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Monster High Ghoulfriends Forever

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.
of that number. Young men and women of England, to whom life is a
bitter struggle, why do you not think of Queensland? Men and
women of sterling character coming out here would help to lay the
foundations of a great and a glorious State....
One day we had a delirious motor ride through the bush, our
objective being a seaside resort thirty or forty miles distant. When
we left the city it was farewell to men. Mile after mile we travelled
without encountering a single human being, or passing a single
habitation. It was one solemn, vast solitude. A road, well made,
traversed the forest. Around us and ahead of us lay the “bush,” an
immense entanglement of “scrub,” dominated by the everlasting
gum-tree. Strange birds flew here and there. Their plumage was
often gorgeous to the last degree. Strange and uncouth animals
crawled across the road from bush to bush. Once we surprised an
iguana, a terrible-looking creature of most mild habits. The iguana,
appearing upon the scene for the first time, sends a chill to the heart
of the spectator. This glorified lizard has the visage of a demon and
the courage of a rabbit. It scuttled away before our approach. In the
heart of the bush we came upon a tragedy that must often be
enacted amongst the animal dwellers of the great solitude—a
kangaroo, a mother, unable to resist the pangs and pains thrust
upon her by her destiny, lay dead upon the roadside. And above, on
a branch of the tree, stood a pair of laughing jackasses, guffawing
their loudest, as if life knew no tragedy and no pain. Another time
we encountered a large snake, which stupidly raised its head against
the motor. Kangaroos, snakes, macaws, parrots, “jackers”—these
and their kind are in possession of the forest. Here and there man
has settled down and commenced to cultivate the land. At once the
soil has responded. We passed great patches of bananas and acres
of pineapples. The ground awaits only the stimulus of the spade and
the living seed, and it responds immediately with a prodigal crop of
fruit. Here is this fertile country, taken all in all richer than any other,
calling out to man to come and endow himself with its treasures.
 CHAPTER X

THE ROMANCE OF QUEENSLAND SUGAR

The marvel of Queensland grows upon one the more the country is
studied. I have spoken about its vast territory, its small population,
and its almost infinite possibilities in many directions of
development. There remains one thing further to note—viz., the
possibilities of Queensland as a sugar-producing country. Already
this mere handful of population has developed the sugar industry in
a remarkable way. Last year, for example, there were nearly 131,000
acres of land under cultivation for sugar cane alone, and from this
nearly 171,000 tons of sugar (not cane) were produced. The
industry has already called into existence a monthly journal entirely
devoted to sugar interests. Turning over its pages we see what
strides have been made. Therein are named all kinds of machinery
for dealing with the product, from the moment when the farmer
drives his plough into the ground, until the moment when the cubes
of white sugar issue from the final cylinder of the refinery. Machines
are now made for crushing the cane at the rate of 830 tons per day.
It is not, however, to technical details of this kind that I invite
attention, but rather to one or two matters in connection with the
industry which will be interesting—i.e. the romance of growing and
the romance of refining the sugar.
Queensland, of all the Australian States, is capable of producing
the most sugar. The climate is tropical, the area is enormous.
Hundreds of square miles of land are awaiting cultivation. The door
for genuine workers is more widely open than ever before, and open
to the white man. But let it be understood that the pure white man
who enters this tropical territory will not long remain white. He may
retain all the instincts belonging to the white races, but his skin will
be tanned, darkened, and in course of time perhaps blackened,
under the powerful rays of the Northern sun. The white man,
however, is entreated to come. The policy of the Commonwealth, to
preserve a “white Australia,” whether mistaken or not, is the policy
that is in force. Black labour in the sugar plantations is a thing of the
past. The Kanakas, formerly imported from the South Sea Islands,
have all been returned to their native homes. Not a coloured man is
permitted to work in Queensland. The Government supports the
white man in a practical manner by giving a bounty on all sugar
produced by pure white labour. This bounty, since 1905, amounts to
£3 per ton of sugar—i.e. the finished product. The grower is further
supported by a protective duty of £6 per ton on all foreign-grown
sugar. But what about the consumer—the poor consumer? Ah!
there’s the rub. Protection secures excellent results to certain
people, but I have yet to learn that the consumer is “protected” by
so much as a farthing. The truth is that protection is most partial in
its working. The few benefit by it; the many suffer. The price of
living is rapidly increasing in the Commonwealth despite “Protection.”
Australia pays an excessive price for sugar. Why? Because the
consumer is not protected against the “ring,” which can fix any price
it chooses for the sale of a commodity, knowing full well that the
protective tariff effectually kills all competition. This, however, is a
digression. I was saying that the door is open in Queensland for the
white man, who, as a worker, has an unparalleled opportunity of
piling up a modest little fortune. And for this reason the day of the
great plantation has passed, and the day of the small holding has
arrived. Formerly the situation was—the large capitalist, the large
plantation, a handful of white men and a colony of “niggers.” That
meant a colossal fortune for the few and practical slavery for the
many. But to-day the Government has inaugurated a “Government
Central Mill” system, and this has meant the rapid breaking up of
large estates and the establishment of a number of small holdings.
Nearly 6,000 persons are now engaged in growing sugar-cane, and
a race of independent white planters has been settled on their own
holdings. To quote the official notice, “There never was a time in the
history of Queensland when any person desirous of becoming a
sugar-cane farmer could find easier conditions or greater facilities for
success. The Government, the large planter, and the big sugar mill
owner are all ready to assist him to a start.” A labourer—i.e. a cane
cutter—can earn as much as 15s. a day, and if he be a thrifty man
he can save sufficient in a few years to commence cane-growing on
his own account. There is a great industry, then, awaiting
development in Queensland, and the natural people to undertake it
are our own kinsmen in the Old Land. It has been established that
white men can work in the North. Not all white men, however. I
think I know a type of Englishman who would die of exhaustion
were he transported to the hot climate of Queensland. With the
development of the industry would come the question of markets. If
Australia grows as it should, a market would be found at home—a
market at hand. But there would also be a surplus for exportation. At
present export markets are found in New Zealand, the Cape, and
Canada. The United Kingdom is entirely barred. Englishmen, now
accustomed to cheap sugar, would never pay the price which
Australians would be compelled to ask for it.
I had no idea how the sugar-cane grew until I saw it in
Queensland. Nor, for that matter, did I know how pineapples grew.
Like many others, I conceived the pineapple as growing upon trees.
It was quite a shock to find it growing after the manner of cabbages.
Who would ever dream that these tall, knotted bamboo sticks
contained the sweet substance which, when ground down and
refined, appeared as sugar? Men, lightly clad, enter the plantations
armed with a kind of bowie-knife—their weapon for severing the
thick, heavy stalks of sugar-cane. The canes, deftly cut, fall upon the
ground, whence they are transported to specially built trucks, and
thus conveyed to one of the central mills to be crushed into pulp and
converted into raw sugar. From the mill the raw material is sent in
bags to the refinery, from which it issues as an edible article. By the
courtesy of the manager of the Brisbane Sugar Refinery Company,
we were allowed to follow the entire process of preparing the sugar
for the market. In a huge storeroom there were piled some
thousands of sacks of raw sugar, recently arrived from the mill.
These white sacks arose, tier upon tier, like huge cliffs. But before
the material is handled by the workers it is analysed and tested by
the chemist. In a well-furnished laboratory there reposed all manner
of chemicals, and weights and measures, and test-tubes. All the raw
material entering the refinery is carefully examined and classified.
For there are no fewer than twenty different kinds of sugar which
pass under the chemist’s observation. Chemistry has revolutionised
the sugar industry. Waste is reduced to the minimum. The loss in
working amounts to only two per cent. What was formerly thrown
away has now become an important article of commerce. By-
products have been created. The unwritten motto in the laboratory
is, “Gather up the fragments which remain, that nothing may be
lost.” It was the chemist himself—this magician who can work
miracles—who was kind enough to explain the whole system of
working to us. The sugar is first of all weighed, and, said the
foreman, with a pardonable touch of pride, “the mill accepts our
weights.” The community is too simple, too small, too dependent to
have yet developed the fine art of robbery and lying. Weighed, it is
then emptied down a grating, as if it were sand rather than sugar.
By ever-ascending machinery the raw sugar is then carried up a flue
to an overhead copper, into which it is poured. The sacks, instead of
being shaken, are put through a machine which extracts from them
the last farthing’s-worth of sweetness. The pouring of the raw sugar
into the coppers is attended by a fine dust-storm, the particles of
dust being sugar. It is a world of sweetness into which we have
entered; the very atmosphere is impregnated with sugar. The odour
is that of Demerara, the perfume of the forbidden cupboard of our
youthful days. And to the perfumed atmosphere is added the hum of
whirling machinery. It is sugar set to music. From the copper the
mass passes into a hopper, where it is mixed with syrup. Thence it is
poured into centrifugal machines whose violent revolutions separate
liquid from solid, and leave behind in the pans a purer grain. Partially
refined, the changing mass is discharged by means of shoots into
melting-vats below. Water is now added, and a strange liquor,
anything but like sugar, is formed. The metamorphosis proceeds,
mocking and bewildering as metamorphoses generally are. Half-
drowned in liquor, the inebriated sugar is pumped up into adjusting
pans, from which it goes on to the filters, where the separation of
mechanical impurities from the sugar in solution takes place. At the
very summit of the refinery the filters repose. These great vessels
are filled with bone charcoal which has been subjected to the terrific
temperature of 4,000 degrees Fahrenheit. Under this frightful heat
all organic matter has been entirely destroyed. Through this mass of
charcoal the liquid sugar passes—a depth of twenty feet—and when
it emerges at the bottom the liquor is purified. But it is not yet sugar.
The pure liquor which runs into the tanks consists of 60 per cent.
sugar and 40 per cent. water. Now the task is to evaporate the water
and leave behind the pure sugar. To accomplish this, the whole
mixture is poured into a vacuum pan, in which the water is
condensed. The evaporation over, a granular mass is left behind.
This mass then falls into other tanks, where it is continually stirred
by mechanical levers to prevent it becoming spoiled. Then, again,
the centrifugal machine is requisitioned, and the sugar is finally
dried. There remains but one stage more—the roasting—and then
through an opening in the last cylinder the white sugar falls upon
the board.
It is all so simple, yet so complicated. And it is immensely
fascinating. The human hand does not touch the product from
beginning to end of the refining process. Machinery—as nearly
intelligent as machinery can ever be—accomplishes the whole. And
then my comrade points a moral. He contrasts this scientific and
humane work with those old clumsy and brutal methods which
prevailed on plantations of other times. Then the laws of sanitation
were unknown, or disregarded. Human feet did what steel does to-
day. Dirty hands touched what even clean hands to-day never touch.
And then there was the whip, the oath, the kick, and often the thin
stream of red blood running down the face or the neck of the negro.
The world has changed, thank God! Things are not wholly going to
the devil. There is a history of ever-broadening humanity concealed
in the story of the romance of sugar.
 CHAPTER XI

THE AUSTRALIAN WINTER AND SPRING

The seasons in Australia are, of course, the exact reverse of those in

England. The longest day in England is the shortest day in Australia,
and vice versa. June 21st is Australia’s midwinter day; December
21st is midsummer day. The seasons are not so strongly divided
from each other in Australia as in England.
In early September, when the days in the dear Old Country
contract and the nights lengthen, spring bursts suddenly upon
Victoria; the days are sensibly longer and the nights are shorter.
“Burst” is the proper word to employ. No soft and sweet herald
announces in advance the coming of spring. One day it is winter, the
next day it is spring. It is an act of seeming magic. Without warning,
the new life, which has lightly slumbered during the brief winter,
awakens to new beauty. Here in my garden the tiger lily is in full
flower, while narcissi, geraniums, wallflowers, orchids, daffodils, and
whole riot of fragrant flowers are as advanced as if we were already
in the fullness of summer. My five fig-trees are in the high tide of
pushing life; the vines are putting forth bud and leaf, peaches are in
full blossom, and orchard and gardens are a panorama of loveliness.
This is a new kind of spring to an Englishman; it takes one’s breath
away by its swiftness. After the slow approach of the English spring,
this rapid appearance of new life appears to be a little unreal. For all
that it is most acceptable. The Australians are glad to welcome it.
They have had what they call a terrible winter. Apologetically, they
remark that this has been the worst winter they have experienced
for very many years. Dear spoiled children! They do not know what
a bad winter means. One little frost we have had, with its legacy of
thinnest ice, which the children treasured as if it had been a marvel
unheard of before. During this “terrible winter” we have had fewer
than a dozen fires in the drawing-room, and on ten days only has it
been chilly enough to necessitate an overcoat. Every day have I sat
at work in my study with the window wide open and never the
suspicion of a fire in the grate. True, rain has fallen heavily, and on
the heights far away from the city there has been a coating of snow.
At Ballarat and other places, situated at an elevation of 1,500 to
2,000 feet above the sea, snow has fallen heavily, and the good old
game of snowballing (so rare in Australia) has been indulged in. But
that is an exception. The winter, from my point of view, has been
marvellously mild. The heavy rains have been a godsend, and have
insured a great harvest of wheat and fruit.
In the country around Melbourne, to a distance, say, of forty
miles, spring has rendered the entire landscape indescribably
beautiful. By the banks of the river the wattle is growing in all the
glory of its yellow life. There is nothing in the Old Country exactly
like the wattle. The blossom resembles mimosa glorified, but it
grows on trees which resemble the laburnum tree. Its round, fluffy
flower is a miracle of delicacy. The orchards offer a scene of beauty
difficult to describe but impossible to forget. Imagine, if you can,
what it must be like—a hill-side covered with over seven thousand
apple trees in full blossom. This is the great country of apples. One
grower, who indulges in the business as a pastime—his fortune being
gained in other directions—sent home to England last year over two
hundred and fifty thousand pounds’ weight of apples. What a larder
is that in the Old Country to fill! And apples are so plentiful that in
Melbourne, in the season, they sell for half a crown per case of forty
pounds.
One of the “show” places nearest to Melbourne is Healesville,
situated in the heart of the hills, and in the early spring a place of
beauty. It is a miniature Switzerland. Mount Juliet is capped with
cloud, and an ordinary imagination suffices to pretend that beyond
the mystery of the hidden summit there lie great ranges of snow-
crowned peaks. On the other side of the valley the slopes of the
mountains are covered with tall trees, which it is easy to pretend are
pines.
In the centre of that vast solitude we stand listening to the rush
of waters in the depths of the valley, and ever turning our eyes to
the heights which allured and awed us. Beyond Healesville the
“bush” commences, and into it we penetrate for several miles. The
trees, for the most part, are evergreen, so that the coming of spring
makes little difference to the general appearance of the scene. But in
the undergrowth the charm of new life unfolds itself on every hand.
Giant tree-ferns fling out new-green fronds at the top of their
imposing pedestals, many of which are twenty feet high. The
spectacle of immense ferns spread out after the fashion of an
umbrella is quite unique. The giants of the bush—the great gum
trees—are wonderfully impressive. Many of these eucalyptus trees
are two hundred feet in height. In fact, Victoria boasts of possessing
the largest trees in the world. Their height and girth are enormous.
Yet there is a tragedy of the bush! We drove through a charming
valley in which the hand of death was manifest. Last summer these
enormous trees and this dense bush were subjected to their baptism
of fire. On a summer afternoon, when all Nature lay panting in the
heat, suddenly a tongue of red flame shot up from the midst of the
bush. It was the work of some careless smoker who had thrown
down his lighted vesta into a heap of dry fern, or perhaps it was a
spontaneous outbreak due to the terrible heat. But when that red
signal was announced the doom of the forest was sealed. Useless for
mortal man to attempt to fight a bush fire. There was nothing
possible but to ascend an eminence and watch the frightful billows
of fire pass over the forest until nothing remained to consume. The
flames ran along the ground, greedily licking up every frond of fern,
and bush of gum. The red tongues mounted the giant eucalyptus,
consuming their slender branches and picking off their healing
leaves. Masses of birds flew about in distress, as they beheld their
home destroyed. The roads were lined with rabbits, foxes, and
serpents, escaping from the fire. For days the furnace raged; and
then came the end, when a perfumed smoke, thick as black night,
hung over the country. This gradually became thinner, until finally its
last blue wreaths passed away, and Nature set herself to the work of
restoration. It is a terrible sight to behold these giant trees scarred
and half calcined, fit only, it would seem, for the axe and the saw.
Yet the work of recuperation is both rapid and astonishing. Spring
has not disdained these wounded stalwarts. Green shoots have been
flung out everywhere, and embrace, as with affection, the blackened
and carbonised trunks whose doom was all but fixed. Nature, in this
spring mood and beauty, is like some fair maiden who clasps with
her soft arms the wrinkled neck of a father who has suffered
grievous misfortune on her behalf. Only the great trees show traces
of the last great fire. The undergrowth, reduced to ashes, has
sprung up again as by enchantment. But it will take years for the
giant trees to recover themselves. A bush fire inflicts an injury which
is difficult to repair. Yet it brings with it an immense boon. Often it
accomplishes in a week, in the way of clearing dense places, what
the skill of man could hardly accomplish in years. And it has this
further advantage: it makes the wattle grow. “After a fire comes the
wattle.” The hard seeds of the beautiful flowers are cracked by the
heat, and their vital principle is thus liberated for the purpose of
growth.

* * * * *
In the country the spring brings out the “pests”—the British
importations which misguided enthusiasts introduced into the
country—i.e. the sparrows, the rabbits, and the foxes. The
countryside is alive with them, and they do immense damage. The
birds menace the fruit trees, the rabbits the green stuff, and the
foxes anything that comes in their way. The fox was introduced for
purposes of sport. In turn he has turned sportsman, and holds in
terror his master. The indictment against the fox in Australia is a
heavy one. In the Old Country he is a slow breeder, and he is
carefully guarded. Woe to the luckless farmer who shoots him. My
lord the squire will pay, to a limited extent, the chicken bill rather
than lose the fox. Here there is not a farmer or a squatter who
would not account it a special providence to have the chance of
shooting a fox. They give him no run. Nothing less than sudden
death satisfies them. Throughout the whole year he fares well, but
the spring-time is his great opportunity. He pounces upon the newly
born lambs, and kills three or four of them for the pleasure of
devouring the delicacy of their small tongues. Generally the
remainder of the little creature is left untouched. Lamb’s tongue is
what the fox seeks. Here, as at home, he will kill or maim most of
the occupants of the hen roosts. But, bolder than at home, he
devours ducks, swans, turkeys, and, cruellest of all, the beautiful
lyre bird. This fine creature, whose beauty demands that it should be
preserved, is being slowly exterminated by the fox, the crafty thief
that, with generations of murderous blood in its veins, has been let
loose amongst a bird population unable to defend itself. On the side
of the fox is hereditary experience; on the side of the birds
hereditary helplessness and want of suspicion. The contest is not
fair. The introducer of the fox into Australia is now regarded as a
public nuisance and an enemy of the soil.
And so, murder and beauty flourish side by side in this new
country in the spring-time. Here, as everywhere, it is a mystery of
Nature, of which the full solution is not yet given.

* * * * *
The spring entices all the world out of doors. “Houses,” says the
local sage, “are not in this country built for residence; they are
merely a refuge when our true residence—the open air—is not
available, owing to climatic derangement.” Already people are
dragging their beds on to their balconies, where they sleep. The
open air becomes a hostel in which all the wise lodge.
The long beach, stretching for many miles between Melbourne
and Black Rock, becomes, for the greater part of the spring and
summer and autumn a huge encampment, where city workers, after
the toil of the day, spend their leisure. Besides the beach there are
the parks and public gardens, second to none in the world.
Hundreds of people sleep out at nights on verandas, in gardens, and
upon the seashore. The cool nights entice into the streets a
multitude of people, who throng the highways until midnight. English
is, of course, the language that is spoken, but the life that is lived is
Continental. It is impossible for anyone to be dull here in this
summer climate. The sunshine has entered into the people’s blood
and inoculated it with merriment. Men live in a garden of God,
where every prospect pleases and only a few men are vile.

* * * * *
As the spring advances and the summer approaches Australians
are on the move, bent on holiday making. It is here that the contrast
between England and Australia is seen to the advantage of the latter.
There are very, very few “workers” in Australia who are unable to
afford a summer holiday.
Surely never was there a people so enamoured of holidays as
the Australians. Upon the least excuse there is a public holiday. New
Year’s Day commences the recital. That is followed by “Foundation
Day” on January 31st, St. David’s Day in March, St. George’s Day in
April, Prince of Wales’s birthday in June, Separation Day in July, Bank
Holiday in August, Eight Hours’ Day in September, Cup Day in
November, and the King’s birthday in the same month. It is a
formidable list, extending over the various States. “The working
man’s paradise” they call Australia, and not without good reason.
There is another side to this, upon which I have yet to dwell, but
just now the sunny side is being emphasised.
From one point of view there is not the same variety of holiday
resorts in Australia as in England. How easy it is to cross from
England to France and Switzerland and Italy! And within twenty-four
hours of smoky, foggy London to be at peace under the shadow of
Mont Blanc or the Matterhorn. Or within sixty hours to enter the
gateway of the mysterious East at Tunis or Algiers! There is nothing
resembling that on the Australian side of the equator. The nearest
great snow mountains lie in New Zealand, five days’ steaming from
Melbourne. But within easy distance there are innumerable beauty
spots which appeal to every taste and every purse. The garden
island of Tasmania is becoming every year a greater favourite for
many Victorians. Embarking on the steamer late in the afternoon,
the traveller finds himself at Launceston early the next morning, and
at Hobart a day later. And in that island he finds a climate much
more temperate than that of Victoria, and a life more English than
Australian. The salamander may easily run up to Queensland, and
within forty-eight hours of Melbourne find himself in the lower
tropics, amid sugar plantations, pineapple fields and banana plots.
The mountaineer may go to New South Wales to the Blue
Mountains, or to his own Buffalo range. While the ordinary person
may find what he will on seashore or in fern gully.
The great Port Phillip Bay is dotted with water-places, of which
one of the prettiest and most restful is Sorrento. Italian in name, it is
almost Italian in aspect. A tree which lines the beach resembles, at a
short distance, the olive trees for which Italy is so famous, and the
houses, often hidden in plantations, might well be taken for those
Italian retreats which lie around the Italian Sorrento. Sorrento has
the advantage of the bay and of the “back beach.” The bay is quiet,
retired, and excellent for family bathing. The “back beach”—i.e. the
ocean proper—is rugged, wild, restless. It has a majesty all its own,
and a danger to match its majesty. Its waters are treacherous. The
under-currents are strong and easily suck in the most powerful
swimmer. Worse than the currents are the sharks which abound in
these waters. They have the playful habit of dismembering
venturesome people. Yet, despite the danger, there are headstrong
fools who swim out, exposing themselves to attack. Recently a youth
emerged from the water minus a leg and two fingers; yet, incredible
as it seems, on the very next day other youths swam out into the
very same sea and at the very same place. Sometimes a shark is
detained prisoner in some deep pool, and then his fate is sealed. No
pity is shown him; he is immediately shot. It is a study in human
nature to watch an old salt engaged in the task of settling accounts
with a shark. The process of dispatch is often delayed, cruel revenge
being taken upon the brute for the misdeeds of his clan.
For my own part, I give the casting vote in favour of the fern
gullies rather than the sea. Can there be found anywhere fern trees
superior to those which Victoria offers? Fern trees, observe. Giant
ferns grow to an immense height, after the manner of a palm. Their
fronds spread out at the top like a giant umbrella. These ferns are
found in gullies or little forests, and the spectacle they present is
strikingly beautiful. At Gembrook one enters a natural cathedral
where the columns are stately trees, whose interlacing branches
form at the top a perfect roof, and whose decorations are wonderful
giant ferns, fuller of fronds than any I have ever yet beheld. In the
depths of this hidden place there reigns a profound and almost
painful silence, broken occasionally by the sighing of the wind in the
tops of the trees or by the screaming of a pair of quarrelsome
parrots. Here, within these walls of living green, Nature seems to
have her inner shrine. Men speak in whispers to each other as they
do in a cathedral. The awe of God possesses the spirit. In that awful
silence the soul of man speaks with the soul of the world.
The railway line to Gembrook is a primitive construction, which
well matches the world through which it passes. The line is of a
narrow gauge, and it mounts ever higher until it reaches an altitude
of many hundreds of feet above the level of the sea. Throughout its
length it winds round and round, skirting modest precipices and
passing through avenues of trees. The scenery is indescribably
beautiful. At many points a vista opens up along which vast
stretches of country appear, hemmed in upon the horizon by the
gleaming waters of the ocean. Nothing that I have seen in Australia
so much resembles a ride in Switzerland as this journey from Fern
Tree Gully to Gembrook. At the summit, on a hot summer day, the
air is keen and bracing, and in the hotel at midsummer we found a
fire blazing. This ride, apart from the charm of the scenery, offers a
study in colonisation. Part of the country is the “bush” proper, left in
all its native wildness. Everywhere we found marks of the visit of
that dreaded enemy, fire. Huge gum trees, calcined and dreadful
looking, stood out against the blue sky. Fierce flames had ravaged
the district, sparing nothing. Elsewhere we found the work of
clearing going on. Wooden chalets rose in the centre of the bush,
and around these men had commenced to group small fields already
yielding produce. Little by little the bush is disappearing under the
hands of small farmers. At one place we found a miracle in the way
of productiveness. Eighteen years ago a farmer purchased some
hundreds of acres of bush. It was one mass of “scrub,” as desolate a
place as one would find anywhere. To-day it is the first “nursery” in
Victoria. Upon its cleared ground thousands of fruit trees grow, and
these are sent all over the States. The soil is wonderfully rich. As we
wound round about the estate in the train, and observed these
hundreds of acres in cultivation, and reflected that all this work had
been accomplished within twenty years, the whole scene resolved
itself into a mirror of this great country. From scrub to fertility—it is
the history of Australia. And the best is yet to come, when an
enlightened forward policy will encourage immigration, and so
arrange affairs that the vast spaces of the biggest country in the
world shall be filled with a happy working population.
 CHAPTER XII

BUSH HOLIDAYS

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.
 CHAPTER XIII

SOME BUSH YARNS

In this our lazy midsummer holiday in February, our resting-place is

on the margin of the “bush.” As befits the occasion and the place,
we have laid in a stock of bush stories, and in particular we are
yielding ourselves to the enchantment of “We of the Never Never”—
that frankly true and weird story of life in the Northern Territory,
where a man’s nearest neighbour is sixty or ninety miles away. And
then, just as we finish the “Never Never” stories, there comes into
our holiday life a dear old soul who knows all about the “Never
Never” country, who has traversed its wilds and felt the strange pull
of its life. She becomes, happily for our party, reminiscent, and night
after night we listen to the recital of her adventures. Bordering upon
seventy, her mind retains the clearness almost of youth, and the
simple life in the open has left her face bronzed yet scarcely
wrinkled, while her hair is as brown as a woman’s in her thirties. It is
difficult to realise that this quiet old lady, well educated and mentally
alert to all that is going on in the Commonwealth to-day,
commenced her career as a bush traveller, and has wandered over
thousands of miles of uninhabited country.
The spirit of adventure is in her blood. Her grandfather came out
in the vessel Duff in 1796 as a missionary to the islands that lie to
the north of Queensland. Then there were real cannibals abroad,
and a white person was in peculiar peril. After a brave attempt to
evangelise these cannibals, the missionary found it necessary to
remove to Sydney, where he became evangelist and missionary to
the scattered people in the country round about. He had “assigned”
to him one of the convicts from Botany Bay, but this precious
scoundrel, learning that a little money was hidden in the house,
conspired with another convict and made a murderous attack upon
his master. The “wee little wife”—she was quite petite—rushed
forward to assist her husband, and received upon her arm a blow
from a knife which laid bare the flesh to the bone. Both husband and
wife being left for dead, the robbers decamped, taking with them all
the money in the house. When the little woman recovered, she
seized her infant child and ran with him through the bush to Sydney,
seven miles distant, to seek aid. And that little fellow, who narrowly
escaped assassination, became the father of our delightful
companion of the “Never Never” adventures.
The grandfather and grandmother in the region around Sydney
were involved in many strange experiences in the early days of the
nineteenth century. Railways and roads, in the modern sense of the
word, were then unknown. Bush tracks were the only roads available
for travellers. Lawlessness was common enough, and very difficult to
suppress. England at that time was sending her convicts to Botany
Bay, as later to Van Diemen’s Land. Some of the convicts were
villains of the deepest dye; others were victims of iniquitous laws,
and were transported for the most trifling offences. Again and again
the convicts broke loose, and took to bushranging. They raided
cattle reaches, and drove off hundreds of beasts over the border.
They “held up” travellers in the approved Dick Turpin or Claude
Duval style. Life was held very cheaply then.
Persons who lived in the bush were always nervous when they
had to go into Sydney to pay money into the bank, or to withdraw it.
One day a “neighbour” of the missionary grandfather, learning that
the latter was driving into Sydney, begged him to bank a sum of five
hundred pounds for him. The commission was too dangerous, and it
was declined. But the wee little wife, with woman’s wit, hit upon a
scheme for conveying the money safely, and she accepted the
commission. The buggy in which they drove was high, and she, little
woman, was very short, hence it was necessary for her to have a