Part 7

The road to the Vasse has been made through very pretty forest; we passed herds of cattle feeding, and horses also, on good pasture-land. We reached the little town itself about 5 P.M.; it looked gay and pretty, with its arches and flags, and—what I always think quite the prettiest feature of these receptions—the bands of school children in their smart white frocks and gay sashes. The boys are there too, of course, but are more difficult to keep in order, and have a tendency to break into hurrahs and cheers, and noise generally, to the great agitation of the pretty young ladies who have them in charge. But the girls are very quiet and demure, and make a delightful mass of colour and brightness on their side of the arch. Next, if not before, the school children, I love the heaps and heaps of nosegays I get,—great big nosegays, of which I never can have too many, though no one, except the gentleman we read about, who had all those hands, could possibly carry so many nosegays at once.

You would hardly believe after that hot week at Bunbury that the next week, at the Vasse, could have been so cold. I liked it, but the uncertain showery weather was rather hard upon your father, and the gentlemen who rode about with him in every direction, on excursions to see everything. One delightful place they told me of, attracted me very much by its name. What do you think of “Cattle-chosen”? And the nice part of the story is that the cattle _did_ choose it, long ago. When first brought there the clever cows were allowed to roam about a little while, and choose where they liked best to feed. They did not hesitate in the least, but went straight to this very spot and settled themselves down among the trees. They found splendid grass and water, and shade, and everything they needed. So their owner just built himself a nice house on rising ground, and made a garden, and has lived there like a fairy tale, happy ever after, and the cattle of that station are famous for being quiet and contented, and therefore fat.

The Vasse is a very pretty little place, and the climate most healthy and delicious. I had a pleasant drive one afternoon, with the clergyman’s wife, to a primitive sort of small Mission Home for native children. It was a cottage in a romantic-looking spot in the very heart of the forest, where the children can play about, and follow their own wild and savage instincts, for it does not do to coop them up in ever so nice a playground. Their health suffers if they have not a certain amount of freedom, and they dig up queer roots, and occasionally catch and broil a snake. But when I saw them they were neatly dressed, and looked quite as civilised as any school children anywhere. Their manners were simple and natural, and they seemed very affectionate, and grateful, and happy. About a dozen girls and boys were at home, and I had a very pleasant hour with them. They immediately took me into their entire confidence, and showed me all the favourite play-places, and the little _Mia-mias_, or huts, they had built under the trees, and the boys’ play-spears. How Louis would have enjoyed it all! Only he would probably have insisted on being left at the Mission, “for always,” as he says. When we had thoroughly explored the play-places in the forest we came back to the cottage, and the elder children read very nicely to me, and sang pretty hymns and produced their copy-books, and finally, they showed me their gardens, which were really very nicely kept. Each little girl was then made rapturously happy with a fair-haired doll, and I gave each boy a ball or a top, and there were also baskets of cakes, and stout parcels of “lollies,” to be found under the seat of the carriage, and so we left after many pretty thanks and farewells.

Your father started early this morning, with two gentlemen, to go overland—across country they say no one has yet ever driven through—to make his way down to Albany, some 80 miles away. But another of the gentlemen and I got into the van (papa had to travel in a strong small carriage, with a second trap following) a couple of hours after they had left and drove back to Bunbury, to pick up Catherine who is now better, and make the best of our way to Perth, overland. So here I am writing at night, rather tired after the long jolty drive from the Vasse, but all packed and ready for our early start to-morrow.

Perth, _10th December_.

I need not tell you anything about our journey which ended happily yesterday, except that I had a reception all to myself at a charming little township, still called by the native name Pinjarrah. I am very proud of the kind fuss they made about me there, because it was not official, and if I had not been so horribly frightened I should have liked it still better. All the ladies, young and old, of the district round, determined to give me a welcome of their own arranging and devising; and we drove up through a lovely arch to the door of a new Mechanics’ Institute, and I was cordially received,—all by ladies,—for the gentlemen had to keep in the background! and comforted with delicious tea and cakes, and laden with nosegays; but then came the terrifying part of it—the address. My one comfort and support was to observe that the lady who read it seemed every bit as frightened as I was. We stood opposite to each other and quaked! She told me afterwards that _my_ obvious terror was the only thing which supported _her_, and when I saw how she trembled I took courage. I wonder whether any of the gentlemen—still in the background—laughed? However, our speeches did not take more than two minutes a-piece to read, and when they were over I revived directly, and enjoyed myself greatly. The dear little school children were all there, and sang sweetly and charmingly, and then we scrambled into the van again, and drove up to the Squire’s house—such a pretty place, and a very good house. Here poor sick Catherine and I were petted, and fed, and nursed to our heart’s content, and if I had not been in such a hurry to catch this English mail, I should have liked nothing better than to rest, as we were begged to do, for a day or so. Not only were our hosts all that a traveller’s heart could wish, but the garden had walks bordered by camellias as big as our biggest laurel bushes, and there was a huge myrtle tree one mass of blossom.

Yes—I did not forget to ask about your birds’ eggs, but it is difficult if not impossible to get eggs on account of the lofty trees. You may track a bird to its nest, and then find there is a smooth slippery trunk of 150 feet, without a knot between the ground and the lowest branch. Or else, after you have scrambled up to where you saw the bird disappear, you find the tree is hollow, and that you are as far from the nest as ever. There are lots of birds; cockatoos, different sorts of parrots, magpies, and so on; but it really seems impossible to get at their eggs. I have been given some emeu’s eggs for you, and some “Gnow’s” eggs, and black swan’s eggs; but you will observe that these birds lay their eggs on the ground! The moment it comes to a nest in a tree, it is built too high up for even a native to get at; and there are such a lot of trees it is almost impossible to see where a bird even perches. Dear things, I am glad they are so safe; but the farmers complain dreadfully of the way the large white cockatoos eat up their wheat, and they lay poisoned grain about for the “pretty cockies,” who sometimes drop, apparently out of the sky, dead at your feet. This is after they have been on a foraging excursion to the wheat-fields, and have picked up grains steeped in arsenic.

LETTER XIII.

Government House, Perth, _30th December_.

Whilst we were away rumours had reached us that there was a severe epidemic of measles in Perth, but I had no idea of _how_ severe it really was, until my return. Not only did I find half the servants down with it, but all the tradesmen’s messengers were laid up. An un-measly boy was a treasure in Perth during December, and hardly to be obtained at any price, and all the public offices found themselves at their wits’ end for want of clerks and messengers. One morning I was passing through the hall, and I saw a nice gentlemanly-looking little boy standing timidly at the door, and holding out a telegram. It seems he was walking past the door of the Telegraph Office when the clerk came out, in despair at not finding any of his boys at their posts, and begged this little passer-by to carry the telegram to me, which he did, and got well paid in sugar-plums!

Perth was without bread one fine morning. All the bakers had gone to bed with measles. I could not get myself supplied with butter or meat, besides having no bread. The only thing people seemed to want were lemons. All day long I received messages asking for a few lemons, of which luckily there were great quantities in the garden. And the worst of it was that several people died entirely of not knowing how to take care of themselves, for it was unusually damp, showery weather, and they left windows open, or even managed to get up and go out of doors, and consequently got a chill. It is more than thirty years since an outbreak of measles has appeared in the colony, so there was a whole generation to catch the disease. Fortunately Louis had it in England, and so had two of my maids, and they—I don’t mean to include Louis!—helped me to look after the sick people near me. In one case a woman, whose husband was away, owed her life, I am sure, entirely to the care of one of my maids, who was, by the way, a perfect stranger to her. This girl used to go every morning and evening, make the sick woman’s bed for her, arrange her room, and leave her well supplied with nourishment, and lemonade, and put everything within her reach, for she was far too ill to nurse herself, and all her neighbours were equally bad. Luckily I had lots of chickens, and I spent half my time in the kitchen, superintending the making of chicken-broth, for my cook was ill, and her very inefficient substitute would have turned out a truly queer compound if left to herself.

The first few days after we returned were wet and damp, but when they had passed, the weather became broiling. A hot wind set in and blew for a week, and really the whole place became as hot as an oven. The nights were as hot as the days, in fact hotter, because during the day the house used to be tightly closed, with all its green blinds pulled down, so it felt cool, and dark, and pleasant. But after sunset the shut-up rooms seemed to stifle one, and the windows, when opened, only let in air which might have been heated in a furnace.

One Sunday night about eight o’clock I was sitting out on the upper terrace of the garden, with one of the gentlemen of the staff watching for Louis and Catherine’s return from evening church. I had been afraid to let them come with me to the Cathedral that morning, on account of the heat of the sun, and they both liked going at night on the chance of the church being cooler. As we sat on the terrace, with our backs to that expanse of water I have told you about, a splendid meteor, large, bright, and dazzling, shot over our heads, and seemed to drop more slowly than meteors generally do, into the dark belt of trees before us. It was much too hot to talk, and we had been sitting silent, only thinking how best to defend ourselves with large palm-leaf fans from the clouds of mosquitoes. In this silence, just as the meteor flashed over us, we heard a distinct loud splash in the water beneath and beyond us, exactly as would be made by a little wave breaking all along the shore. “What is that?” we both cried, quite as much startled by the splash as by the meteor. Afterwards I was told that all the people, whose houses looked upon the sheet of water, heard the wave-like splash as well as ourselves, and they supposed it had been caused by the fishes, who had probably been as much startled as we were by the sudden bright light,—giving a jump all at once. Some people, who live quite close to the water’s edge, declare that they have heard this sudden sound like a wave breaking on the shore on other occasions, when the fish might have been frightened. It only shows that, like ourselves, the fish were evidently sitting at their hall doors on account of the heat!

The fruit is all ripening fast, and you would enjoy the plates of delicious green figs at breakfast every morning. The grapes are hanging down in clusters from the long green arcades. If they ever got thinned or pruned I dare say they would be very nice to eat; but, as they are entirely left to themselves, they only manage to be little hard berries, tightly squeezed together, and rather sour. Other people have good grapes, and I often get beautiful bunches sent to me. My roses do not seem to mind the heat, and I have quantities of them; but neither roses nor mignonette smell quite so sweet beneath this scorching sun as they do in England.

You must not think we have this horrid hot wind always. It seldom blows for more than three or four days at a time, and when it is not blowing, the summer, though hot, is quite bearable, and the nights are cool and pleasant. The measles have been raging all the month; and one consequence of the epidemic is that I have had to put off my Christmas tree until after our return from Rottnest, whither we go next week for three months. I am sure I could not get twenty children together, instead of the five hundred I hope to have; and even those twenty would be just recovering from measles, and probably would look very weak and wan.

The Governor came back from his long drive the day before Christmas. I wish he had time to tell you about it, for I cannot do so half as well. The distances he has gone over astonish me more than they would you, for _I_ know the roads, and you have no idea of what a bush-track can be like. He made a circuit of nearly 400 miles between the Vasse and Albany, going over very rough country, but contriving to reach a settler’s house each night. He was rather surprised to find what nice comfortable homes these back-settlers had built for themselves; and, when once you reached one of the stations, you would never dream that it and its inmates were buried in the heart of a forest. They seemed all pleasant and nice and well-informed people, besides being the very soul of hospitality. There were books and music, and evidences of refinement and taste; and the ladies looked as pretty and merry and nicely dressed as if they lived only a little way from an English country town.

Wherever he stopped his hosts used always to advise him to turn back, because they thought the traps could never, never get through the forest. But Pater kept on, and eventually got through all right, though he had one or two adventures. Once, driving through a _very_ thick part, the light top or tilt of his trap caught in a strong branch and snapped right off! It is stuck there now, and will remain in the heart of that desolate “Bush” for many and many a year. I wonder what the cockatoos and opossums will think of it? Another time he was driving along quietly, but something frightened the horses of the trap behind him, and they bolted. It was, of course, impossible for anything but a squirrel to have got out of their way, so they rushed right into the back of the carriage in front, and one of the horses laid its head affectionately on papa’s shoulder! It must have looked very absurd to see him tugging at the bit and trying to lift this great heavy head up. However they soon put themselves to rights and went on. It was impossible to see any distance on account of the thick trees all round; but they seem to have passed through what settlers call “good country” for horses and cattle. Once they crossed a river with the horses swimming behind, and the crazy boat was nearly weighed down to the waters’ edge by the trap. Mr. Plimsoll would have been very unhappy if he could have seen them. Besides rivers, there were swamps and bogs and all sorts of difficulties to be surmounted; but the driver brought them safely through dangers and bad places which an English coachman would have declared impassable.

Fancy the flights of cockatoos, with their pretty yellow crests up, startled by the sight of a trap; but Pater said they seemed quite tame—much too tame the settlers declare. A few kangaroos crossed the track sometimes; but they were off and hidden in the dense forest in an instant. A dog might have got one, perhaps; but huntsmen, especially in a carriage, had no chance whatever.

I asked if anything very curious had been seen in the forests? and was told that the strangest thing had been an odd root or trunk of a tree, which grew a little way off the track, and which looked exactly like a gate-post. It stood straight up, and was neatly rounded off and smooth, without branch or leaf, and stood about 5 feet high. It must have had a very odd appearance among all the tall trees and thick underwood. Some of the trees were splendid mahogany, and really magnificent. That hot weather we suffered from in Perth was just beginning when the adventurous travellers arrived at Albany; so it was fortunate they had reached shelter, and a place where those scorching winds—which blow to them across a bit of the sea—are not so broiling as they are by the time they get to us, 250 miles farther up the coast.

After a few days’ stay at Albany—devoted to business and looking about at everything, in the splendid harbour as well as on land—they all set out at three o’clock one midsummer morning and never stopped, except for a few minutes to change horses—every 20 or 30 miles—until they reached Perth at noon precisely the next day. The mails take fifty-six hours to do this distance, though they too are supposed to go through without stopping; but Pater did the 254 miles in thirty-three hours, to every one’s great astonishment, as that “beats the record” by a good deal. They would even have done it in less time, only in the night, when they must all have been dozing (it was about 10 P.M., and they had been in the carriage _then_ for nineteen hours!), they drove into a waggon slowly creeping along the road. You may suppose what a terrible crash they made, doing no great harm, however, except to one wheel; fortunately they were only a mile or so from the post-house, so they were able to get another trap and come on directly. Still, they lost nearly two hours, and would have taken this tremendous drive in thirty-one hours, had they been able to keep awake just then.

We had a broiling Christmas day, and rather a dull and sad one, for everybody is still either laid up with measles or nursing those that are sick, and you see a good many black dresses, I grieve to say. What a year of travel by land and sea it has been for us all! Your father has done the most, and has really and truly been over more than 1000 miles by land alone, in the six months we have been here. I think I have done most by sea. Many days, when we have been out on our tours, I have stayed at home and rested; whilst he and the other gentlemen have ridden or driven 50 miles between breakfast and dinner, and called that an “off-day”!

_2d January._

We all went to the races yesterday; but although the horses were really very good, and the racing capital, I did not enjoy it much, it was so very, very hot. No wind fortunately, but a blazing sun, and then when we went to eat our luncheon under some trees, the ants tried to eat us up all the time! Such big black ants! but I don’t really believe they are so fierce as they look, for I have often seen them swarming on a garden path, where dogs and children were playing, and no one ever seemed to get bitten. However, one must not talk about ants at a race-meeting! The dear horses were really very good, and ran well. This is a good country for them, and I am sure it might be made to supply horses to the whole world; but hardly any one yet has had either capital or knowledge enough to set about it properly, so there are very few really good-looking animals to be found. They are very cheap and do a lot of work, but they are not much to look at. You seldom see a handsome horse, and still more seldom a handsome pair of horses. Papa has a capital stout cob called “Jarrah,” who is as clever as he is powerful, which is saying a good deal.

Now we are off to Rottnest for three months.

LETTER XIV.

Rottnest Island, _30th January 1884_.