HOME AGAIN.

Sun (Christchurch), Volume III, Issue 827, 4 October 1916, Page 11

HOME AGAIN.

"AUSTRALIA WILL BE THERE." FIVE COLONIALS IN SCOTLAND. ißy C. Lewis Hind in the "Chronicle."] When the long Scots express drew up Jit Rugby station, the five Australian soldiers tumbled out upon the platform. They had discarded their tunics: they were hot and very happy; they eyed the teawagon longingly. One of them cried, "There's no lime, boys." Another remarked, "What a splendid station! 1 could mop up a bucket of that tea." Here I intervened, addressing him whose hair was cropped closest, a giant, tingling with virility. "You can take the cups with you into the carriage, and drink at your leisure." His forehead puckered, revolving the proposal. He made a half-step to the tea-wagon, paused, smiled. "Thanks! No! I'm used to doing without things." The whistle sounded. We scrambled back into our compartments. Tbe sun blazed. The afternoon grew hotter. At Crewe the Australians succumbed to the teawagon. I watched the close-cropped soldier drink three cups of tea and eat four buns. Later, much later, in the open country just over the Border, the train slowed and gradually became stationary. We waited in sunlight and composure. After the lapse of five minutes I looked from the window, observed a group around the engine, and the guard running back along the line in the direction we had come. At the same time I noticed the five Australians dropping from their carriage, and heard them shout (such lungs), asking if they could be of help. No! The coupling of the front carriage had broken. It would mean an hour's delay—that was all.

The Bonny Purple Heather. I descended from my carriage and joined the soldiers. They were picking bluebells, the veritable bluebells of Scotland, and the close-cropped giant was scaling a little hill crowned with purple heather. He returned with an armful, and throwing himself panting upon the bank cried gleefully, "My word! This is the trip of our life. The bonny purple heather, the bonny purple heather. We've heard Harry Lauder sing it on the gramophone, haven't we, boys?" "Ay," they cried, and the level sun glowed on their happy faces and on auld Scotland.

The engine, now uncoupled, was shunting the front carriage half a mile ahead, so we talked at ease. "It's fine that none of you have lost your Scots accent," I said. "What," they shouted in unison, "we got a Scots accent! Hurrah for the old coun-trie." They sprang to their feet and danced among the bluebells, while the sun dipped, and the afterglow transfigured Australia and Scotland.

"Where are you bound for?" I asked.

"We're going Home," said the close-cropped giant. And the quiet coloured end of evening was vocal with the chorus of the song they sang, which is called "Australia Will be There." Laughing heads emerged from the carriages, handkerchiefs were waved. There were cheers, the engine whistled, and the guard, hurrying up, cried, "Now, you boys, time's up—bundle in." I invited them into my carriage, and explained that I had nothing to offer but cool bailey water in a Thermos Mask, and some fairly good cigars. They were all born in Australia; at the call to arms they had been in humble positions in civil life; not one of them had ever crossed the sea before. Their acquaintance with England was limited to Salisbury Plain and a quarter of an hour of London that morning. Now they were on ten day's leave—and going home.

No child that I have ever known has asked so many question as they about the country we passed through. "Mon, but it's bonny," one whispered aloud; and as the train rushed on I state that their Scots accent grew stronger and broader.

The close-cropped giant sat next to me, and when the blinds were drawn, under the Defence of the Realm Act, he became communicative and friendly, as strangers will with strangers under such conditions. He withdrew from his tunic a thick pocket-book, showed me photographs of his home-people, bits of bunting that had flown in Australia, a dried flower or two, and pages of names and addresses in a clerkly, trembling handwriting. "Dad wrote them out," he said. "They're relations and old friends of the family. T shan't have time to see them all. But there's one thing I must do, I want awfully to do. I promised Dad." The Scots Come Home.

The train was approaching Edinburgh. These Australian soldiers, who were going to homes they had never seen, far scattered, were making themselves spruce, and bidding eaeli other melodramatic temporary good-byes. 1 had a private word with the close-cropped soldier. He interested me; there was something permanent behind his great gladness. "Shall we meet again?" I asked. "I'm going through to Stirling tomorrow." His face lighted. "Why, that's my home, at least about three miles from Stirling. I've never been there, but I could find my way blindfolded past Argyll's Lodging and Mar's Work up to the Castle ramparts, and don't I just know where to look for the Ladies' Rock, and Bannockburn, and the old Bridge, and Cambuskenneth, and the Bruce and Wallace monuments, and Ben Ledi and the steep sides of Ben Lomond. Oh, this is going to be the time of my life. But there's something I must do first, much more important than anything else." He became grave. "When shall you be in Stirling," I asked.

He grasped my hand. "I shall be up at the Castle at five minutes to seven in the morning—that's the old hour, the day after to-morrow." The train steamed into Edinburgh. There were greetings and shouts. The Scots had come home. from the lew shieling of the distant island .Mountains divide ns, and the waste of seas, liut still our hearts are young, our hearts are Highland, And we in dreams hehold the Hebrides. There may be finer sights in the world than the view from the ramparts of Stirling Castle—"the key of the Highlands." But that's the sight for me. Here, in life-giving air, history, romance, and the wonder of Nature are fused. Here is infinity. And there was my friend, the closecropped Australian soldier swinging towards me through the Douglas Garden. His eyes swept round the tremendous landscape, his throat contracted; the muscles worked vigorously. His arm shot out, the brown index finger rigid/'Therc's hame!" he murmured. He turned away and ascended the steps of the Douglas Room. Reverently he knelt down before the communion table used in the Castle by John Knox. I walked to the open doorway. When he rejoined me he said, "You understand? I promised Dad." I understood.