Chapter XXIII: Letters

My dear Basil,

I am in the North-West, and it is spring time! The fresh, warm-tinged
air of the open spaces sends new life through the frame, waking old
ambitions, recalling lost ideals and dreams of youth. The North-West
world is a vast temple filled with the incense of the wattle, and the
gladsome carols of feathered songsters. Just to lie on those verdant
carpets and gaze into the twinkling depths of the blue sky; just to
gaze and gaze and wonder and wonder again at the beauty and space and
gladness of it all!

At night the sky is a silver-specked vault, charged with the silver of
the Milky-Way, or flooded with the light of the moon. What a great,
great pity it is that our minds and hearts ever grow old! If only we
could go through life with wonder eyes, what delights and wonderments
we would find in this old prosaic world. And we could, if we would,
retain this sacred possession of perennial youth. It is not always the
years that count. One of the youngest persons I know is a man of
forty-five, and the oldest person I ever met was a boy of fourteen!
Ah, those young-hearted folk! How delightful it is to meet them! Don't
they seem to make life worth while?

Down in the scrub a field of beauty stretches before me. The tall blue
gums stretch towards the sky with their snow-white branches gleaming
among the shadows and filtering sunlight, and here and there a mighty
giant of the forest waves long, tattered, shroud-like strips of brown
bark that have been cruelly stripped from their branches by the forest
storms. But already the healing has come; the smooth new bark gleams
and glistens in the warmth of the kindly sunlight, and the tattered
shrouds wave a tender farewell to those new spirits born of their
disaster.

I climb and scramble through forests of slender saplings, over fallen
logs and stumps, among blue-grey vegetation or, in the next instant,
among vivid green trees that grow in symmetrical beauty, as though
tended by a gardener. Fancy, if one had the planning out of a bush
garden in that North-West forest! What a labour of love, what a
fascinating theme to work on! Clearing and thinning and "lopping";
guarding with tender and jealous care some forest beauty that now
gleams tenderly through darkening, choking growth. What winding paths
and avenues and clumps and groves would be formed, with here and there
a cleared space for masses of garden flowers. But a haunting, elusive
perfume steals gently on a slight breeze from the inner depths of the
forest, and I hasten thither to be met by fresh delights. The air is
filled with the cloying sweetness of budah, nipand, wild orange, and
clematis blossoms.

The wild orange, or bumble, or "moogiel" (the aboriginal name) stands
somewhat aloof from their neighbours. Who knows? Perhaps in the days
of old they held pride of place in that vast scrub, and, mayhap, the
dusky maidens twined bridal wreaths from their creamy blossoms; but
howe'er it may be they stand aloof with their crown of glossy leaves
and creamy blossoms and tender green fruit. Perhaps black fingers,
long since stilled, wove hopes and shy thoughts among garlands of
tender blossoms in the days ere the white usurper set foot on
Australian shores.

I don't know what you will think of it all, Basil, but you asked me to
send along these descriptions of the North-West, and I am seeing it at
its best, so you must make allowances if I enthuse. I know all about
the long, drear, desolate droughts, but "why think about to-morrow if
to-day be sweet," and so I give way to keen delight of the beauty and
freshness of the surroundings, and trust that I draw a vivid
pen-picture of this lovely forest.
MARIE.

My dear Basil,

Oh, those wattle groves of the North-West! How can I describe their
tender, haunting loveliness?

To-day I stood on a red, sandy road, and gazed down a long, glowing
vista, where, like gold-crowned maidens, the wattle trees stretched
for miles on either side, as though guarding that long avenue from
destruction. A slight breeze stirred the branches, and the fluffy
balls nodded in welcome, and scattered a shower of golden, powdery
dust on to the shimmering sand. I stole almost reverently through that
golden avenue, for a sense of benediction was in the air.

A burst of melody broke on the stillness, and I stood stock-still.
Surely such a pæan of praise might the angels sing! The liquid notes
swelled higher and clearer as the black and white feathered songster
continued his gladsome song. I stole quietly through the bushes and
watched the singer who filled the scrub with melody. Just a black and
white bird (a magpie) standing on the dead branch of a tree--no stage
setting here. With head thrown back he trills and "cadenzas" and
warbles as though his heart would burst, and a sea of throbbing melody
surrounds me. And then the song dies away, and I am left with a sense
of loneliness, for a hush fills the auditorium of the forest; but it
is soon broken, for other birds awake the echoes, chirping, calling,
singing and chattering and fluttering hurriedly around, as though the
very universe depended on their exertions. The scrub is filled with
baby-birds in different stages of growth. Some are merely very
unattractive little morsels, that open hungry beaks as Mother-bird
appears; some half-fledged and unattractive, too; some are just wee,
fluffy balls, with bright, beadlike eyes; and others are at the
interesting stage of learning their first "steps." Up among the
friendly branches they flutter and screech as they try their little
wings, with alternate chattering and scolding and encouragement and
comments from Ma and Pa. I pause and ponder. Next year those tiny,
helpless morsels will have their homes among the leafy branches, and
they, too, will be builders. Think of it! In one short year's time the
birds will have commenced their life-work, and what about we humans?
Year after year we are watched and tended. Year after year our
education goes on, and yet I doubt then if we are as faithful builders
as those feathered songsters. But adieu till next week, when I will
tell you more about the fields and paddocks.

How I wish you could have a whole free week up here to revel in the
green gladness and wonderful space!
MARIE.

My dear Basil,

The paddocks are full of young life. Out on the green the foals frisk
and gambol, while their mothers, with admonishing whinnies, try to
coax them back to their side. To-day a wee foal of but a few weeks old
came and stared at me with wonder eyes. Standing daintily on its slim
legs and tiny black hoofs it stared at "the stranger within the
gates." I longed to pat its soft nose, to stroke its silky ears, to
embrace its shining, satiny neck, but--I didn't dare to move, for I
knew there would be a startled glance, a scamper of hoofs, a wild rush
and the mob would be off, leaving a trail of trampled greenery in
their wake, and with me a sense of desolation. So I sat still and
gazed into those wonder eyes, as the little creature came nearer and
nearer with cautious steps, and was joined by its curious little
mates, till there were seven high-bred, dainty animals gazing at the
solitary human. A shining bay, with black points, held pride of place
as it reared its head daintily, and two little chestnuts followed
closely; a wicked little shining black satin-coated one already showed
the whites of its eyes, and a brown and a roan completed the number.
They stood about solemnly, those seven little critics, and I wondered
at their verdict. There and then I resolved that they should find a
place on my canvas, and I seized my brush, when suddenly the roan
foal, becoming frisky, gambolled and tossed its head, and, with
playful leaps, dashed across the paddock, the others following
helter-skelter. I don't think I shall ever forgive that roan foal for
breaking up the party, and I'll feel a grudge against every roan horse
I see, whether roaming free in the paddocks or harnessed to work. And
then the whole mob scampered off; with tossing mane and head held high
in the air, they galloped and pranced and gambolled and frisked for
very lightness of heart, and revelled in their glorious sense of
freedom and the intoxication of that spring morning. In the next
paddock the unbroken horses heard their revels, and they, too, started
on a wild stampede. I could hear the thud, thud, thud of galloping
hoofs as they disappeared away in the distance, and the muffled sound
of the return, as with flashing eyes, waving mane and distended
nostrils those young, untamed creatures raced and raced for very joy
of living. I thought of tired, spiritless cab-horses standing day by
day in unbroken monotony, of cart-horses, whose only glimpses of
greenery is the common at night time, and I sighed that I could not
transport those weary, spiritless animals, who have surely forgotten
(if ever they did know) those free, wild stretches, that unbroken
spirit, those wild stampedes through a wealth of greenery in company
with a gay, care-free mob, intoxicated with the freedom and beauty of
early spring mornings.

All the children joined me in my afternoon walk, and we took the track
to the Namoi river. Among the bull-rushes and weeds along the water's
margin, the shy, slim, graceful water-hens rush noiselessly. The
children gathered bunches of bull-rushes, clad in their goldeny-brown
plush top-coats, and then we gathered shells and mussels, and then
placed the mussels all back again in the water, for high above our
heads, in one of the river bends, we saw a bed of wild buttercups, and
as we hastened through the reeds a brood of ducks floated out--darling
little, tiny fluffy balls, with bead-like eyes, drifted along the
deep, still waters, with the important mother-ducks leading the way.
There were faint, little cries and chirps as they glide along and were
joined by flocks of others, young and grown, gliding peacefully down
the still, deep river, through patches of sunshine and stretches of
shade.

The children find new beauties every day in the bush life. "Why, we
never used to notice half those things till you came here," said
Eileen the other day. "I think we must have been going about with our
eyes shut half the time." But I know, of course, that it is because
the gift of observation has been cultivated lately, and everything
appeals to them now, and where once the paddocks and the river banks
were delightful places to run about and play in, now there are fresh
points of interest in tree and flower and plant life.

To-morrow I commence my picture, and I shall work very constantly at
it till it is quite finished, so don't expect too many letters in the
weeks to come.
MARIE.