Rambles in Australia

by Edwin Sharpe Grew; Marion Sharpe Grew

The magpies are sociable birds, friendly and companionable. They are, besides, greedy and carnivorous. An Australian lady, who was acting as our hostess on this occasion, told us she had once seen a magpie swallow three mice in succession, and sit afterwards ruminating over their digestion with the three tails hanging down from his beak.

There, too, was the laughing jackass, or to call him by his musical native name the “kookaburra,” who resembles in shape and colour a large untidy jay. We heard for the first time the sweet note of the Australian thrush, and saw several redheaded parrots. The road led into a beautiful wooded glen, a favourite place for picnics.

Picnics are a great institution in Australia, and to avoid the dangers of bush fires little open-air hearths are made in such places as these, with an iron rod across them and hooks for hanging the “billy” to boil the water for the weak tea that is the invariable accompaniment of all meals. There is always plenty of dry wood in that dry climate, and generally a little shelter is put up, with a rough table and benches, sometimes a tank for rain water, but this, when it is there, has a way of being rusty. On this occasion time demanded our return, for we were lunching with one of the University professors, so we came back to the city that is only less pastoral than its hills, and were deposited at our destination by the kind new acquaintances, who had devoted a long morning to us.

Our hosts lived in a charming bungalow on the side of a hill, the garden was full of early spring flowers, jonquils and other bulbs. Their guest house was detached, as it were, in a little garden of its own, which seemed a particularly pleasant way of entertaining one’s friends, giving a sense of freedom both to visitors and hosts. In the drawing-room was a big bowl of camellias, which flourish in the open air in Australia. Our host and hostess came of one of the oldest Australian families; that is, their daughter told us her grandfather came over in 1837 and her grandmother three years later. Life was a hard thing in those days. To begin with, there was the six months’ voyage in the old sailing ships. In their early days of married life they had no food except salt pork and damper, or a kind of bread made without yeast, which is very nice on a picnic, but would be trying as a staple form of food. On Sundays they had rice boiled in water and raisins. “My grandfather used to be so hungry that he once shot a sitting magpie.” It must, even so, have been a meal of bones and feathers.

There was something patriarchal about this pleasant, cultivated household. The settlement which the earlier generation had won from the bush remained in the family, and the descendants of its servants still served them. After lunch we were taken off to tea in the hospitable Australian way to some friends of our hosts’ who were giving a tea-party. Their house lay at some distance from the town, with its back to the hills. It was approached by a park much like an English park, with eucalyptus for oaks and magpies for rooks, and the house itself was much like an English country house, and an English tea-party, with great bowls of roses and violets in the drawing-room.

It would be difficult to find anywhere a lovelier situation than the slopes of these hills, facing the far-distant sea. The entrance to the drive was heavy with the scent of stocks, and gay with masses of red geranium, a bougainvillea covered with purple flowers hung over the flight of steps, and below the garden lawns, on which the large, handsome black and white Australian wagtails were hopping about, orange trees displayed their golden fruit and glossy leaves against a background of almond blossom, and ripe limes and grape fruits.

As it was only about three miles back into Adelaide, with a good road and a fine evening, we proposed to walk home to our hotel, as we had had no exercise since we had left England. The suggestion, however, was considered so entirely impracticable as to be not worth discussing. It was merely waved aside, and the whole time we were in the country we were impressed by the fact that Australians never seem to walk. They motor, they have excellent tram services, but except up-country they don’t seem to ride. An older resident at Adelaide lamented that there were actually so few young men who could ride in the district, that their numbers were insufficient to keep up the local Hunt Club.

OSTRICH FARM, SOUTH AUSTRALIA.

We left Adelaide on a warm sunny August day. The long, long railway journeys from one state capital to another are made by night. The trains are dusty, the scenery monotonous, so that the tedium and discomfort are by this means minimised as much as possible. Of course, there are beautiful tracts of country, that the railroad passes through, but in a land where the eucalyptus is everywhere the prevailing form of vegetation, and water is rare, monotony is inevitable. On leaving Adelaide the main line towards Melbourne runs through charming park-like country, with green lawns and trees and deep gorges. The train climbs the Mount Lofty range with delightful glimpses of the sea, and an ascent punctuated by peculiarly sulphurous little tunnels, reminiscent of those on the Apennines.