Part 6
On this occasion, however, these personal fears were entirely swallowed up in great anxiety about the behaviour of the horses. The team for the last stage was a very spirited one, and it became so excited by the other horses galloping alongside, besides the cheering and the waving of fluttering banners and pennons, that by the time we reached the centre arch, and they caught sight of the Volunteers, the leaders had evidently made up their minds that the only safe place was _in_side the carriage; so they swerved suddenly round, and the next thing I saw was a horse’s head just at my feet, as I sat in the high tray. However, they were soon turned round and securely held, whilst the ladder was fixed and we descended, with what grace and dignity we could manage, from our perches. I am afraid you would laugh very much if you could see me climbing in and out of that van. Everybody near seems rather anxious for my safety, so I suppose it looks as perilous as it feels. And as the ladder has gradually got very much bent by the sudden onward starts of the horses, whilst it was still in position, the danger and awkwardness increases every journey.
I did not see how pretty York was until next day, when we managed to find time to go up to the top of the highest of the low hills which form the cup or hollow in which it nestles. Large fields of fine wheat and oats and barley, made immensely big and beautiful green patches in every direction; the houses also looked picturesque and comfortable, and nearly all of them had gardens round them. The house where we were most kindly taken in, and most hospitably entertained, seemed specially pretty, and more like a large Swiss châlet, as we looked down on it from our little pinnacle.
The weather remained lovely, though rather warmer than when we were last on our travels, and I enjoyed the long excursions to the small outlying townships or large stations which made up part of the programme of each day. You see the main object of these visits to the different parts of this huge colony is, that your father may make himself acquainted with the country, so that when questions of railways or harbours, or any other kind of improvement, come before him, he may know what sort of place they are talking or writing about. And, as I told you before, all the Queen’s far-away subjects take the only way they have of showing their love and loyalty, and so make Her representative’s visit to their little towns one constant scene of welcome and entertainment. This is all very nice, and quite as it should be, but the long, rapid drives through this fine air make me so sleepy! And just when I want to tumble into bed, and go off to sleep like a dormouse, poor old Mater often has to put on a smart gown and her best cap and go to a ball! Luckily I wake up after a little, and manage to enjoy myself nearly as much as your father does, but I envy him for never looking tired or sleepy.
There were lots of balls and banquets and parties of all sorts at York, and so there are here, but we are a long way off—12 miles—from the pretty little township of Newcastle, staying at a charming country-house, where everything is very English and comfortable. The road between York and Newcastle is the prettiest I have yet seen, and one part of it, through a forest by the side of a river, was really lovely. The two little towns only lie about 35 miles apart, and we stopped to lunch at a nice village—one day to be probably a place of great importance—called Northam, where we hungry travellers were splendidly fed and comforted, and sent on our way, through many arches, rejoicing.
The land of this part of the country, called the Eastern Districts, is capital, and it is fairly thickly settled with prosperous-looking farms. I don’t think I have seen any curious animals to tell you about because, naturally, the noise the lumbering old van makes scares the creatures away, all except a stolid iguana, whom we now and then pass asleep on the sunny road, and who sometimes allows himself to be driven over sooner than move. Occasionally a kangaroo or two dart across the path, or a snake, basking in the sunshine, wriggles away under the nearest bush. I have caught sight occasionally of a little animal, something like a squirrel, scurrying up a tree, but it was only a large opossum rat. A flash of brilliant green, like a wet jewel, means a covey of startled paroquets; but the handsomest birds I have seen are the hawks, which are so large that they look more like falcons or eagles. There are some flowers, though nothing like the wondrous growth of the sand-plains, and we pass lots of ferns and orchids.
The strangest animal (or is it a reptile, I wonder?) hereabouts is what the natives call a York Devil. It is quite ugly enough for its name, but seems peaceable and harmless enough. It must possess something of the nature of a chameleon, for it changes its colour gradually to match the stone or gravel or wood on which it finds itself. It is about the size of the palm of a man’s hand, with a queer, rugged, knobby body, and four short feet like a lizard’s; its long neck and spiky head give it a weird and uncanny look. I cannot say it is very lively, nor did I perceive that it ate anything. I kept one, tethered by its leg to the tap of a water-barrel in the garden, for some days; but as I was told that they invariably die, and die slowly after months of starvation, I could not be happy until I had taken it to its favourite rocks, and let it loose. I suspect it lives on small flies and things it cannot get, except on a wild hillside, for it is always found among rocks and in a desolate spot. I should have liked to keep one, but it seemed too cruel to starve an inoffensive creature to death merely because it looked odd. I could not hear that, in spite of their aggressive name, the poor little York devils ever did the least harm to any one, nor are there very many of them.
Our pleasant stay here is just over. To-morrow we are to drive early into Newcastle, for all sorts of festivities in the daytime—an agricultural show, a bazaar, and a banquet—winding up with a ball at night, and then we have to start early next morning, for a rapid drive into Perth. So it is settled that we sleep at a friend’s house in Newcastle to-morrow, to save the horses the extra 12 miles before they begin their journey.
LETTER XI.
Government House, Perth, _24th November_.
The day after I last wrote was, as I expected, a very full and busy one; but we managed an early start next morning, and bowled along the capital road between Newcastle and Perth at a fine rate, arriving safe and sound, but as brown as berries, in Perth. The early summer days were just setting in, and it was still delicious, and not too hot. I enjoy the garden immensely, and _you_ would enjoy the figs! Indeed a quantity of fruit of all sorts is now coming on; the long arcades of vines seem absolutely laden with grapes, and the peach trees have to be propped up, to enable the boughs to support the weight of fruit. Melons and cucumbers appear to be in great abundance, and so do green peas, asparagus, and all other English vegetables. When we returned to town we found the Ice Company in full force, so we can have lots of ice every day.
Louis was delighted to see us; but he can think and talk of nothing else but cricket, which I fear he regards as the most important object of his school-life.
We have been at home just three weeks—very busy ones, I assure you—and every now and then we have had two or three days of extremely hot weather. That only happens when a hot wind blows, and then there is nothing for it except to shut up the house, pull down all the green blinds to keep out the flies, and sit in the dark! However, this state of things does not last long, and is generally brought to an end by heavy rain, which revives us quite as much as it does the grass and the garden.
I have not told you half enough about the cows and the poultry! They are all very happy, and get on famously. I have lots of little chickens, and ducks, and baby turkeys. But the hawks lead me a sad life, and seem to be far too clever to get themselves trapped or shot. Then every Sunday evening there is a long list of casualties to report, because the horses are allowed to run in the paddock on that day, and they generally reward me for the indulgence by galloping wildly over my youngest chickens, and leaving many killed and wounded behind them. Monsieur Puppy, too, got himself into sad disgrace the other day. I think I told you that he was great at rats, didn’t I? In Mauritius he often had the pleasure of catching either a rat or a wild creature called a tanrac (something between a small hedgehog and a large rat), but here he cannot find anything better than a mouse, which he despises. Well, the other day he was in the paddock with me, and something suddenly moved in the long grass. In an instant Puppy had pounced on it, snapped it up and flung it over his head. Alas and alas! it was not a rat, but only a dear little duckling. Puppy was quite horrified, and turned the poor little corpse over and over, evidently in hopes that if he could only put it on its legs it would recover. But it was quite dead, and you never saw any dog so thoroughly ashamed of his mistake as Monsieur Puppy was. He kept close to me all the rest of the time, and did not venture even to look at a fowl or duck. I think he is rather afraid of the three or four big black swans which live in the pond, and he does not understand how I can have courage to let them swim up and eat bread out of my hand. He tried to make friends with a cygnet, a gawky, light-brown creature, who waddles awkwardly about the gardener’s cottage door; but the cygnet declines steadily all Puppy’s playful advances.
There have been two or three bazaars since our return, and the one at Fremantle, for the beautiful parish church there, was very large, and really extremely pretty. I confess I am very glad of them, because I can buy such heaps of toys; different and better toys than those in the shops here. Do you want to know why I am buying up all the toys in the place, until my dressing-room looks like a shop? Well, I will tell you, but it is a profound secret. I am going to have a Christmas tree, or rather three or four Christmas trees, for a lot of the school children, and all the Mission children and orphans must come as well as my friends’ children, and the tree will probably have to be repeated over and over again; so you see I want a good many toys. A box is on its way from England with tapers, and flags, and beads, and glistening things, and even a large waxen angel is coming 8000 miles to perch on the very tiptop. Louis is wildly excited about it, but as he wants to spin all the tops, and blow all the bugles, to say nothing of “borrowing” all the knives, Catherine has to keep the key of the dressing-room in her pocket.
This large house is so cool and comfortable, and the garden is so green and pretty and delightful, that I confess to being rather sorry to have to pack up and start again—to-morrow, actually!—on a third and still more distant tour. I have told you all about the visit to the north (that was to Geraldton); then to the east—York; and now we are going to the south, down the coast up which we came on our arrival. And I am sorry to leave the canaries, for I have had a huge cage made for them, and lots of little yellow birds are just arriving from Melbourne and Sydney. It is pleasant to see their delight when I turn them into their fine big new home, with all its baths, and with a small field of green at one end. There are nests, too, in the corners, and they set to work at once to take possession of them, so it is a pity to leave all the nurseries. The cage stands on the sheltered side of the large wide verandah, where the birdies can get plenty of sunshine, and yet be sheltered from the cold winds—which we have occasionally, even in summer—as well as from the hot winds. The little creatures sing as if they would burst their throats, and are already as tame as possible.
You would be amused if you could see how delighted the sentries are to have this big cage to look at, and I am told they declare sentry duty is ever so much pleasanter now that they have my canaries to break its monotony! At all events I feel secure from cats, for I am sure the sentry would not allow a cat within dangerous distance! It is rather amusing to think of these old soldiers, nearly all of whom wear medals; some have been through the Crimean campaign; two of them have ridden in the famous Balaklava charge; several have served all through the dreadful Indian mutiny; and now, in the evening of their days, their duties consist in strolling up and down between gay flower-borders and keeping guard over singing birds! They are called “Pensioners,” and are the veterans of the Imperial force, which used to be kept here in old convict days. They have comfortable barracks, and a grant of land and good pay, so the fine old soldiers are very well off in this beautiful climate. Some of them have taken their discharge and settled in various parts of the country, and only enough remain to furnish the guards at Government House. There used to be guards at the Treasury and other public offices; but when the convicts were taken away there was no longer any occasion for armed soldiers anywhere. We are a very peaceable and orderly community, and the boys are the only troublesome element of our little society. I don’t mean Louis specially, but all the boys! I can’t help thinking it is the fine air which gets into their heads and makes them so wild. Certain it is that in the other and larger colonies the “grown ups” are quite bullied by the “larrikins” or street boys. Ours have not yet got to that pitch, and I can’t help laughing at the reports I hear of their misdemeanours,—probably because my own boys have taught me what boys are capable of!
The other afternoon when I was driving through Fremantle the schools had just broken up and the young monkeys could find nothing better to do in the way of exercise than to tear after the carriage shouting and hurrahing. The lady who was with me looked much alarmed, and whispered “the larrikins”; but I stopped at a little shop which had sticks of sweeties in its window, and addressed the foremost urchin (such a pretty blue-eyed boy, with the heavenly expression of the conventional seraph), declaring that I did not like troublesome boys, but that good quiet lads should have a stick of barley sugar apiece. Every boy became astoundingly good directly, and ever since I have had no shouting or hurrahing. Your father laughs at me, and says, “So that’s your receipt for managing larrikins, is it?” But I think it is a very good one, don’t you?
I have never told you about Fremantle at all, and yet I drive nearly every afternoon along the road between Perth and that port, which winds under the Bluff, “Mount Eliza,” I mentioned before. The view is so pretty, first of our own broad Swan river, then of another large lake called “Melville Water”; after that comes a charming bit of bush or forest; and then the road rises uphill until you get a lovely view over the sea, with Rottnest and all the islands on the wide blue stretch of ocean.
Just outside Fremantle there is a long steep and narrow bridge across the wide mouth of the “Swan,” and then we drive through some very pretty suburbs of neat, nice little houses, standing in gay gardens, until we get to the town itself. Not a very large one, but growing every day, and it has already capital shops. A little Government Cottage perches on a cliff by the seashore, and I often have tea in its summer parlour, while Louis enjoys a scramble on the rocks. I hope some day we may have a fine harbour, and that I may see lots of big steamers in the beautiful bay, just below the cottage windows.
There is a railway between Perth and Fremantle, which is of course a great convenience; but I prefer the drive, partly because of choosing one’s own time, and partly because the road is so very pretty, and fairly good, all the way. I assure you there is great rejoicing when I propose to Louis and Catherine to drive them down to Fremantle; but I am so busy I have not time to do so half as often as I should like. On our way there, a few days ago, we saw a huge snake basking in the sunshine on some low sand-hills, a little way off the road. Though it was too far off—a dozen yards or so—to do us any harm, the horse on that side shied violently at it. Coming back, an hour or two later, it was no longer there, but a much smaller snake was lying dead by the roadside. I hear legends of a whole colony of snakes who are said to inhabit the vast underground cellars at Government House in Perth, but no one seems inclined to find out their truth. A good-sized snake was slain in single combat by a gentleman visitor on a path in our garden the other day; but I have not yet seen any nearer than this large one asleep on the sand.
LETTER XII.
Bunbury, _8th December_.
We have done a great deal of travelling lately, though not as much as usual has been performed in the red van. By the way it is a dark green van now, picked out with broad streaks of yellow!
The day after I wrote last, we all drove down by eight o’clock in the morning to Fremantle—such a perfectly lovely morning as it was!—and Catherine and I were soon put safely on board the little steamer _Otway_, lying all ready at the pier. One of the gentlemen came with us to take care of us, and he settled us both comfortably on the top of a skylight (not a glass one!) rather aft, and covered us up with opossum rugs, for the moment we got out to sea it became very cold in spite of the sunshine. It was really quite calm, but in rather less than an hour Catherine struggled up from beneath her fur covering, showing a very white face, and said in a faint voice, “I think I’ll go below now, please, my lady;” so down she went and was extremely wretched, until we dropped anchor, at five o’clock, just off Bunbury. That was one of the places we passed, as though in a dream of misery, when we came round from Albany, in the storm last June, and therefore it seemed quite new this time. All this part of the Australian coast is flat and not at all pretty, as seen from the sea; but the people who live in it are so kind, and hearty, and hospitable, that one need not look for any attraction beyond their beaming faces and outstretched hands of welcome.
Several gentlemen came on board to receive me, and take me on shore in a boat, which I was very glad to do, directly, for _I_ began to feel uncomfortable, as the little vessel was bobbing up and down like a cork. It had been arranged for the Governor to come two days later, overland; so of course there was no formal reception for me, only a few friends came down and took us quietly to the hotel, where I was very glad to rest and unpack. The next day we drove and walked, and amused ourselves in our own way; but the day after I was driven out some miles on the Perth road to meet your father. When the van came up I got into it, and drove back to Bunbury, with the Governor, and pretended I had just arrived! There was a great reception then, and balls, and banquets, and shows, began at once; but between these festivities the thing I best liked doing was driving 3 or 4 miles out of Bunbury, along a very pretty road, to the most enchanting garden you ever saw. It was not a stiff, prim, regular garden, but a small valley, cleared from amid the dense surrounding forest, and planted with all sorts and conditions of flowers. Everything was in masses, lovely to look at, and sweet to smell. And the dear charming lady, who has lived there for a great many years, loves flowers as well as I do, and understands them a million times better, and so we both talked flowers to our heart’s content. I can’t tell you how happy I was in that beautiful garden, and every spare moment I drove out to it, over and over again.
After a week’s stay—the hottest week I ever spent in my life, anywhere—we got into the van once more and drove, some 50 miles or so, down the coast to a little seaside place, called the Vasse. A thunderstorm and deluges of rain the night before had beaten down the fierce hot wind and cooled the air, so the weather became once more pleasant, and not too hot. The Bunbury people were very unhappy at our having chanced upon the hottest week they said they had ever known for our visit, and of course the heat was more insupportable in the small rooms of the little hotel, which have no through draught through them, and were therefore like ovens. Catherine’s tiny bedroom was so suffocatingly hot, with its zinc roof, that it made her quite ill, and I had to leave her behind, with a nurse to take care of her.