In Bad Company, and other stories

by Rolf Boldrewood

But here the road-clearing, rarely supplemented by engineering disfigurement, produces the effect of a winding, thickly-grown avenue. On either side stand in close order the frenelas, casuarinas, and eucalypts of the forest primeval, with an occasional kurrajong or a red-foliaged, drought-slain callitris, 'like to a copper beech among the greens.' The floor of this forest-way is greenly carpeted with the thick-growing spring verdure, a stray tiny streamlet perhaps crossing at intervals, while leaflets of the severed saplings are bursting through in pink or dark-red bunches. In the far distance rises a dark-blue range, towering over the dim green ocean of forest, and marking the contrast sharply between the land of hill and dale and the monotonous levels of the lower country.

With all the capriciousness of Australian seasons the springtime of this year has shown a disposition to linger—waving back with grateful showers and dew-cooled nights and mornings the too impatient summer. Still is the grass brightly green of hue, the flower unfaded. The plague of dust has been stayed again and again by the welcome rainfall. There has never been more than one day when the winds have risen to a wintry bleakness. But who recks of so trifling a discomfort from such a cause, and will not King Sol be avenged upon us ere Christmastide be passed—ere the short, breezeless nights of January are ended?

What contrasts and discrepancies Dame Nature sanctions hereabouts in the formation of her feathered families! That soaring eagle, so far above us heavenward, in the blue empyrean, how true a monarch among birds is he! Now he stoops, circling lower and yet lower still, with moveless outstretched pinion and searching gaze that blenches not before the sun's fiercest rays. The tiny blue-throated wren perches fearlessly near, and hops with delicate feet from stone to stone amid the sheltering ferns. That downy white-breasted diver, a ball of feathers in the clear pool of the mountain streamlet, now with a ripple become invisible—the devoted pelican, with sword-like beak and pouch of portentous dimensions. Lo! there sits he with his fellows by the edge of a shallowing anabranch, or revels with them in the evil days of drought upon the dying fish which in hundreds are cast upon the shore. As I tread the homeward path, the skylark springs upward from the waving grass; trilling his simple lay, he mounts higher and yet higher, no unworthy congener, though inferior as a songster to his British namesake. In the adjacent leafless trees is a flight of gaunt, dark-hued, sickle-beaked birds. Travellers and pilgrims they, relatives of earth's oldest, most sacred bird races. Behold a company of the ibis from far far wilds. Their presence here is ominous and boding. They are popularly supposed to migrate coastwards only when the great lakes of the interior begin to fail. This, however, is not an unfailing test of a dry season, as in long-dead summers I have had occasion to note. They are not too dignified, in despite of their quasi-sacred hierophantic traditions, to eat grasshoppers. As these enemies alike of farmers and squatters are now despoiling every green thing, let us hope that the ibis contingent may have appetites proportioned to the length of their bills and the duration of their journey. A white variety of the species is occasionally noted, but he is rare in comparison with the darker kind.

By the creek bank, in the early morn, the well-remembered note of the kingfisher, so closely associated with our youth, sounds close and clear. Yonder he sits upon the dead limb of the overhanging tree—greenish blue, purple-breasted as of yore. Stonelike he plunges into the deep pool, reappearing with a small fish or allied water-dweller. More beautiful is his relative the lesser kingfisher, metallic in sheen, with crimson breast—flashing like a feathered gem through the river shades, or burning like a flame spot against the mouldering log on which he sits. Of palest fawn colour, with long black filament at the back of his head, that graceful heron, the 'nankeen bird' of the colonist, is also of the company; the white-necked, dark-blue crane, and that black-robed river pirate the cormorant. While on the bird question, surely none are more delicately bright, more exquisitely neat of plumage and flawless of tone, than the Columba tribe. Ancient of birth are they as 'the doves from the rocks,' and principally for their conjugal fidelity have been honoured, by the choice of Mr. Darwin, as exemplars in working out experiments connected with the origin of species. In western wanderings I find five varieties of the pigeon proper. The beautiful bronze-wing, the squatter, and the crested pigeon. Besides these, two varieties of the dove are among the most exquisitely lovely of feathered creatures. Both are very small—one scarcely larger than a sparrow. The 'bronze-wing' is too well known to need description. The 'squatter pigeon' is a plainer likeness, with a spot of white on either cheek, and, as its name implies, is unwilling to fly up, being struck down occasionally with the whip or a short throwing stick in the act of rising. The crested pigeon, the most graceful and attractive of the family, is from its tameness and extreme cleanliness of habit most suitable for the aviary. In colouring, the breast is a delicate slate-grey tinged with faintest pink as it rises towards the wing muscles, the front wings barred with dark, pencilled cross-lines, the larger feathers of the extremities a burnished green, and the last row having feathers of a vivid dark pink or crimson. A crest and elongated pointed tail give character and piquancy to the whole appearance. As they fly up, a whirring noise, not unlike that of the partridge, is heard. When the male bird swells his chest and lowers his wings in defiance or ostentation, he produces a sound not unlike that of his long-civilised congener. They will lay and hatch in captivity, and I observed in an aviary one of the females sitting on her eggs complacently in a herring tin.

FROM TUMUT TO TUMBERUMBA

It was rather too far to walk this time; besides, the days are shortening. From Tumut to Tumberumba is forty-five miles all out, and a bad road. At breakfast-time we had no earthly idea of how or where to get a horse. A friend in need tided over that difficulty. So, mounted upon a clever mountain-bred hackney, we cleared the town about 9.30 A.M., and headed for the Khyber Pass (in a small way), up which the road winds south-easterly. The time was short, but we meant going steadily, if not fast, all through, and trusted, as we have done 'with a squeeze' full many a time and oft before, to 'save the light.'

Buggies are comfortable vehicles when roads are good and horses fresh. You can carry your 'things' with you, and, in cases of entertainments, come out with more grandeur and effect than if on horseback. But give me the saddle, 'haud juventutis immemor.' It brings back old times; and certainly for people whose appearance is in danger of being compromised by a tendency to increased weight, riding is the more healthful exercise. Besides, one always feels as if adventures were possible to cavaliers. Wheels circumscribe one too narrowly. You must start early. You had better not drive late. Your stopping-places must be marked and labelled as it were. You are affiché, for good or evil.

Now, once started on a fine morning, on a good horse, a 'lazy ally' feeling seems to pervade the surroundings and the landscape. If you meet wayside flowers, you may linger to gather them. You may avail yourself of chance invitations, secure that you can 'pull up time' late or early. As you sail away, if your horse walks well and canters easily (as does this one), you insensibly think of 'A day's ride, a life's romance.' Is that romance yet over? It may be. We are 'old enough to know better.' But still we were quite sure when we started that we should meet with an adventure or two.

First of all, we saw two young people in a buggy, driving towards the mountain land which lay eastward in a cloud-world. There was something in the expression of their backs as they passed us which suggested an early stage of the Great Experiment. The bride was fair, with, of course, a delicate complexion—that goes without saying in this part of the world. The bridegroom was stalwart and manly looking. Presently we were overtaken by another young lady of prepossessing appearance, with two attendant cavaliers, well mounted and evidently belonging to the same party. Bound for some miles along the same lonely but picturesque road, we asked permission to join the party, and fared on amicably. Together we breasted the 'Six-Mile Hill,' and at length emerged upon the alpine plateau, which for many miles lies between the towns before mentioned.

Here the scene changed—the climate, the soil, the timber, the atmosphere. Eastward lay the darkly-brooding Titans of Kiandra, snow-capped and dazzling, the peaks contrasting with their darksome rugged sides, the blue and cloudless sky. Beneath our feet, beside and around us, lay the partially-thawed snow of Saturday's fall, in quantities which would have delighted the hearts of certain children of our acquaintance.