Babes in the Bush

by Rolf Boldrewood

or starting from their ‘forms’ in the meadows which bordered the lake. He saw the partridge coveys rise from the stubbles, and heard once more the whirr of the cock pheasant as he ‘rocketted’ from the copse of mimosa saplings. He saw carp, tench, and brown trout in the clear mountain streams, and watched far down the Otsego ‘laker’ in the still depths of their inland bay. At the idea of these triumphs, which long years after his bones rested in an exile’s grave, would be associated with the name of Howard Effingham, his heart swelled with proud anticipation. But there was one deficiency as yet unfilled; one difficulty hitherto not confronted. Much had been attempted, even something done. Why should he not be more nobly daring still? Why not organise that sport of kings, that eminently British pastime, nowhere enjoyed in perfection, hitherto, outside of the ‘happy isles’? Why not go in for fox-hunting? Could its transplantation be possible?

True, the gladdening variety of pasture and plough, meadow and woodland, over which hound and horse sweep rejoicingly in Britain, was not possible in the neighbourhood. Hedges and ditches, brooks and banks, as yet gave not change and interest to the programme while educating horse and rider. Still, he would not despair.

In the pensive, breezeless autumn, or the winter mornings, when the dew lay long on the tall grass, and the soft, hazy atmosphere gradually struggled into the brilliant Australian day, could there be better scenting weather? Would not the first cry of the hounds, as a dozen couples, to begin with, hit off the scent of a dingo or a blue forester, sound like a forgotten melody in his ears? There would be an occasional fence to give the boys emulative interest; for the rest, a gallop in the fresh morn through the park-like woodlands, or even across the spurs of the ranges, would be worth riding a few miles to enjoy. All the neighbours—now making money fast and not indisposed for amusement—would be glad to join. A better lot of fellows no Hunt ever numbered amongst its subscribers. Subscription? Well, he supposed it must be so. It would be a proprietary interest, and he was afraid Wilfred would object to the whole burden of maintenance falling upon the resources of The Chase.

This brilliant idea was not suffered to lapse for want of expansion. Energetic and persistent in the domain of the abstract or the unprofitable, Howard Effingham at once communicated with a few friends. He was surprised at the enthusiasm which the project evoked. A committee was formed, comprising the names of the Benmohr firm, Churbett, Ardmillan, Forbes, and the D’Oyleys, besides Robert Malahyde, a neighbour of Hampden’s and an enthusiastic sportsman. Never was a more happy suggestion. It pleased everybody. O’Desmond declared that the very idea recalled ‘The Blazers’; he felt himself to be ten years younger as he put down his name for a handsome subscription on the spot. Fred Churbett had always known that Duellist was thrown away as a hackney; and now that there was something more to be jumped than the Benmohr leaping-bar, did not care how early he got up. This announcement was received with shouts of incredulous laughter.

Wilfred alone was not enamoured of this new project. He foresaw direct and, still more serious, indirect expenses. It was no doubt a great matter to have even the semblance of the Great English Sport revived among them. Still, business was business. If this sort of thing was to be encouraged, there was no knowing where it would stop. He himself would be only too glad to have a run now and then, but his instinctive feeling was that he would be better employed attending to his cattle and consolidating the prosperity, which now seemed to be flowing in with a steady tide.

In truth, of late, affairs had commenced to take a most encouraging, even intoxicating turn for the better. The whole trade of the land—pastoral, commercial, and agricultural—was in a satisfactory condition, owing chiefly to unprecedentedly good seasons. All the Australian colonies, more particularly New South Wales, have within them elements of vast, well-nigh illimitable development. Nothing is needed but ordinary climatic conditions to produce an amount of material well-being, which nothing can wholly displace. The merchants of the cities, the farmers of the settled districts, the squatters of the far interior, were alike prospering and to prosper, it seemed, indefinitely. The export trade, Mr. Rockley assured him, had increased astonishingly, while the imports had so swelled that England would soon have to look upon Australia as one of her best customers.

‘So you are going to have a pack of foxhounds in your neighbourhood, Mr. Effingham?’ said Mrs. Rockley. ‘I think it a splendid idea. Chrissie and I will ride over and see one of your meets, if you ask us.’

Then did Wilfred begin solemnly to vow and declare that the chief reason he had for giving the idea his support was, that perhaps the ladies at Rockley Lodge might be induced to attend a meet sometimes; otherwise, he confessed he thought it a waste of money.

‘Oh, you mustn’t be over-prudent, Mr. Effingham. Mr. Rockley says you Lake William people are getting alarmingly rich. You must consider the unamused poor a little, you know. It is a case of real distress, I assure you, sometimes in Yass when all you men take fits of hard work and staying at home. Now hunting is such a delightful resource in winter time.’

‘Every one in our neighbourhood has joined,’ said Wilfred, ‘but we shall want more subscriptions if we are to become a strong Hunt club.’