Mates at Billabong

by Mary Grant Bruce

MATES AT BILLABONG.

by

Mary Grant Bruce (1878-1958).

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I [NORAH'S HOME] CHAPTER II [TOGETHER] CHAPTER III [BATH—AND AN INTRODUCTION] CHAPTER IV [CUTTING OUT] CHAPTER V [TWO POINTS OF VIEW] CHAPTER VI [COMING HOME] CHAPTER VII [JIM UNPACKS] CHAPTER VIII [A THUNDERSTORM] CHAPTER IX [THE BILLABONG DANCE] CHAPTER X [CHRISTMAS] CHAPTER XI ["LO, THE POOR INDIAN!"] CHAPTER XII [OF POULTRY] CHAPTER XIII [STATION DOINGS] CHAPTER XIV [CUNJEE v. MULGOA] CHAPTER XV [THE RIDE HOME] CHAPTER XVI [A CHILD'S PONY] CHAPTER XVII [ON THE HILLSIDE] CHAPTER XVIII [BROTHER AND SISTER] CHAPTER XIX [THE LONG QUEST] CHAPTER XX [MATES]

CHAPTER I

NORAH'S HOME

The grey old dwelling, rambling and wide,
With the homestead paddocks on either side,
And the deep verandahs and porches tall
Where the vine climbs high on the trellised wall.
G. ESSEX EVANS.

Billabong homestead lay calm and peaceful in the slanting rays of the sun that crept down the western sky. The red roofs were half hidden in the surrounding trees—pine and box and mighty blue gums towering above the tenderer green of the orchard, and the wide-flung tendrils of the Virginia creeper that was pushing slender fingers over the old walls. If you came nearer, you found how the garden rioted in colour under the touch of early summer, from the crimson rambler round the eastern bay window to the "Bonfire" salvia blazing in masses on the lawn; but from the paddocks all that could be seen was the mass of green, and the mellow red of the roof glimpsing through. Further back came a glance of rippled silver, where the breeze caught the surface of the lagoon—too lazy a breeze to do more than faintly stir the reed-fringed water. Towards it a flight of black swans winged slowly, with outstretched necks, across a sky of perfect blue. Their leader's note floated down, as if in answer to the magpies that carolled in the pine trees by the stables. The sound seemed to hang in the still air.