  “I’m just about sick of it all,” said Eileen. “So am I,” murmured Mollie, almost under her breath. “Me, too,” said Eva. “An’ me, too,” agreed Doris. “I’m weal sick of it.” “Me tick, too,” cried Baby, looking round at the disconsolate faces, and, putting two fat hands to her eyes, she cried lustily. “Stop that, Baby,” cried Eileen, severely. “Stop at once.” But Baby only cried the louder. “Wait a bit, Baby. Here’s a nice piece of bread and jam,” said Mollie, and the cries ceased instantly. “I’m goin’ to ask Mum to let’s all have bread and jam for tea,” said Doris. “I’m sick o’ old drippin’—weal sick!” “So am I,” agreed Eileen. “Other people can have butter and jam together, while we’re scraping along with old dripping. I’m just sick of everything.” “So am I.” “And so am I.” “And so am I.” “And so am I.” And then five very disconsolate little girls swung five pairs of very disconsolate legs vigorously as they sat in a row on the wooden verandah. At least, Baby tried to swing hers in unison with the others, but she only succeeded in giving a rather weak kick now and again, as she watched the other legs and tried to munch her bread and jam at the same time. “Let’s count up all the bad luck we’ve had this year,” said Eileen. “Oh, yes, let’s count,” they all cried excitedly, and instantly they sat erect, all except Baby, who still solemnly swung one leg and then the other, and hung tenaciously on to the last piece of crust. “Go on, Eileen. Speak up.” “First the two cows died, and one of the calves, and didn’t we have trouble with the other one?” she said with a sigh. “And then the big horse died,” chimed in another. “So it did, and then——” “Old Star’s foal died,” said Mollie. “So it did,” cried Eileen. “Old Star’s beautiful foal died.” “Me want Tar’s foal,” cried Baby. “Oh, stop that noise, Baby! You never let us have a nice quiet talk,” said Eileen. “What next?” “The sheep got poisoned weed,” said Eva. “And the dingoes came,” answered Doris. “So they did,” cried Eileen, ticking off the events on her fingers. “That’s six. Can’t we make twelve?” “Say that lot over again,” said Doris, “and we might think of more.” She sat down and prepared to enjoy herself listening to their bad luck. “Yes,” answered Eileen, with hands in the air. “There’s the two cows and the calf—oh! by the way, I didn’t count the calf last time; that’s three, and the horse—that’s four; and old S-t-a-r-’s f-o-a-l” (spelling it aloud, so that Baby would not go into a fresh paroxysm of grief) “makes five, and there’s the poisoned weed and the dingoes. That makes seven. We nearly have twelve—we might think of more by night,” she went on hopefully. “Oh! I know another—one you haven’t thought of—very near the biggest of them all,” shouted Doris. “Oh! Doris, darling, tell us!” “What about the haystack being burnt down?” she exclaimed triumphantly. “Oh, yes!” they shouted; “very near the worst of all, because if the wind was blowing the other way and the house was a lot nearer the stack, it would have been burnt, too.” “Fancy me thinkin’ of it, and you not, and me very near the youngest,” said Doris proudly, as she folded her hands complacently, with a look of self-satisfaction. “That’s eight!” shrieked Eileen. “I knew more would come. We’ll get the twelve yet.” “Oh, look at the beautiful sunset!” cried Eva. “Just like a big crimson lake!” “Beautiful grandmother!” grumbled Eileen. “What’s the use of a beautiful sunset, I’d like to know? I’m just about sick of seeing the old sunset—the same old thing every day, with a few more colours dashed into it at times. I’ve seen enough sunsets to last me to the end of my days, after all the old droughty ones we’ve been seeing for months.” “Were’s de tun-tet? Me want te tun-tet!” screamed Baby, as she clutched her fingers towards the paling pink sky. “Yes, dearie, you’ll get it, too,” answered Eileen. “You’ll get tons of sunset if you keep on living here. You’ll get days and days and days of it, till you’ll wish the old sun would never rise again, so as you wouldn’t see him set again.” Eva remained quietly watching the departing glory of the evening sky. Sometimes Eva got “fits of goodness,” as Eileen called them, and then she was “unbearable.” She sincerely hoped she was not going to get one now, and spoil their nice grumbling evening, for of all things that Eileen liked at times it was to grumble to her heart’s content, especially when she had an audience, so she plunged back to the theme before the “goodness” seized Eva. “Well, we’ve counted eight. There must be more. Oh! yes—didn’t old Dave die?” “So he did!” shouted Doris wildly. “Poor old Dave died, and didn’t Dadda have trouble fixing up about the funeral and lettin’ the policeman know, and all that?” and she folded her hands importantly again. “It’s a wonder we didn’t think of him first of all the troubles, being a man, you know. Say them all over again, Eileen, and we might think of more.” Doris was enjoying herself thoroughly. She was five, and fat and chubby, and she swung her fat legs excitedly and held up her fat fingers to tick off the events. “Well, cut them short this time,” said Eva, “and let’s get on to something else.” “Indeed, it’s nice to talk about ’em,” answered Doris. “Two cows, calf, big horse, f-o-a-l, weed, dingoes, fire, and old Dave—nine bits of bad luck in one year!” “What about Frank cutting his foot that time?” cried Eva, who was getting warmed up to the subject. “Oh, what a bit of luck!” gurgled Doris. “Ten, ten——” “Oh, yes!” cried Eileen. “Frank cutting his foot, and having stitches put in, and wasn’t he a cripple for weeks? That’s ten, sure enough. Fancy ten big accidents in one year, besides the drought and old hot sunsets, and dripping for butter, and long, lonely days when no one comes. I’m real sick of it all. I wish I was rich and had pretty clothes, and could travel about and have lots of fun. There’s Enid Davis, and she’s not a bit prettier or better than us, and she wears beautiful dresses and lovely silky stockings.” She extended her shapely leg. “Fancy that in one of Enid’s silks! Why, it would be a different leg.” Then they all laughed merrily for a time, but discontent was in the air. “I think Enid’s just lovely,” said Doris, with a sigh. “We’d all be if we had pretty dresses like her, and no work to do. She has no right to be richer and happier than any of us. She happens to be lucky. I don’t know why ever there’s such a difference between people. If Enid wants a drive, she just has to call for the car. If we want one, it’s either the broken-down buggy, or the jolting sulky, or ‘Shanks.’ I think, if I were God, I’d have things fixed up differently.” “Oh, Eileen, don’t say that!” said Mollie. “Don’t bring God’s name into it.” Mollie was the eldest, and at times, for all her natural gaiety, felt her responsibilities. “Now, don’t get sermony, Mollie. Let’s have a good straight-out talk sometimes. I do wonder why God doesn’t send rain, when the ground and all around is as black as the ace of spades.” “I s’pose poor God’s busy,” said little Doris. “Goodness! we’re busy enough without havin’ the world to look after.” “Yes,” put in Eva, eagerly. “Just think of all the big world He has to look after. I wonder He can manage it at all. There’s all the country and all Sydney, and all other towns, and all other parts of the world. Do you remember, when we were trying to learn geography, all the places we had to think of? To think He has to look after them all! I just don’t know how He manages at all.” But Eileen’s shapely legs still swung vigorously to and fro, in silent protest. “I wish we were all big men, and could go out and work and make money, and get real rich, and buy lovely homes, and—and—all that. And I wish Mamma would never have to work again, and that Frank could go away and get rich and—and—oh! anything different to this.” They all looked up the long, white, dusty road that stood out clear and distinct in the gathering twilight, and for a time were very quiet, with rebellion in their hearts. At last Mollie, with a bright light of resolve shining in her eyes, turned to them. “Do you know what I’ve been thinking? I don’t know if I ought to tell you——” “Oh, do, Mollie—do!” They all crowded round her. “Whatever is it?” “It’s something I’ve been thinking over for three whole days.” “Three whole days, Mollie? How ever did you manage not to tell us?” “It’s a big plan—it might be too big, but—I think we ought to try. Come on, I’ll tell you!” They all gathered together with big wonder-eyes and listened. And Mother, who had spent the afternoon down under the shade of the friendly bluegums on the creek, darning and patching, wondered what was keeping her little girlies so quiet up on the wooden verandah. “You know, Dadda has a very rich brother somewhere in the world, and, of course, he’s our uncle. So, at that rate, we have a Rich Uncle!” “A Rich Uncle,” they all murmured. “A smart lot of good he is to us,” put in Eileen. “That’s the last we’ll hear of him.” “Wait a bit,” went on Mollie. “I’ve been thinking we ought to write to him.” “Write to him,” in chorus, “but we don’t know him!” “That doesn’t matter. We’ll write to him.” “Write to him,” repeated Eileen. “A lot of good that will do. I suppose he’d never answer the letter. Anyhow, where is he?” “I don’t know. But I think we can find him.” “How, Mollie—how?” “Well, he travels a lot in Europe, but he’s in a big firm in Melbourne, and if we write there they’re sure to forward it on to him. But keep this a secret—a great big secret.” “Oh, yes!” they all gasped. “We’re all in it, you know. We’ll all sign our names.” “Yes—oh, yes!” they all gasped again. “But how did you find him out, Mollie?” “I heard Mamma and Dadda talking about him nearly a year ago. They had a Melbourne paper, with a lot about a big firm in it, and they said he pretty well owned it. Langdon and Ross is the name—Collins Street. And Mamma said what a very rich man he was, and then she sighed and said how different things were.” “What a pity you didn’t think about the letter then,” sighed Eileen. “We might be rich to-day.” “I think I must have thought something then,” said Mollie, slowly; “but it was only a few days ago, when I saw Mother looking so tired, that the letter flashed across my mind.” “And I never knew Dadda had a brother,” said Eva. “You knew you had an uncle somewhere,” put in Eileen. “Yes, but I never thought of whose brother he was. You can know a lot of things without knowing much about them,” declared Eva, stoutly. “Melbourne! That’s the capital of Victoria, isn’t it?” “Oh, never mind what it is!” snapped Eileen. “Go on, Mollie.” “The worst of it is,” went on Mollie, “he and Dadda have not been good friends since they were boys. Of course, they might not be real bad friends, but they quarrelled when they were young, and never write to each other at all, and I suppose he’s nearly forgotten he has a brother while he’s travelling all over the world.” “Oh! dear, aren’t people a nuisance to go quarrelling, especially when one of them’s rich?” said Eileen. “I do wish he was friendly with us: he might help us. I don’t suppose Mamma and Dadda would take anything—it’d be too much like begging.” “Well, we’ll just write from ourselves,” said Mollie. “From five little bush girls—his five little nieces that he doesn’t know—and we’ll all sign our own names.” “Good! Grand! Splendid! Oh, Mollie, you’re a brick! Let’s start the letter straight away. Oh, Mollie! what’ll we say? I wonder when he’ll get it.” “But I hope he don’t write and tell Dadda that his five little—little—what are we?—nieces, wrote to him,” said Eva. “Oh, no! we’ll tell him not to,” declared Mollie. “It’ll be a hard letter to write; I’ve been thinking over it for the last three days.” “Three days!” again murmured Eva. “I don’t know how you’ve thought of it for three days without telling us,” she said admiringly. “I’d have to have told us all straight away. Oh, Mollie, you’re real clever! I’d have never thought of our Rich Uncle.” “Oh, Mollie, do let’s find him!” said little Doris; “let’s find him quick! He might bring us lollies and candy and—and dolls——” “And nice dresses and books and pictures and—” said Eva. “And pocket-money and trips,” put in Eileen. “I hope he ain’t got poor before we find him,” said Doris. “Oh!” There was a chorus of exclamations, while their faces clouded. “I hope not.” “We don’t want any more poor ones in the family,” said Eileen, quickly. “He’s not poor,” said Mollie. “We’ll all write and tell him about ourselves and the drought and the bad times, and how Dadda has to struggle——” “Yes, how Dadda has to struggle,” repeated Eileen. “And all about our losses—and about Mamma. What’ll we say about Mamma?” “Say she’s a brick,” shouted Eileen, “and she’s always cheery and never gives in——” “And she makes all our clothes,” said Doris. “And we often know she’s real tired, and she keeps on sewing,” said Eva. “And when I get a big woman I’m going to take care of her,” said Doris, quite carried away. “Never mind when you’re a woman—we want help now,” said Eileen. “And we’ll say she tries to make time to teach us,” said Mollie, “and bring us up nicely, and we’re afraid she’ll tire herself to death before we grow up, and we’d like him to write to us if he can spare the time.” “Yes, spare the time,” repeated Eileen. “And-and—we’d like him to come and see us——” “Come and see us!” they repeated aghast. “Oh, Mollie! you’re not going to ask him over here, are you?” “Yes. What else can we do?” “But if he’s such a big, rich man, and travelled such a lot—oh, Mollie! our place won’t be grand enough, will it?” “Yes, of course it will. It’s nice and clean, and we’ll all help to tidy it up and make things as nice as possible. And it’s the only thing to do—to ask him here, and let him see for himself how Mamma and Dadda have to work while he’s tripping round.” “Yes, while he’s tripping round,” echoed Eva. “He’ll have to be very hard-hearted if he sees us like this, and does not help us,” went on Mollie. “We’ll pay him back when we grow up. We don’t want to be common beggars, but we do want money now.” “Oh, Mollie! and I never thought you used to think like this,” declared Eileen, in a low voice. “I never thought you wanted to be rich like I do——” “It’s not for myself so much as others,” cried Mollie. “I’m not going to see Mother toiling from daylight to dark, and trying to keep nice and pleasant, and Father and Frank nearly too tired to talk when they come in of a night, and nothing but loneliness staring us in the face, when all the time we might be able to make things a little better. We’ll write that letter and post it by next mail,” she went on in a low voice. “Mother is going to see Mrs. Smith to-morrow, so we’ll write it then. But we must keep it a great big secret.” “Well, this has been a wonderful evening,” said Eileen, “and I’m dying for to-morrow to come.” “It’s been a wonderful, bootiful evenin’,” bubbled Doris, clasping her fat hands. “Bad luck and good together.” “I hope it will be good luck,” said Mollie as she flew inside to set the table, for away across the distance she saw the men returning slowly from their day’s toil, while Eileen and Eva hurried off to feed the lambs, and the two toddlers trudged off to the creek to meet Mamma. “If only we can manage it! If only we can manage it!” was the thought that filled Mollie’s mind as she hurried hither and thither from the kitchen to the dining-room. “If only Uncle gets that letter and comes straight away and fixes up things and gives us all a fresh start. If only we can manage it!” Outside in the gathering darkness Eileen and Eva fed and petted the lambs while they laughed and talked, for a gleam of new hopes and anticipations had come to them. Late that night, when darkness and silence had descended on the homestead, three pairs of bright eyes peered at the stars, while Mollie, Eileen and Eva talked over the wonderful letter that was to be posted by the next mail. |
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