  Down the long flat road bowled the buggy that was bringing the governess from the station, for Father had gone over the night before to meet the train; and now the children, in a state of wild excitement, were grouped together, and wondered. Even Willie let all his eagerness and excitement be seen. Just for the moment the grown-up, careless, sang froid manner that he usually adopted was quite cast aside, and he was a little, eager, natural boy again. “I’ll bet you anything that she’s lame and’ll wear glasses,” he said, looking round at the others. “There you are now. I’ll bet before I see her.” “Oh, sure to be!” they agreed. “Oh, dear! I wish she wasn’t coming. If only she wasn’t coming, wouldn’t it be lovely?” The buggy drew up at the gate, and Mother went forward to meet the newcomer. “By Jove, she don’t look bad!” cried Willie, as he peeped through the dining-room window. “Why, she looks real young,” cried Mollie. “She’s just like a girl,” cried Eva. “What’d you expect her to be?” asked Willie, “a bloomin’ old man?” “Oh, but I mean a real nice young girl!” explained Eva. “Just you wait a bit,” he replied. “Oh, she looks real nice!” said Eileen. “Ugh! looks are nothing,” grunted Willie, who was somewhat disappointed at all his predictions coming to nothing. “Wait till she starts teaching, and see if she looks so pretty then. She’s got her best manners on now.” “And what a pretty hat,” said Mollie. “Oh, lovely!” agreed Eileen, “and a real pretty dress, too. Look, she’s taking her dust-coat off!” “Oh! who wants to see her old dress?” snapped Willie, who felt somewhat out in the cold. “They’re coming in. Let’s all go out the back way,” and off they scuttled. Later on they were all introduced, and Miss Gibson was so bright and friendly and took such an interest in everything that they found themselves quite drawn to her. Even Willie said grudgingly, in his most grown-up way, that “she wasn’t half a bad sort, and if they carried things out properly they might knock out a good many holidays.” They took her out to see the pets, and she asked their names and seemed to know all about pet lambs and even chickens, and she could actually ride. Then when they found out she used to live in the bush when she was a child they took her to their hearts straight away. “Yes, I am a real bush girl,” she smiled, “but I’ve been in Sydney for the last four years, teaching at College. I just used to long for the bush, and the horses and the rides, and the wide, free, open spaces, and solitude when you wanted it, and to get up early and watch the sun rise, and then to watch the stars twinkle into space, and then just to gaze and gaze at the sky until there seemed nothing else in the world but yourself and the starshine.” “Really, it was wonderful,” the children declared, “to think that a nice girl who knew all about the bush and who knew pet lambs and could ride had come to teach them, and to think that they had had all their trouble and worry for nothing, thinking and wondering about her.” Eileen said it would be a lesson to her, and she would never, never worry again. So five very happy little bush girls went to bed that night, with the suspense of the last few weeks quite gone from their minds. And Willie, too, was quite jubilant. “Anyhow, it’s better than having a cross, prim old dame that won’t let a fellow have a joke,” he said, as he lit his candle in the hall, “and we’ve only got to work things all right and I’ll bet we’ll get plenty of holidays. One thing, she can’t expect a man to be always stuck at school.” And so school life commenced, and went on very smoothly, although now and then the children felt it a bit irksome, for they had been used to so much freedom that it was something quite new to have to answer bells and keep rules and silence in school hours, and sometimes they simply longed to tear out over the green paddocks just in the midst of a history or geography lesson. Their minds would wander away from names and dates down to the clover patch or to the river bend or some other well-known patches, and as soon as school was over they would rush off with wild hurrahing and run wild for an hour or two. Miss Gibson, though kind, was firm, and insisted on good work and attention, and sometimes, as much as they liked her, they would get together and discuss her, and then perhaps they would come in and find her chatting brightly with Mother or helping her to make scones and cakes, and all their ill-feeling would vanish, for Mother looked so much brighter and happier since the governess came, and they would rush off to see if they, too, couldn’t help. Sometimes in the afternoons Miss Gibson would let them off an hour earlier, and would take a walk with them. She had sometimes noticed traces of discontent in her little charges, and wished to imbue them with the love of Nature. “Do you know, children,” she said one day, “I really don’t think you realise how well off you are.” “Well off?” echoed the children, for they were in a discontented mood that day, and nothing seemed to go right. “Yes—well off. Just think what you inherit. Those vast wide spaces, and the great blue dome of the sky for a roof, the beautiful sunbeams, or at night the silver-specked vault, and at your feet a great, green velvet carpet fit for kings to walk on.” “Dear me, that sounds beautiful!” cried Mollie. “I often think we’re lucky, but I can’t think things like you.” “Tell us more,” begged Eva, who regarded it as a story, and she linked her arm through Miss Gibson’s. Miss Gibson laughed merrily. “Very well, dear. Did you ever think what a world of wonder we live in?” “Oh, that’s all right when you’re rich and travel about!” said Eileen. “You’re sure to see a lot of wonderful things then.” “Why, my dear, they surround you.” Eileen looked round. “I don’t see anything so very wonderful.” Eileen was in the mood for argument. “Look at those lights and shades down in the gullies; look at those twinkling little golden clover flowers. Look at the sunlight flickering on those great snow-white gum trees; and later on this evening we will watch the sunset, with all its glorious colours that artists rave about and try in vain to seize for their canvas. Think of all the beauty and wonder of the seasons, the coming and going, the birth and bloom and fading and decaying and silence and rest of our wonder world. We ought to all try and keep young at heart, and enjoy and love the big open book of Nature that is flung open all around us. Think of the glorious moonlight nights and the beautiful glowing sunrises, or that pearly glimpse we get of the world just before dawn, when it all seems wrapped in mystery. I want you to become lovers of Nature, and you will never be quite lonely. Think of the joy of watching tiny leaflets and buds opening into beauty and watching and tending their growth. Think of the wonders along the river banks, where the wild ducks dip and glide and dive, and the dear little fluffy ducklings, with bright, beady eyes, fluttering about in the water, imitating their elders. Don’t you ever think what a grand thing it is to have your sight, just to see all the beauties around you?” “Ye-es,” said Eileen, somewhat reluctantly; “it is all beautiful and wonderful.” “Yes, it is so,” they all agreed. “Dear me, it’s nice to think about it,” said Mollie. “You do make everything sound nice, and you make one glad to be alive and living in the country. Let’s have lessons outside sometimes, Miss Gibson,” she went on. “Oh, I’d love it!” “So would I!” and “So would I,” they all shouted. “Very well,” answered Miss Gibson, delighted to see them so enthusiastic. “We shall have lessons outside sometimes, and excursions to the river and different parts of the paddocks, and in the years to come you will look back with pleasure on those Nature studies, I am sure. Why, you might all develop into writers or artists or poets if you will only open your minds to the beauties about you.” “Oh, dear!” sighed Eva. “If I could only be an artist!” “I want to be a poet,” declared Doris. “And I’d love to write,” said Mollie. “I’d like to be all,” declared Eileen, “and I might be some day once I start and put my mind to things.” “I don’t think,” jeered Willie. “It’s as much as you’ll manage to be one of ’em.” “I’m goin’ to write poetry,” declared Doris. After that the children grew most enthusiastic, and were always bringing in specimens and plants and leaves, and watching butterflies and ants and calling each other to watch the sunsets, and discovering new beauties in everything. But one day Mother said they were carrying things too far, when Doris came home sopping wet and her boots and socks caked with black mud; and Eva nearly as bad, for she had just pulled Doris out of the creek, where she slipped in while trying to catch a little wild duck that was playing at the water’s edge. “Such a little beauty!” cried Doris, as she dragged her socks off. “I wanted it for spessiman.” “You’d better leave ‘specimens’ alone,” said Mother, “if you can’t manage any better than that.” “Yes, I better leave ‘spessmans’ alone a bit,” agreed Doris, as she shook her socks, for she generally agreed with anyone. “Of course, you can gather flowers and plants,” said Mother, relenting somewhat, “out in the paddock, where you’re safe.” “Yes, out where I’m safe,” echoed Doris. |
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