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.
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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.