“Not bad, no! only important, which comes almost to the same thing. You have to think over plans and make up your mind, perhaps, to start off at a moment’s warning, which is always distressing.”
“Oh! nonsense,” said Sheila, who seemed in better spirits than usual. “I often wish I were a man; how I would wire in when there was anything to do, even if it was only half good. Men do too much thinking, I believe. If they’d only ride hard at the fence, whatever it is, they’d get over, or through it, and have a clear run for their money.”
“But suppose they came a cropper and broke a leg, an arm, or their neck, as I see one of your steeplechase riders did at Flemington the other day, what then?”
“Oh! a man must die some time,” replied the cheerful damsel, who looked indeed the personification of high health, abounding spirits, and as much courage as can be shown by a woman without indiscretion, “and you get through nine times out of ten: the great thing is to go at it straight. ‘Kindness in another’s woes, courage in your own,’ that’s what Gordon says.”
“Who is Gordon, may I ask?”
“Why, Adam Lindsay, of course, our Australian poet. Haven’t you heard of him? I thought everybody had.”
“And do you read him?”
“Yes. Every Australian man, woman, and child, if they’re old enough, knows him by heart.”
“I think I’ve caught the name. Was he born here?”
“Is he dead? Perhaps you’ve heard of Mark Twain?” said Sheila scornfully, who seemed to be in rather a reckless humour. “Well! he is. No! he was not born here, more’s the pity, for he knows us cornstalks better than we know ourselves. He was the son of a British officer, the family’s Scotch. I’m half Scotch, that’s partly why I am so proud of him. But it would have been all the same whatever country owned him. I find my tongue’s running away with me, as usual—the unruly member, as the Bible says. But you take my tip, Mr. Blount, ‘never change your mind when you pick your panel’ (that’s Gordon again), it’s the real straight griffin, with horse or man.”