt Sibbie had to solve was how to satisfy the wouldbe nurses who had to go without her. No little queen could have been better served or tended, and the River Baby lavished upon all the sunshine of her affectionate little ways. To Donnie and Willie alone there came now and then the shadow of a great fear—what if the mysterious being who had brought the baby into their midst should return to the river and claim her again ? Aunt Sibbie laughed when they put* the matter to her on the evening of their fourth day 7 at the hut. “ I don’t think it is at all likely,” she said. “ I am quite sure, Donnie, that your revengeful woman would be only too glad to get rid of her. And I don’t think her relatives are going to turn up yet awhile. “ I’m glad you think so, Aunt Sibbie,” - said Donnie somewhat comforted. *lt would be dreadful to lose her now we are all so fond of her. And you’ll tell Willie not to worry about fairies taking her away r , won’t you? I was talking to him to-day, and he won’t believe me

when I say there arent any.” Aunt Sibbie slipped her arm about the little boy who sat beside her at the fire. “ It’s all right, old man,” she said soothingly. “ They won’t take her away. They only take babies back if people aren’t kind to them, but we are not like that. They’ll let us keep our baby.” Willie took her hand between his and stroked it, but his face was still grave. “ What troubles you, little boy?” she asked. “ I’m—l’m not sure,” he answered. “ Of course, I believe you, Aunt Sibbie •—but this afternoon I got so—-so frightened. I was sitting by the river listening to the wind talking in the flax bushes, and I fell asleep. And I dreamt about the River Baby.” “ What did you dream ? ” Aunt Sibbie asked as he paused. “ I dreamt we were all out by the river,” Willie went on, “ and you went away to help Phil light the fire, and left the River Baby with me. And suddenly—quite suddenly—it got dark, and I tried to find you and I couldn’t I tried to find the hut, and I couldn’t. And then I lost the River Baby, and I hunted and hunted and couldn’t find her. It was so dark and horrible, and Mr Hill’s shepherd came, and I wanted him to help me, and I couldn’t speak. I was frightened, Aunt Sibbie, and when I woke up the sun had gone down, and it was getting cold and grey.” Aunt Sibbie pressed him more closely to her. “ Poor little man,” she said. “ That was a horrible dream. I know, because I’ve often dreamt about it getting dark suddenly. And you thought it might mean that the fairies were going to steal the River Baby? Don’t think, about it any more, dear. They won’t take our baby from us.” Willie’s face cleared, and for a while Aunt Sibbie continued to talk comfortingly to him. ' Phil put fresh wood on

the. fire, and the flames leapt up cheerfully. Donnie suggested that they should look for faces in the fire, and soon they were all busily employed in finding many curious things, and in pointing them out

• very midst of it all Aunt Sibbie found her thoughts wandering . i . . ,ies dream, and sue suudenly asked a question that was quite apart from the fascinating occupation they were engaged upon. “ Have any of you seen the shepherd since we came to the river? ”- Phil alone answered in the affirmative. He had seen him, but only in the distance. He had not been near the camp at all. Then Donnie drew everyone’s attention to a magnificent horse, which had just appealed as the result of a dispb erment of the fire caused by the breaking of a log, and the shepherd was lorgo.ten by the children. Aunt Sibbie may have thought of him still, but she had turned to the River Baby to cover up a little’arm that had been thrown outside the blankets, and to place the indiarubber doll where the baby could reach it easily when she woke up. When the children were tired of looking for faces in the fire they fell to discussing all sorts of things, and gradually tne talk turned to Phil’s school and schoolfellows. The Loys had compared their summer holiday experiences, and Phil had them all at his finger ends. One boy had been to Melbourne, and had much to tell of what he had seen there; another had gone up north with his father to the King Country; a third, by an unusual chance, had been the round of the southern lighthouses. Some boys had been to more ordinary places; others had stayed at home, but had managed to extract a good deal of interest and amusement from their holidays. Phil’s own particular friends had spent the summer at his uncle’s station Jn Canterbury. Phil told all their adventures with spirit and humour, and the little group in the firelight listened with interest.

“ Fred’s uncle must be a jolly fellow,” he_said when relating his chum’s experiences. “ He’s travelled a lot, and has roughed it all over the world. He told Fred about some of his camping expeditions with a mate who was a ventriloquist. They used to have good fun.” “Did he play tricks?” Donnie asked. “ I mean the ventriloquist.” “Of course he did,” Phil replied. “ Once they were together at a political meeting. A fellow they detested was addressing them, and this ventriloquist man gave him an awful time. It wasn’t quite fair, of course, but he hated him, so he couldn’t resist doing it. The man got just raging mad because he couldn’t make out who was interrupting him. Another time he mystified a whole railway carriage full of people. There was an old man—an awful-looking old chap —sleeping at one end of it, and the ventriloquist would sing and laugh, and made everybody think it was this old fellow who was singing and laughing in his sleep. Another time—that was in Africa—he tried it one some blacks who seemed hostile. Fred’s uncle reckoned that ne saved their lives.” He went on with details of the incident, and the other children urged him from one story - to another. Phil was ready enough to comply with their wishes, and told them all he knew. Aunt Sibbie listened with an interest as keen as that of the rest. When the stories were ended Phil turned to her.

“ Do you know, Aunt Sibbie,” he said, “ when Fred was telling me about this I somehow got a dim sort of idea of a man, long ago, who used to do something of that sort. It’s just a hazy sort of recollection. I must have been a tiny little chap, and I think it must have been when we lived up north. Donnie, do you remember ? ”

Donnie shook her head. “No, Phil. Who was he? What did he do? ”

“ I don’t know who he was. I never remembered anything until Fred told me these stories. But I have just a dim remembrance of him sitting in the evening—with you on his 'knee, I think, Donnie—in the twilight, pretending the room was full of mopokes. He used to make them call from behind the pictures, from the ceiling and the window curtains, from the cupboards, and from under his chair. And I used to rush about looking for them. I’m sure it must have been true. Aunt Sibbie, I’m not dreaming, am I?”

Aunt Sibbie’s eyes were on the fire, her hands clasped tightly together. She looked up at his appeal.

“ No, Phil,” she said, “ you aren’t dreaming. But you were such a little thing— l wonder that you remember it at all.” “ I didn’t till Fred told me his stories,” Phil repeated. “It came to me then. But, Aunt Sibbie, who was the man?” Aunt Sibbie hesitated for a moment, then answered simply—- “ I can’t tell you, Phil.” The boy looked at her in surprise, and she went on steadily—- “ Don’t ask me, please, dear. I must not tell you.” “ But why ? ” he urged. “ Because there are reasons why I may not,” she answered. “ You can believe me, dear boy, can’t you? I don’t want to mystify you—l hate saying ‘No ’ when you ask me—but I must.” It was not in boy or girl 'nature to be content with such an answer, but the children’s adoration for Aunt Sibbie was built on a solid foundation, and they gave respect to her wishes. Phil said no more about the matter, but he pondered over it, vainly seeking for further recollections of the forgotten man who had conjured up mo-pokes from the shadows to amuse him in the days of his babyhood. Aunt Sibbie, too,'pondered over those old days, even as she had done on the first night of their Bummer • camp. But there was this difference in her musings —then she had known but sadness, now she knew both sadness and hope. The river baby had wakened, and she had lifted her from her make-shift cradle to her lap, nursing her very tenderly. Flickering shadows danced upon the walls as the flames rose and fell, and the soft noise of running water came in from outside. Aunt Sibbie loved the little hut with a love as great as that of any of the children. No one knew how much it meant to her already, and little did Aunt Sibbie herself know what it-was yet to bring into her life, to alter her future, and link up the .well-remem-bered past with the unknown days that were to come.

(To be continued.)