My dear Basil,
The days are growing longer. There is a tinge of summer warmth and drowsiness in the air. The corn paddock at “Myall,” which has been a picture of vivid green, with the pale gold corn cobs peeping out of their golden tresses and swathing of tenderest green, is turning to rich, deep green, with red-gold and burnished cobs raising themselves proudly erect or swaying in the breeze. The wheat field, too, is turning to yellow with the rustling ears breathing ever a slight cadence to the breeze. And with the growing length of days my picture, too, is growing apace. I stand back and gaze at it ere I place my brushes away for to-morrow’s work. It is a picture of joyous young life, of early blossom and fresh born greenery, of tender leaflet and bud, of wattle’s gold and a glimpse of road winding among forest giants, and the spirit of the early tenderness and benediction of Spring time breathes over all. If in the years to come I shall ever again gaze on that picture, my thoughts shall go rushing back to glorious, fresh-tinged days when all the world seemed young; to lilting, joyous song of birds; to the gambols of those merry foals; to the teeming, indescribable hum of insect life among those forest trees; to the haunting perfume of that golden wattle—in fine, to all the charm and allurement of Spring time in the open spaces.
The end of the year is not far off, and on the whole it has been a year of interest, of pleasure. When one studies human nature, as well as the great open Book of Nature around one, then the time flies by all too quickly.
Soon I shall take a short holiday in Sydney, and just for a space become one of the busy, hustling crowd, and revel in the glimpses of shining water and twinkling fairy barques and harbour lights and white-winged yachts, and then back again to the life of the Bushland, and the pleasant task of teaching the dearest, funniest children I have ever met—Five Little Bush Girls.
MARIE.
