  My dear Basil, I am in the North-West, and it is spring time! The fresh, warm-tinged air of the open spaces sends new life through the frame, waking old ambitions, recalling lost ideals and dreams of youth. The North-West world is a vast temple filled with the incense of the wattle, and the gladsome carols of feathered songsters. Just to lie on those verdant carpets and gaze into the twinkling depths of the blue sky; just to gaze and gaze and wonder and wonder again at the beauty and space and gladness of it all! At night the sky is a silver-specked vault, charged with the silver of the Milky-Way, or flooded with the light of the moon. What a great, great pity it is that our minds and hearts ever grow old! If only we could go through life with wonder eyes, what delights and wonderments we would find in this old prosaic world. And we could, if we would, retain this sacred possession of perennial youth. It is not always the years that count. One of the youngest persons I know is a man of forty-five, and the oldest person I ever met was a boy of fourteen! Ah, those young-hearted folk! How delightful it is to meet them! Don’t they seem to make life worth while? Down in the scrub a field of beauty stretches before me. The tall blue gums stretch towards the sky with their snow-white branches gleaming among the shadows and filtering sunlight, and here and there a mighty giant of the forest waves long, tattered, shroud-like strips of brown bark that have been cruelly stripped from their branches by the forest storms. But already the healing has come; the smooth new bark gleams and glistens in the warmth of the kindly sunlight, and the tattered shrouds wave a tender farewell to those new spirits born of their disaster. I climb and scramble through forests of slender saplings, over fallen logs and stumps, among blue-grey vegetation or, in the next instant, among vivid green trees that grow in symmetrical beauty, as though tended by a gardener. Fancy, if one had the planning out of a bush garden in that North-West forest! What a labour of love, what a fascinating theme to work on! Clearing and thinning and “lopping”; guarding with tender and jealous care some forest beauty that now gleams tenderly through darkening, choking growth. What winding paths and avenues and clumps and groves would be formed, with here and there a cleared space for masses of garden flowers. But a haunting, elusive perfume steals gently on a slight breeze from the inner depths of the forest, and I hasten thither to be met by fresh delights. The air is filled with the cloying sweetness of budah, nipand, wild orange, and clematis blossoms. The wild orange, or bumble, or “moogiel” (the aboriginal name) stands somewhat aloof from their neighbours. Who knows? Perhaps in the days of old they held pride of place in that vast scrub, and, mayhap, the dusky maidens twined bridal wreaths from their creamy blossoms; but howe’er it may be they stand aloof with their crown of glossy leaves and creamy blossoms and tender green fruit. Perhaps black fingers, long since stilled, wove hopes and shy thoughts among garlands of tender blossoms in the days ere the white usurper set foot on Australian shores. I don’t know what you will think of it all, Basil, but you asked me to send along these descriptions of the North-West, and I am seeing it at its best, so you must make allowances if I enthuse. I know all about the long, drear, desolate droughts, but “why think about to-morrow if to-day be sweet,” and so I give way to keen delight of the beauty and freshness of the surroundings, and trust that I draw a vivid pen-picture of this lovely forest. MARIE.
My dear Basil, Oh, those wattle groves of the North-West! How can I describe their tender, haunting loveliness? To-day I stood on a red, sandy road, and gazed down a long, glowing vista, where, like gold-crowned maidens, the wattle trees stretched for miles on either side, as though guarding that long avenue from destruction. A slight breeze stirred the branches, and the fluffy balls nodded in welcome, and scattered a shower of golden, powdery dust on to the shimmering sand. I stole almost reverently through that golden avenue, for a sense of benediction was in the air. A burst of melody broke on the stillness, and I stood stock-still. Surely such a pÆan of praise might the angels sing! The liquid notes swelled higher and clearer as the black and white feathered songster continued his gladsome song. I stole quietly through the bushes and watched the singer who filled the scrub with melody. Just a black and white bird (a magpie) standing on the dead branch of a tree—no stage setting here. With head thrown back he trills and “cadenzas” and warbles as though his heart would burst, and a sea of throbbing melody surrounds me. And then the song dies away, and I am left with a sense of loneliness, for a hush fills the auditorium of the forest; but it is soon broken, for other birds awake the echoes, chirping, calling, singing and chattering and fluttering hurriedly around, as though the very universe depended on their exertions. The scrub is filled with baby-birds in different stages of growth. Some are merely very unattractive little morsels, that open hungry beaks as Mother-bird appears; some half-fledged and unattractive, too; some are just wee, fluffy balls, with bright, beadlike eyes; and others are at the interesting stage of learning their first “steps.” Up among the friendly branches they flutter and screech as they try their little wings, with alternate chattering and scolding and encouragement and comments from Ma and Pa. I pause and ponder. Next year those tiny, helpless morsels will have their homes among the leafy branches, and they, too, will be builders. Think of it! In one short year’s time the birds will have commenced their life-work, and what about we humans? Year after year we are watched and tended. Year after year our education goes on, and yet I doubt then if we are as faithful builders as those feathered songsters. But adieu till next week, when I will tell you more about the fields and paddocks. How I wish you could have a whole free week up here to revel in the green gladness and wonderful space! MARIE.
My dear Basil, The paddocks are full of young life. Out on the green the foals frisk and gambol, while their mothers, with admonishing whinnies, try to coax them back to their side. To-day a wee foal of but a few weeks old came and stared at me with wonder eyes. Standing daintily on its slim legs and tiny black hoofs it stared at “the stranger within the gates.” I longed to pat its soft nose, to stroke its silky ears, to embrace its shining, satiny neck, but—I didn’t dare to move, for I knew there would be a startled glance, a scamper of hoofs, a wild rush and the mob would be off, leaving a trail of trampled greenery in their wake, and with me a sense of desolation. So I sat still and gazed into those wonder eyes, as the little creature came nearer and nearer with cautious steps, and was joined by its curious little mates, till there were seven high-bred, dainty animals gazing at the solitary human. A shining bay, with black points, held pride of place as it reared its head daintily, and two little chestnuts followed closely; a wicked little shining black satin-coated one already showed the whites of its eyes, and a brown and a roan completed the number. They stood about solemnly, those seven little critics, and I wondered at their verdict. There and then I resolved that they should find a place on my canvas, and I seized my brush, when suddenly the roan foal, becoming frisky, gambolled and tossed its head, and, with playful leaps, dashed across the paddock, the others following helter-skelter. I don’t think I shall ever forgive that roan foal for breaking up the party, and I’ll feel a grudge against every roan horse I see, whether roaming free in the paddocks or harnessed to work. And then the whole mob scampered off; with tossing mane and head held high in the air, they galloped and pranced and gambolled and frisked for very lightness of heart, and revelled in their glorious sense of freedom and the intoxication of that spring morning. In the next paddock the unbroken horses heard their revels, and they, too, started on a wild stampede. I could hear the thud, thud, thud of galloping hoofs as they disappeared away in the distance, and the muffled sound of the return, as with flashing eyes, waving mane and distended nostrils those young, untamed creatures raced and raced for very joy of living. I thought of tired, spiritless cab-horses standing day by day in unbroken monotony, of cart-horses, whose only glimpses of greenery is the common at night time, and I sighed that I could not transport those weary, spiritless animals, who have surely forgotten (if ever they did know) those free, wild stretches, that unbroken spirit, those wild stampedes through a wealth of greenery in company with a gay, care-free mob, intoxicated with the freedom and beauty of early spring mornings. All the children joined me in my afternoon walk, and we took the track to the Namoi river. Among the bull-rushes and weeds along the water’s margin, the shy, slim, graceful water-hens rush noiselessly. The children gathered bunches of bull-rushes, clad in their goldeny-brown plush top-coats, and then we gathered shells and mussels, and then placed the mussels all back again in the water, for high above our heads, in one of the river bends, we saw a bed of wild buttercups, and as we hastened through the reeds a brood of ducks floated out—darling little, tiny fluffy balls, with bead-like eyes, drifted along the deep, still waters, with the important mother-ducks leading the way. There were faint, little cries and chirps as they glide along and were joined by flocks of others, young and grown, gliding peacefully down the still, deep river, through patches of sunshine and stretches of shade. The children find new beauties every day in the bush life. “Why, we never used to notice half those things till you came here,” said Eileen the other day. “I think we must have been going about with our eyes shut half the time.” But I know, of course, that it is because the gift of observation has been cultivated lately, and everything appeals to them now, and where once the paddocks and the river banks were delightful places to run about and play in, now there are fresh points of interest in tree and flower and plant life. To-morrow I commence my picture, and I shall work very constantly at it till it is quite finished, so don’t expect too many letters in the weeks to come. MARIE.
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