The ideal holiday in Australia is a holiday in the “bush.” There are two Australias—one of the cities and towns; another of the country and the bush. The “country” is the cultivated portion of the land, reclaimed from desolation. In whichever direction the traveller passes, he soon encounters the “country,” and begins to understand something of the enormous wealth of the soil.

Great farms come into view, covered with a multitude of sheep and oxen and horses. The soil in the north-east of Victoria is one of the richest on this great continent. In many places all that is needed is to fling the seed upon the soil, and harrow it in lightly, with the certainty of a speedy and rich crop. Land that was bought but a few years ago for £4 an acre now sells for anything from £50 to £150 an acre. And therein, perhaps, lies one of the great problems of this country. It is the land problem. These immense spaces are not divided amongst a multitude of small holders. They are the property of a comparatively few men. A huge blunder was made when the country was in the infancy of its development. Young Australia should have profited by the example of the Old Country, and never have allowed a land proprietorship like that which is the handicap of the Motherland. The Governments are already perceiving their error, and land is being repurchased for the State. They understand that no country can prosper as it should while the land is at the disposal of a few men who can command their own price, dictate their own terms, and gamble in a commodity which cannot be increased in bulk. Now, happily, in Victoria the large territories are being split up, and townships are consequently springing up, consisting of men who woo the land to fruitfulness. Towards Warrnambool the remnants of the clearing of the bush are in evidence, thousands of gaunt trees, without leaf or bark, white as phantom trees, stand in great spaces waiting to be cut down. At their base runs the plough and the seed-planter. One day the clearance will be completed, and this whole country, brought under complete cultivation, will be among the most fertile in the world.

One of the fairest holiday spots in Victoria is Lorne, where bush, gully, and sea meet.

Primitive, retired, quiet, fifteen miles from a railway station, reached by a difficult road which passes through the bush, Lorne is the last word of holiday solitude combined with happy companionships. No policeman is there; none is ever required; the doors and windows of hotels and pensions are left open all night; there are no marauders to fear. The wide balconies surrounding the pensions are transformed into bedrooms at night, and men and women sleep out, while the sea quietly croons to them throughout the period of darkness. And every wind brings the scent of the eucalyptus to the sleeper. Lorne is a delightful place—a combination of Devonshire and Switzerland; that is, of course, on the small scale. The hills rise from the water’s edge very much as Clovelly rises from the sea. The illusion that we are in Devonshire is aided by the presence upon the table at every meal of clotted cream—a dish beloved of Australians. The numerous hills surrounding Lorne, with their zigzag paths and waterfalls and gullies, are reminiscent of Switzerland, and here again the illusion is aided by the style of the boarding-houses. For everything save the balconies recalls the Swiss pension among the mountains. The fever of the city and the town has never descended upon this retreat. There is no fear of man lying upon bird or beast. The kangaroo and the wallaby do not move when the visitor appears upon the scene. Even the snake leisurely crawls away at the approach of the walker. As for the birds, they are a delight to behold. Little creatures clad in the most gorgeous plumage gather round our feet and pick up the crumbs we drop for them. They have not the slightest fear of us. It is likely they have never heard the detonation of a gun nor the bark of a pistol. Larrikins are barred—by distance—from coming to Lorne; hence the birds have never been chased by rude ruffians. St. Francis, if he came to Lorne, might easily imagine that he had lighted upon some of his old brothers and sisters who had not forgotten him. Besides these birds of beautiful plumage we have our perennial friend the jackass, banished by rude noise from the city, here entering into happy relations with us. Parties of laughing jackasses perch on trees at our very door and make the house ring with their infectious laughter. Life al fresco for us as well as for them; it is a magnificent change from the roar and nerve rack of the city.

Whoever comes to Lorne must walk. There is only one carriage excursion. All other promenades are made on foot. The choice lies between the sea, the mountain, and the gully. Few folk can resist the sport of cray fishing amongst the rocks upon the shore. Once commenced, it becomes a veritable fascination. They have a simple method of snaring the fish. Two bamboo canes—to the end of one a decayed fish is lashed; to the end of the other a loop of wire is attached—and that is all. But it is not quite so easy as it looks. The art consists in lowering the bait into the rock pool, where a crayfish may possibly hide. If the fish is there, he smells the bait, and in a moment crawls out to seize it. Then the second cane is lowered, and the loop passed under and around the creature’s tail. Tickled by the wire, the fish curls his tail. That action seals his doom. The wire loop is immediately tightened, and the astonished crayfish, instead of regaling himself upon the bait, is hauled up to the shore. It requires more than a little cleverness of manipulation to ensnare the fish. There is no difficulty in enticing it from its rocky fortress to attack the bait; the trouble is to encircle the body with the loop.

The great excursions, however, are to the mountain and the gully. Parties leave in the early morning, provided with luncheon and the indispensable “billy” for tea. In every direction waterfalls and fern gullies are found.

Excursions to these gullies rank among the most pleasant experiences of a holiday. After a tramp of an hour or two through the “scrub,” a halt is made for luncheon, and then the “billy” is boiled. The “billy” is an Australian boiling-pot in which delicious tea is made. A suitable spot is selected, stones are gathered upon which the pot is placed, and then the “scrub” is searched for pieces of wood and dried fern. The pot is surrounded with these and the fire is kindled. A muslin bag filled with tea is immersed in the boiling water, where it remains for a few moments. Then it is withdrawn and the tea is ready. I confess to having had a great prejudice against “billy” tea at first. It seemed to me to be only another form of the stewing-pot in the North of England, and to be a deliberate invitation to dyspepsia. And now I have quite a liking for it. Any who wish may try the experiment for themselves. The one thing to avoid is keeping the muslin bag in the pot for too long a time.

The “bush” is being slowly conquered. Town and city folk hardly know that it exists, so rapidly have the plough and the “forest devil” cleared the ground in the great centres. But in many parts it still offers great obstacles to pioneers. Where roads are not yet made, and river beds not yet formed or deepened, life is by no means easy. At a pension like ours in Lorne, where people from all over the State assemble, some weird and curious stories are told by visitors of the adventures which have befallen them. One of the most interesting was related by a clergyman who has served in various parts of the State. A few months ago he received a request asking him to marry a young couple in the bush. The day was fixed, and he was preparing to ride over to perform the ceremony, when suddenly a monsoonal storm burst upon the landscape, and in a few hours the creek had become a river. There was no means of telegraphic communication between the parson and the bridegroom, but simultaneously each went out to meet the other, directed by their sense of the fitness of things. They met at the stream, but lo! the bride was missing; the swollen river had cut her off. The ready bridegroom, however, was not easily daunted, and he had no intention of postponing the wedding. While the clergyman waited at the river bank the bridegroom rode off for his bride. The happy pair arrived in due time, and both of them waded through the river and presented themselves to be married. Dripping with water they were made man and wife, and then, reentering the stream, they crossed it, took to their horses, and rode off to commence their new career. There have been many romantic marriages in the world, but none surely more romantic than this.