Descending from Black Spur, we stopped to lunch at one of the characteristic Australian picnic places, above a tumbling mountain stream close to a place called Fernshaw. A fine rain was falling, and it was pleasant to find the shelter of a roof, and dry benches and tables. The place was a bird sanctuary; beautiful, and to us, unknown varieties came and watched us from a wooden fence that bordered the little clearing, or hopped about on the grass. The gorgeous Australian robin flaunted his brilliant vermilion and black plumage, here was the fabled “blue bird” in the life, a kind of wren; green finches, a large crow, the ever-present magpie, of course, and pretty fawn-coloured honey birds, said to cull honey from the flowers like bees, and the peewit, black and white, like a smaller magpie, and so called from his shrill, insistent note.
On the slopes of the Black Spur the eucalyptus attain to an unusual height, even for their soaring growth, and some of the tallest trees in Australia are to be seen here. It is impossible to be long in the country without hearing much discussion on questions of forestry. A great part of Victoria is still forest, about 4,000,000 acres of which are reserved by the state. But though there is much valuable timber—in the mountain ranges in the north-east especially—it is impossible to transport it. Much forest country is let for grazing at nominal rents, and forest let for grazing is inevitably burned. The timber is cleared out by fire to obtain pasture. The fires are generally lighted on purpose, with the consequent enormous destruction of valuable timber. On the other hand, there are few cases in which the timber could be profitably sent to any market, and a land covered with forest cannot be used for grazing. Australian public opinion is becoming alive to the importance of this question, and there is a Department of Forests in the state of Victoria, but it is not considered that its powers are sufficiently drastic and untrammelled, or its supply of expert opinion adequate.[16]
The return journey was an exhilarating experience, for it was downhill most of the way, and we spun through the sweet invigorating air, with one wheel generally poised on a higher level than the other, bumping and plunging, dodging the deep broad ruts, holding on tight with that pleasant sense of adventure and hairbreadth escapes that only an expert Australian motorist can give. At one point we stopped to take a photograph of the Yarra, where its swift green stream took a sharp bend in a low-lying meadow. Its opposite bank was one brilliant blaze of wattle; through a gate in the hedge the mountains showed blue and distant. While we were adjusting the lens a kookaburra somewhere out of sight burst into his peals of derisive laughter; the shrill chorus of unseen frogs, an ever-present accompaniment to the stillness of the Australian country, was the only other sound. It was so typical, so arresting, so unlike anything to be seen elsewhere, that we wished we could have transferred the whole scene with its intensity of colour and freshness to these pages. While we were busy on the bank a boatload of rough boys swung into sight, shouting, barging, and splashing, disturbing the peaceful charm of the little picture, breaking up and destroying the reflected wattle on the smooth water by the bank. We called to them to put ashore. They immediately did so, and, landing, came up to us and asked some technical question about the photographic process—it was a colour photograph on glass—with perfect civility and friendliness. The little incident was such a marked contrast to the relationship of different classes of the community at home that it impressed us as being equally characteristic with the scene in which it took place.
As we neared Melbourne the wet roads of the morning had already dried and we were swept home in a cloud of dust. We arrived in time for a very late tea, and went on to dine at one of those pleasant colonial houses, whose warm friendliness and lavish hospitality is so homelike and yet so un-English.
The next day, after lunching at Government House, we visited the zoological gardens. This was the first unpleasant example of Australian weather; it was like a nasty March day, with gusts of cold wind sweeping up swirling clouds of blinding, stinging dust. It only lasted one day as a weather sample, but it was a singularly objectionable day, with a kind of parching quality in the air.
On this occasion we pursued a fruitless quest on which we had already exercised considerable energies since our arrival in Australia. We were very anxious to see a live platypus, that curious little hairy animal, with the bill of a duck, which burrows, or used to burrow, for it is becoming very rare, in Australian river-banks. We were told that if we wanted to see a platypus we must go to Tasmania, there were plenty there, but this was not part of our programme; however, there was actually at the moment a live platypus in Melbourne. They do not survive in captivity, but this hapless platypus had been sacrificed in the interests of science, and was on exhibition at the zoological gardens. We therefore made our way thither, our hearts beating high with hope and excitement. The porter at the gate was calm, not to say indifferent; it was also approaching closing time. We entered vaguely, none of the animals could help us in our quest for the platypus, neither the mild and browsing kangaroos, the haughty eagles on their perch, or the slim cranes, like the answer of the winds brought by ‘sage Hippotades,’ “they knew not of his story.”
We were at last directed to a large wire enclosure, in the midst of which lay a little muddy pool, it was planted with tall bamboos, amid which fluttered innumerable small birds. Here, said a passing official, the platypus was incarcerated. We eagerly watched and watched in vain the unruffled and opaque surface of the pond. The platypus had effectually concealed his outraged feelings in the mud. He is a shy animal and resents observation. By this time, however, we felt that our journey to Australia was vain unless we saw that platypus. Night was drawing on, it was long past closing time. In these desperate straits we penetrated with sacrilegious feet a threshold inscribed “private” and unearthed the daughter of the keeper. She was very sympathetic, but not encouraging. Her high authority, however, produced a man with a key, and we squeezed in among the bamboos, which we found sharp and aggressive plants, and with ruthless cruelty warmly applauded the efforts to stir up the platypus out of the mud with a stick; but the despairing platypus had buried itself beyond the reach of human intervention. We were forced to give up and retreat, and it seemed to us, as we went out of the gates, that the large blue parrot, who sits sentinel on his perch at the entrance, winked at us derisively.
The same evening we were at least gratified by the sight of a stuffed platypus. It was at the museum, where there was a civic reception. The municipal buildings at Melbourne are on a most imposing scale. The museum, picture galleries, and free library are all under one roof. The museum is beautifully arranged. Most interesting to English visitors are the complete collections of native animals of all kinds. Every sort of kangaroo and wallaby is represented. From immense creatures sitting up with that air of surprise peculiar to them, as if they were wondering what had happened to their forelegs, to little things of the same species no bigger than a cat. We saw the curious sharp-nosed bandicoot, and at last our search was rewarded by a sight of the platypus. All these smaller animals were exhibited under their life conditions, with sandy burrows, or whatever they might be, carefully reproduced.
TREE-FERNS IN THE BUSH NEAR MELBOURNE.