Babes in the Bush

At the milking-yard he saw a sight which had never before met his eyes. The morning’s work had apparently been just completed. Argyll was walking towards the dairy, a pisé building with thick, earthen walls. He carried two immense cans full to the brim with milk. Hamilton was wading through the yard behind about sixty cows and calves, which were stolidly ploughing through a lake of liquid mud. As they quitted the rough stone causeway, they appeared to drop with reluctance into a species of slough. An elderly Scot, approaching the type of Andrew Cargill, was labouring, nearly knee-deep, solemnly after. He and Mr. Hamilton were splashed from head to foot; it would have been a delicate task to recognise either. The latter, coming to a pool of water, deliberately walked in, thus purifying both boot and lower leg.

‘Muddy work, this milking in wet weather,’ said he calmly, scraping a piece of caked mud about the size of a cheese-plate from the breast of his serge shirt. ‘It would need to pay well, for it is exceedingly disagreeable.’

‘Very much so, indeed, I should think,’ assented Wilfred, rather shocked. ‘I had no idea that dairy work on a large scale could be so unpleasant.’

‘Ours is perhaps more mud-larking than most people’s,’ said Mr. Hamilton reflectively, ‘chiefly from the richness of the soil, so we endure it. But you must look into the cheese-room – the bright side of the affair financially.’

Wilfred was much impressed with the dairy, a substantial, thatched edifice, having a verandah on four sides. The pisé walls – nearly two feet thick – were of earth, rammed in a wooden frame after a certain formula.

‘Here is the best building on the station,’ said his guide. ‘We reared this noble pile ourselves, in the days of our colonial inexperience, entirely by the directions contained in a book, with the aid of old Wullie and our emigrant labourers. After we became more “Australian” and “less nice” we took to slabs. It was quicker work, but our architecture suffered.’

In one portion of this building were rows of milk-vessels, while ranged on shelves one above another, and occupying three sides of the building, were hundreds of fair, round, orthodox-looking cheeses, varying in colour from pale yellow to orange. They presented an appearance more akin to a midland county farm than an Australian cattle-station.

‘There, you see the compensation for early rising, wet feet, and mud-plastering. We have a ready sale for twice as many cheeses as Mrs. Teviot can turn out, at a very paying price. Her double Stiltons are famed for their richness and maturity. We pay a large part of the station expenses in this way; besides, what is of more importance, improving the cattle, by keeping the herd quiet and promoting their aptitude to fatten.’

‘You have no sheep, I think?’ inquired Wilfred.

‘No; but we breed horses on rather a large scale. I must show you my pet, Camerton, by and by. Now I must dress for breakfast, for which I daresay you are quite ready.’

After a reasonable interval the partners appeared neatly attired, though still in garments adapted for station work. It was an exceedingly cheerful meal, the proverbial Scottish breakfast, admitted to be unsurpassable – devilled chicken and grilled bones, alternated with the incomparable round of beef, which had excited Wilfred’s admiration on the preceding day. Piles of boiled eggs, and such a jug of cream! fresh butter, short-cake, and the unfailing oatmeal porridge completed the fare, to which Wilfred, after his observations and inquiries, felt himself fully qualified to do justice.

‘Well, Charles,’ said Mr. Churbett, desisting from a sustained attack upon the toast and eggs, ‘how do you feel after your day’s work? What an awful number of hours you have been up and doing! That’s what makes you so frightfully arrogant. It’s the comparison of yourself with ordinary mortals like me, for instance, who lie in bed.’

‘You certainly do take it easy, Master Fred,’ returned Hamilton, ‘to an extent I cannot hope to imitate. Every man to his taste, you know. You have a well-grassed, well-watered, open country at The She-oaks; once get your cattle there and they are no trouble to look after. Nature has done so much that I am afraid – as in South America – man does very little.’

‘Shows his sense,’ asserted Mr. Churbett calmly. ‘Don’t you be imposed upon, Effingham, by these people here; they have a mania for bodily labour, and all sorts of unsuitable employment. I didn’t come out to Australia to be a navvy or a ploughman; I could have found similar situations at home. I go in for the true pastoral life – an Arab steed, a tent, cool claret, and a calm supervision of other men’s labours.’

‘Did the Sheik Ibrahim drink claret, or go to the theatre, leaving his flocks and herds to the Bedaween?’ said Mr. Forbes. ‘Some people appear to be able to combine the pleasures of all religions with the duties of none.’

‘Smart antithesis, James,’ said Churbett approvingly. ‘I’ll take another cup of tea, please, to keep. I’m going to read Sydney Smith in the verandah after breakfast. Yes, I am proud of that theatre exploit. Few people would have nerve for it.’

‘You would have needed all your nerve if you had found a hundred and fifty fat cattle scattered and gone next morning,’ said Mr. Forbes, a quietly sarcastic personage.

‘But they were not gone, my dear fellow; what’s the use of absurd suppositions? We got back before daylight. Not a beast had left the camp. Now there are a great many people who would never have thought of doing that.’

‘I should say not,’ said Hamilton. ‘Fred, your natural advantages will be the death of you yet. Come with me, Effingham, if you want to see the dam and the old horse. They are our show exhibits, and we are rather proud of them.’

Walking through the garden to the lower end of the slope upon which the homestead of Benmohr was built, Wilfred saw that the course of the creek, dignified with the name of a river, had been arrested by a wide and solid embankment, half-way up the broad breast of which a sheet of deep, clear water came, while for a greater distance than the eye could reach along its winding course was a far-stretching reservoir, lake-like, reed-bordered, and half-covered with wild-fowl.

‘Here you see our greatest difficulty, Effingham, and our greatest triumph. When we took up this run a shallow stream ran in winter and spring, but in summer it was invariably dry. This exposed us to expense, even loss. So we resolved to construct a dam. We did so, at some cost in hired labour; a spring flood washed it away. Next year we tried again, and the same result followed. Then the neighbours pitied and “I told you so’d” us to such an extent that we felt that dam must be made and rendered permanent. We had six months’ work at it last summer; during most of the time I did navvy work, wheeling my barrow up and down a plank like the others. It was a stiff job. I invented additions, and faced it with stone. That fine sheet of water is the result of it; I believe it will stand now till the millennium, or the alteration of the land laws.’

‘I quite envy you,’ said Wilfred. ‘A conflict with natural forces is always exciting. I am quite of your opinion; the great advantage of this Australian life is that a man enjoys the permission of society to work with his hands as well as his head.’

Leaving the water for an isolated wooden building in the neighbourhood of the offices, Mr. Hamilton opened the upper half of a stable-door and discovered to view a noble, dark chestnut thoroughbred in magnificent condition.

‘Here is one of my daily tasks,’ said he, removing the gallant animal’s sheet and patting his neck. ‘In this case it is a labour of love, as I am passionately fond of horses, and have a theory of my own about breeding which I am trying to carry out. Isn’t he a beauty?’

Wilfred, looking at the satin skin of the grand animal before him, thought he had rarely seen his equal.

‘You observe,’ said Hamilton, ‘in this sire, if I mistake not, characteristics not often seen in English studs. Camerton combines the perfect symmetry, the beauty and matchless constitution of the desert Arab with the size and bone of the English thoroughbred.’

‘He does give me that idea, precisely,’ said Wilfred. ‘Wonderful make and shape. His back rib has the cask-like roundness of the true Arab; and what legs and feet! Looking at him you see an enlarged Arab.’

‘His grand-dam was a daughter of The Sheik, an Arab of the purest Seglawee strain of the Nejed, imported from India many years ago by a cavalry officer, whose charger he was. He has besides the Whisker, Gratis, and Emigrant blood. In him we have at once the horse of the new and of the old world – the size and strength of the Camerton type, the symmetry of the Arab, and such legs and feet as might have served Abdjar, the steed of Antar.’

When they re-entered the cottage they saw Mr. Churbett, who had intended to go home that morning, but finding the witty Canon such pleasant reading, thought he would start in the afternoon, finally making up his mind to stay another day and leave punctually after breakfast. There was nothing to do – he observed – and no one to talk to, when he did get home, so there was the less reason for haste.

‘You had better stay, Fred, and go with me to Yass,’ suggested Argyll. ‘I am going there next week, and I daresay you have some business there.’

‘I believe I have; indeed, I know that I have been putting off something old Billy Rockley blew me up about last month, and I’ll go in with you and get it over. But I won’t stay now. I’ll go to-morrow, or my stock-rider will think I’m lost and take to embezzling my bullocks, instead of stealing my neighbour’s calves, which is his duty to do. One must keep up discipline.’

After lunch Wilfred mounted his ancient charger and departed along the track to Warbrok, Mr. Churbett volunteering to show him the way past divers snares for the unwary, yclept ‘turn-off’ roads.

‘These two fellows,’ said he, ‘have no end of what they call duties to perform before nightfall, and can’t be spared of course; but I can spare myself easily, and give Duellist exercise besides.’

Presently Mr. Churbett, who was a very neat figure, having assumed breeches and boots, appeared mounted upon a magnificent bay horse, the finest hackney, in appearance, which Wilfred had yet seen. A bright bay with black points, showing no white but a star in the centre of his broad forehead; he stood at least fifteen hands three inches in height, with all the appearance of high caste and courage. As they started he showed signs of impatience, and then, arching his neck, set off at a remarkably fast walk, which caused Barragon’s stock-horse jog to appear slow and ungraceful.

‘What a glorious hackney!’ said Wilfred, half enviously. ‘Did you breed him?’

‘No, don’t breed horses; too much expense and bother. Fools breed – that is, enthusiasts – and wise men buy. He’s a Wanderer, bred by Rowan of Pechelbah. Got him rather cheap about six months ago; gave five-and-twenty pounds for him. The man that did breed him, of course, couldn’t afford to ride him; thought he had others as good at home, which I take leave to doubt.’

‘I should think so! What a price for a horse of his figure – five years old, you say, and clean thoroughbred. A gift! Is he fast?’

‘Pretty well. I shall run him for the Maiden Plate at Yass Races. And now, do you see that turn-off road? Well, don’t turn off; by and by you will come to another; follow it, and you will have no further chance of losing your way. I’ll say good-afternoon.’

His amusing friend turned, and as Duellist’s hoofs died away in the distance, Wilfred took the old horse by the head and sent him along at a hand-gallop, only halting occasionally until, just as the dusk was impending, the far-gleaming waters of the lake came into view. Dick had arrived hours before, and had all his charge secured in the now creditable stock-yard. The absentee was welcomed with enthusiasm by the whole family, who appeared to think he had been away for months, to judge by the warmth of their greetings.

CHAPTER VII

TOM GLENDINNING, STOCK-RIDER

‘Come in at once, this moment, and tell us all about everybody,’ said Annabel; ‘tea is nearly ready, and we are hungry for news, and even just a little gossip. Have you enjoyed yourself and seen many new people? What a fine thing it is to be a man!’

‘I have seen all the world, like the little bird that flew over the garden wall. I have enjoyed myself very much, have bought a few horses and many cattle, also spent a very pleasant evening at Benmohr. Where shall I begin?’

‘Oh, about the people of course; you can come to the other things later on. People are the only topics of interest to us. And oh, what do you think? We have seen strangers too. More wonderful still, a lady. What will you give me if I describe her to you?’

‘Don’t feel interested in a sketch of a lady visitor,’ said Wilfred. ‘A description of a good cheese-press, if you could find one, would be nearer the mark.’

‘You would not speak in that way if you had seen Mrs. Snowden,’ said Rosamond, ‘unless you are very much changed.’

‘She is a wonder, and a paragon, of course; did she grow indigenously?’

‘She’s so sweet-looking,’ said Annabel impetuously; ‘she rode such a nice horse too, very well turned out, as you would say. She talks French and German; she has travelled, and been everywhere. And yet they have only a small station, and she sometimes has to do housework – there now!’

‘What a wonderful personage! And monsieur – is he worthy of so much perfection?’

‘He’s a gentlemanlike man, rather good-looking, who made himself agreeable. Rosamond has been asked to go and stay with them. Really, the place seems full of nice people. Did you see or hear of any more?’

‘Yes; now I come to think of it, I heard of two more, great friends of Argyll and Hamilton and of Mr. Churbett, whom I saw there. Their names are D’Oyley; Bryson, the younger brother, is a poet; at any rate these are some of his verses which Mr. Churbett handed to me apropos of our lives here, shutting out all thoughts but the austerely practical. Yes; I haven’t lost them.’

‘So you talk of cheese-presses and bring home poetry! Is that your idea of the practical? I vote that Rosamond reads them out while we are having tea. Gracious! Ever so many verses.’

‘They seem original; and not so many of one’s neighbours could write them in any part of the world,’ said Rosamond. ‘I will read them out, if Annabel will promise not to interrupt in the midst of the most pathetic part.’

‘I am all attention,’ said Annabel, throwing herself into an easy-chair. ‘I wonder what sort of a man Mr. D’Oyley is, and what coloured eyes he has. I like to know all about authors.’

‘Never saw him; go on, Rosamond,’ said Wilfred, and the elder sister, thus adjured, commenced —

A FRAGMENTDeem we our waking dreamsBut shadows from the deep;And do the offspring of the mindIn barrenness descendTo an eternal sleep?Each print of Beauty’s feetLeads upward to her throne;For every thought by conscience bless’d,Benignant virtue yieldsA jewel from her zone.* * * * *The rainbow hath its cloud,The seasons gird the sphere,We know their time and place, but thou,Whence art thou, Child of Light,And what thy mission here?Like meteor stars that streamAdown the dark obscure,Didst thou descend from angel homes,To bless with angel joysAbodes less bright and pure?Thy beauty and thy loveMay mortal transports share,Aspire with quivering wings to reachThe spirits of thy thoughtThat breathe celestial air.Thou art no child of Earth.Earth’s fairest children weepThat o’er affection’s sweetest lyre,By phantom minstrels stirred,Unhallowed strains will sweep.While zephyr-wings may guard,The rose its bloom retains;The autumn blast o’er sere leaves wails;Upon the naked stemThe thorn alone remains.* * * * *The sun-rays scattered farSeek now the parent breast,In gentler glory gathering o’erThe floating isles that speckThe landscape of the West.Mute visitants! their smilesA fleeting welcome bear,Light on thy form the glad beams play,And mingling with its foldsCurl down thy golden hair.Methinks, as standing thusAgainst the glowing sky,That shadowy form, faint-tinged with gold,And raptured face, recallA dream of days gone by.Glimpses of shadows past,That boyhood’s mind pursued,In curious wonder shaping forthIts visions of the pure,The beautiful, the good.Till, like the moon’s full orbAbove the silent sea,One Form expanding bright arose,And fancy’s mirror showedAn image like to thee.Of headlong hopes that spurnedThe curb of destiny,When my soul asked what most it craved,Still, still, the mirror showedAn image like to thee.

‘I think they are beautiful and uncommon,’ said Annabel decidedly; ‘only I don’t understand what he means.’

‘Obscurity is a quality he has in common with distinguished latter-day poets,’ said Wilfred. ‘Commencing with the ideal, he has finished with the real and personal, as happens much in life. I think “A Fragment” is refined, thoughtful, and truly poetic in feeling.’

‘So do I,’ agreed Rosamond. ‘Mr. Bryson D’Oyley is no every-day squatter, I was going to say, but as all our neighbours seem to be distinguished people, we must agree that he is fully up to the average of cattlemen, as they call themselves.’

‘I must tell Mrs. Snowden about the cheese-press simile. You will be ready to commit suicide after you have seen her.’

‘Then I must keep out of her way. Rosamond, suppose you sing something. I have not heard a piano since I left.’

‘Mrs. Snowden tried it, and sang “Je n’aimerai, jamais.” Her voice was not wonderful, but it is easy to see what thorough training she has had.’

‘There is a forfeit for any one who mentions Mrs. Snowden again this evening,’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘We must not have her spread out over our daily life, fascinating as I grant her to be. Beatrice and Annabel have been learning a new duet, which they will sing after Rosamond. I think you will like it, and this is such a charming room to sing in.’

‘That’s one advantage belonging to this old house,’ said Rosamond, ‘our music-room is perfect. It is quite a pleasure to hear one’s voice in it; and when we do furnish the dining-room, if we are ever inclined to give a party – a most unlikely thing at present – it is large enough to hold all the people in the district.’

During the following week the men of the family occupied themselves in branding and regulating the new cattle. A portion of these, having young calves at foot, were at once amalgamated with the dairy herd. This being accomplished, it was apparent that some division must be made between the old and the new cattle. There were too many of them to be mixed up in one herd, and the steers, in close quarters, were not good for the health of the cows and smaller cattle. From all this it resulted that the oracle (otherwise Dick), being consulted, made response that a stock-rider must be procured who would look after all the cattle, other than the milch kine, and ‘break them into the Run.’

Wilfred was inclined to be opposed to this project, but reflected that if any were lost, it would soon amount to more than a man’s wages; also, that the labour of the dairy, with the rapid increase of the O’Desmond cattle, was becoming heavier, and required all Guy’s and Andrew’s attention to keep it in order.

‘For what time would a stock-rider be required?’ he asked.

‘Why, you see, sir,’ said Dick, ‘these here cattle, if they’re not watched for the next three months, may give us the slip, and be back among the ranges, at Mick’s place, where they was bred, afore you could say Jack Robinson. You and I couldn’t leave the dairy, and the calves coming so fast, if we was never to see ’em again.’

‘I understand,’ said Wilfred; ‘but how are we to pick up a stock-rider such as you describe? I suppose we shall have to pay him forty or fifty pounds a year.’

‘I don’t know as we should, sir. There’s a man, if we could get hold on him, as would jest do for the work and the place. I heard of him being in Yass last week, finishing his cheque, and if you’ll let me away to-morrow, I’ll fetch him back with me next day, most likely. He’ll come reasonable for wages; he used to live here, in the old Colonel’s time, and knows every inch of the country.’

‘Very well, Dick, you can go. I daresay we can manage the dairy for a day.’

On the next morning, after milking-time, Mr. Richard Evans presented himself in review order, when, holding his mare by the bridle, he asked for the advance of two pounds sterling, for expenses, and so on.

‘You see, I want a pair of boots, Mr. Wilfred, and I may as well get ’em in Yass while I’m about it.’

‘Oh, certainly,’ assented Wilfred, thinking that he never saw the veteran look more respectable. ‘The air of Warbrok agrees with you, Dick; I never saw you look better.’

‘Work allers did agree with me, sir,’ he answered modestly, unhitching his bridle with a slight appearance of haste, as Mrs. Evans came labouring up and glanced suspiciously at the notes which he placed in his pocket.

‘I hope he’ll look as well when he comes back,’ said she, with a meaning glance; ‘but if he and that old rascal Tom gets together, they’ll – ’

‘Never you mind, old woman,’ interrupted Dick, riding off, ‘you look after them young pigs and give ’em the skim milk reg’lar. Tom Glendinning and I’ll be here to-morrow night, if I can find him.’

Mrs. Evans raised her hand in what might be accepted as a warning or a threatening gesture, and Wilfred, wondering at the old woman’s manner, betook himself to his daily duties.

‘A grumbling old creature,’ he soliloquised. ‘I don’t wonder that Dick is glad to get away from her tongue. She ought to be pleased that he should have a holiday occasionally.’

On the morning following Richard Evans’s departure, extra exertion was entailed upon Wilfred and Guy, as also upon Andrew Cargill, by reason of their having to divide the milking of his proportion of the cows among them. As Dick was a rapid and exhaustive operator, his absence was felt, if not regretted. As they returned from the troublesome task, a full hour later than usual, Wilfred consoled himself by the thought that the next day would find this indispensable personage at his post.

‘I wadna hae thocht,’ confessed Andrew, ‘that the auld, rough-tongued carle’s absence could hae made siccan a camstairy. But he’s awfu’ skeely wi’ thae wild mountain queys, and kens brawly hoo tae daiker them. It’s no said for naught that the children o’ the warld are wiser in their generation than the children o’ licht. He’ll be surely back the morn’s morn.’

Explaining Dick’s eminence in the milking-yard by this classification, and undoubtedly including himself in the latter category, Andrew betook himself to an outer apartment, where the scrupulous Jeanie had provided full means of ablution.

The next day passed without the appearance of the confidential retainer. Another, and yet another. In default of his aid, Wilfred exerted himself to the utmost and succeeded in getting through the ordinary work; yet a sense of incompleteness pervaded the establishment. Ready-witted, tireless, and perfect in all the minor attainments of Australian country life, Dick was a man to be missed in a hundred ways in an establishment like Warbrok Chase.

New cows had calved and required milking for the first time. One of them had shown unexpected ferocity; indeed, knocking over Andrew, and disabling his right arm.

‘The old fellow may have had an accident,’ suggested Mr. Effingham; ‘I suppose such things occur on these wild roads; or he may have indulged in an extra glass or two.’

‘I said as much to that old wife of his,’ said Wilfred, ‘but she grumbled something about the devil taking care of his own; he would be back when he had had his “burst” – whatever that means – and that he and that old villain Tom Glendinning would turn up at the end of this week or next, whenever their money was done.’

‘Why, if there isn’t old Dick coming along the road now,’ said Guy; ‘that’s his mare, anyhow, I know the switch of her tail. There’s a man on a grey horse with him.’

In truth, as the two horsemen came nearer along the undulating forest road, it became apparent that their regretted Richard, and no other, was returning to his family and friends. His upright seat in the saddle could be plainly distinguished as he approached on the old bay mare. The London dealer’s phrase of a ‘good ride and drive horse’ held good in her case, as she came along at her usual pace of a quick-stepping walk, with her head down and her hind legs brought well under her at every stride. The other horseman rode behind, not caring apparently to quicken the unmistakable ‘stockman’s jog’ of his wiry, high-boned grey horse. His lounging seat was in strong contrast to his companion’s erect bearing, but it told of the stock-rider’s long days and nights passed in the saddle. Not unlike the courser of Mazeppa was his hardy steed in more than one respect.