The Kangaroo Hunters; Or, Adventures in the Bush

PREFACE

The rapid spread of education creates a continual demand for new books, of a character to gratify the taste of the young, and at the same time to satisfy the scruples of their instructors. The restless, inquiring spirit of youth craves, from its first development, food for the imagination, and even the simplest nursery rhymes owe their principal charm to their wonderful improbability. To these succeed the ever-interesting tales of Fairies and Enchanters; and the ardent boy only forsakes Ali Baba and Sindbad for the familiar and lifelike fictions of "Robinson Crusoe," and the hundred pleasant tales on the "Robinson Crusoe" model which have succeeded that popular romance.

It is the nature of man to soar above the common prose of every-day life in his recreations; from the weary school-boy, who relieves his mind, after arithmetical calculations and pages of syntax, by fanciful adventures amidst scenes of novelty and peril, and returns to his labors refreshed, to the over-tasked man of study or science, who wades through his days and nights of toil, cheered by the prospect of a holiday of voyaging or travelling over new scenes.

This spirit of inquiry has usually the happiest influence on the character of the young and old, and leads them —

"To know

The works of God, thereby to glorify

The great Work-Master."

In this belief, we are encouraged to continue to supply the young with books which do not profess to be true, though they are composed of truths. They are doubtless romantic, but cannot mislead the judgment or corrupt the taste; their aim being to describe the marvellous works of creation, and to lead the devout mind to say with the divine poet, —

"Great are thy works, Jehovah, infinite

Thy power; what thought can measure thee, or tongue

Relate thee?"

Richmond, October, 1858.

CHAPTER I

"I am a selfish creature, O'Brien," said Mr. Mayburn, the rector of Wendon, to his invalid friend. "I cannot forbear from coming once more to annoy you with my lamentations, and to ask your counsel, for I am most unhappy. Every object I behold, every word I hear, recalls to my mind my bereavement. I cannot remain in this place after the loss of my beloved wife. She was the moving power of my household. It was she, in fact, who was the pastor and director of the parish, the skilful tutor of her children, the guide and the guardian of her weak and erring husband. Alone, I am unfit for my responsible office; I shudder over the conviction that I am faithless to my vows; I know, O'Brien, that I do not fulfil my duty."

"There is an easy remedy for your distress, my good friend," answered Captain O'Brien; "my advice is, do your duty, and be comforted."

"It is physically impossible, O'Brien," said the mourner. "My nerves are shattered; my health is completely destroyed. I shrink from communion with society; and though I exert myself to give my boys their daily lessons, I would afterwards gladly enclose myself in my study, and live amongst my books."

"No doubt you would," replied O'Brien; "but God did not send us into this world to vegetate in solitude, and bring forth no fruit. Act, Mayburn, I beseech you, man; power comes with action, you know well; and whatever man has done, may be done. Work! work! is the counsel of the worn-out dying soldier to him who has yet the labors of life spread before him."

"But you have no idea how feeble my bodily powers are," groaned the rector.

"I can form a very tolerable idea of your strength," said the captain; "for the last time I was out I saw you plunged up to the knees in the green marsh, regardless of a cold north-east March wind."

"I remember the day well," answered Mr. Mayburn, with animation, "for I was fortunate enough to obtain the eggs of the crested grebe in the marsh. You will not have forgotten that the preceding summer I got a fine specimen of the bird."

"Very well," said his friend; "now, if you were able thus to toil and to endure to save the eggs of a bird, you may surely exert yourself still more to save the soul of a Christian. Go more among your poor; talk to them, help them with your knowledge, and teach them to live happily and die happily. I am not without experience in such work, Mayburn; as long as I was able, I had a little flock of my own; and in secular matters at any rate, was a sort of parish priest among my soldiers. I felt an interest in the history and in the daily life of every man in my company, and was never more at home than in the nooks and corners where my poor fellows dwelt. It was this pleasant and profitable work that Mrs. Mayburn ably accomplished for you, and I see Margaret is treading in her steps; go with her, Mayburn, support her in her virtuous course, and you will discover that life has still its pleasures for you."

"Not here! not here! my dear O'Brien," answered Mr. Mayburn. "Sometimes I determine to relinquish this parish, and accept one of smaller population, where the responsibility would be less; at other moments I am prompted to adopt an entirely opposite course, and to make up for my past wasted life by devoting my remaining days to missionary labors in distant lands, where I might be more stimulated to exertion, in the necessity of action. Give me your advice, O'Brien, on which of these two plans to decide. On the one hand, I have the temptation offered me to exchange for a small living on the north-eastern coast, where I should meet with many ornithological novelties; on the other hand, I know I have still sufficient interest among my old friends to obtain the appointment to some mission in the colonies. I should prefer Northern India or South Australia, both affording rich fields to the naturalist."

"A matter of secondary consideration," said O'Brien, smiling. "But wait a month or two, my good friend; we must not decide hastily on such an important step; and before that time has elapsed, you will have fulfilled the last pious offices for me. Do not be agitated, Mayburn. I know that I am dying; these old wounds have slowly, but successfully, undermined the fortress; it cannot hold out long. But be comforted; I am resigned and calm, nay, I am happy, for I know in whom I trust. Now, Mayburn, to you and to your sweet daughter I must bequeath my wild, half-taught boy. Give him all the book-lore he can be made to imbibe; above all, Mayburn, make him a Christian. To Margaret I intrust his physical education. I should wish him to be fitted to perform such work in this world as it may please God to call him to. I am thankful that I must leave him poor, as he will thus be exempt from the grand temptation, and forced into healthy action. May God direct his labors to the best and wisest end."

The words of his dying friend had for some time a salutary influence over the amiable but vacillating Mayburn. With remorse and shame he looked on his own discontent, and with a brief gleam of energy he turned to the duties of his office; but long habits of self-indulgence in literary pursuits and literary ease were not to be suddenly overcome; and when the grave closed over his faithful friend and wise counsellor, O'Brien, he soon shrunk back into morbid, solitary musings, and gradually sunk into his accustomed indolence. But a waking of remorse induced him to write to his old college friend, the Bishop of – , to pray that he might be allowed to resign his living, and be appointed to some distant mission.

Mr. Mayburn, though upright in principle and amiable in disposition, was yet unfitted, from his deficiency in firmness, for the responsibilities of his office; but his constitutional timidity and indolence had escaped notice during the lifetime of his valuable and energetic wife, who had directed his actions and concealed his feeble nature. But it was the will of God that she should be suddenly called from him; and, stunned with his loss, he abandoned himself to sorrow and inaction. The death of his valuable friend and counsellor, Captain O'Brien, cut away the last prop of the feeble man, who was now alternately sunk in useless grief or haunted with the horrors of neglected duties.

Pious and eloquent, his people declared he was an angel in the church; but in their humble dwellings his visits, like those of angels, "were short and far between." In his family, it was his pleasure to communicate to his children the rich treasures of learning that he possessed; but the lessons of life, the useful preparation for the battle of the world, he had not the skill or the energy to teach.

His daughter, now sixteen years of age, had been ably instructed by her excellent mother, and possessed good sense and prudence beyond her years. Arthur, the eldest son, one year younger, had benefited by his mother's advice and example equally with his sister, whom he resembled in disposition. His brother Hugh, not yet thirteen years old, was too young to have profited much by instruction, and was more volatile than Margaret and Arthur. But the children were all frank, true, and conscientious; and had yet escaped the temptations and perils of the world.

Gerald, the orphan son of the faithful and attached friend of Mr. Mayburn, Captain O'Brien, was the most weighty charge of his timid guardian; though but twelve years old, he was bold, independent, and forever in mischief; and hourly did Mr. Mayburn groan under his responsibility, for he had solemnly promised to fulfil the duties of a father to the boy, and he trembled to contemplate his incapacity for the office.

"Margaret," said he to his daughter, "I request that you or Jenny will never lose sight of that boy after he leaves my study. I am continually distracted by the dread that he should pull down the old church tower when he is climbing to take the nests of the harmless daws, or that he should have his eyes pecked out by the peacocks at Moore Park, when he is pulling the feathers from their tails."

"Do you not think, papa," answered Margaret, "that you are partly responsible for his mischievous follies? You have imbued him with your ornithological tastes."

"He has no taste, Margaret," replied her father hastily. "He has no judgment in the science. He has never learned to distinguish the Corvidæ from the Columbidæ; nor could he at this moment tell you to which family the jackdaw he makes war with belongs. He is negligent himself, and, moreover, he allures my son Hugh from his serious studies, to join him in rash and dangerous enterprises. He is totally deficient in the qualities of application and perseverance. I have a dim recollection, Margaret, of a childish hymn, written by the pious Dr. Watts, who was no great poet, but was really an observer of the habits of the animal creation. This hymn alludes prettily to the industry of the bee, and if you could prevail on Gerald to commit it to memory, it might suggest reflections on his own deficiencies."

"Papa," said Margaret laughing, "Gerald could repeat 'How doth the little busy bee,' when he was four years old, and I do not think that a repetition of it now would make any serious impression on him."

"He has no taste for the higher range of poetry," said his distressed guardian; "and has too much levity to seek knowledge in the direct paths. What would you think of giving him to learn an unpretending poem by Mrs. Barbauld, which describes the feathered tribes with tolerable accuracy. It commences,

'Say, who the various nations can declare,

That plough, with busy wing, the peopled air!'"

"Gerald is not lazy, papa, he is only thoughtless," said Margaret. "Let us hope that a few years will bring him more wisdom; then he will learn to admire Homer, and to distinguish birds like his good guardian."

Mr. Mayburn sighed. "But what shall I do with the boy," he said, "when my duties summon me to distant lands? I am bewildered with doubts of the future. Will it be right, Margaret, to remove you and my promising boys from country, society, and home, perhaps even from civilization?"

"No, no, papa, you are not fitted for a missionary to savages," answered Margaret, "you must choose some more suitable employment. And if you are bent on quitting England, surely you cannot suppose, whatever may be your destination, that we should consent to be separated from you."

"God forbid that it should be so!" exclaimed the father. "But I cannot but feel, my child, that I have been selfish and negligent. Give me some consolation – tell me that you think I may yet do some good in a strange land. I am persuaded that I shall be better able to exert myself among complete heathens than I am among these cold, dull, professed Christians."

"If you feel this conviction, papa," said Margaret, "it is sufficient. When we earnestly desire to do right, God always provides us with work. We must all try to aid you. And Gerald is now our brother, papa; he must accompany us in our wanderings. The boys anticipate with great delight the pleasures of a sea-voyage, and I myself, though I regret to leave my poor people, enjoy the idea of looking on the wonders of the world."

"Then, Margaret," added Mr. Mayburn, "I must trust you and Jenny to watch that giddy boy, Gerald. Warn him of the dangers that surround him. I should never survive if he were to fall overboard. I promised O'Brien much; but, alas! I have done little."

Margaret engaged to use all needful watchfulness, though, she assured her father, Arthur would care for the young boys; and being now convinced that her father's resolution to leave England was earnest and unchangeable, the young girl, assisted by Jenny Wilson, the old nurse, set about the serious preparations for this important change; and when a mission to a remote part of India was proposed to Mr. Mayburn, he found the whole of his family as ready as he was himself to enter into this new and hazardous undertaking.

"I looked for nothing better, Miss Marget, my darling," said nurse Jenny; "and my poor mistress, lying on her death-bed, saw it all plainly. Says she to me, 'Nurse,' says she, 'your good master will never settle after I'm gone. He'll be for shifting from this place; but mind this, nurse, you'll stick to my childer.' And then and there I said I would never leave ye; 'specially you, Miss Marget; where you go, I must go, and I hope God will spare me to nurse childer of yours. Though where you are to meet with a suiting match I cannot see, if master will choose to go and live among black savages."

"Not so bad as that, nurse," said Margaret, smiling. "I trust that our lot may be cast on a more civilized spot, where we may find many of our own countrymen living among the benighted people we are sent to teach; and even they, though ignorant and degraded, are not absolutely savage, neither are they blacks, my dear nurse."

"Well, my child, you know best," answered Jenny. "But there's a sore task laid out for you, that will have all the work to do. Not but what master is a grand hand at preaching, and can talk wonderful, nows and thens, to poor folks; but he cannot get round them as you can. He never seems to be talking to them as it were face to face, but all like preaching to them out of his pulpit; and somehow he never gets nigh hand to them. But it's God will, and, please Him, we must all do our best; we shall be missed here; and oh, Miss Marget, what will come of poor Ruth Martin? and we promising to take the lass next month, and make a good servant of her. Here's Jack, too; just out of his time, a fair good workman, and a steady lad, and none but you and master to look up to, poor orphans."

"Do not be distressed, nurse," replied Margaret, "I have thought of all my scholars; I have prepared a list of those I wish papa especially to recommend to his successor; and perhaps Mrs. Newton will take Ruth on trial."

"She won't do it, Miss Marget," answered Jenny. "I tried her before, and she flounces, and flames, and says all sorts of ill words again the lass, as how she's flappy and ragged, and knows nothing; and when I asked her what she could expect from childer as was found crying over their poor father and mother lying dead under a hedge; she said outright, she should expect they would turn out vagabonds, like them they belonged to. Yes, she said that; after you had given the poor things schooling for six years."

It was not the least of Margaret Mayburn's pangs, on leaving Wendon, that she must be compelled to abandon the poor children of the parish, whom she had long taught and cared for; and she sighed over the incapacity of the rough orphan girl that she now set out with her faithful nurse to visit.

Ruth and Jack Martin had been found one cold morning of winter in a lane leading to the village of Wendon, sitting by the side of the hedge, weeping over the dead bodies of their parents, who had perished from famine and fever, exposed to the storm of the previous night. The children were conveyed to the workhouse, and from their story, and further inquiries, it was made out that their mother had left a tribe of gipsies to marry a railway navvy, as the children called their father. He was a reckless, drunken profligate; and after losing his arm from an accident which originated in his own carelessness, was dismissed from his employment, and driven to wander a homeless vagrant. The children said they had lived by begging, and had often been nearly starved; but their mother would never let them steal or tell a lie, and she had often cried when their father came to their lodging very drunk, speaking very bad words, and holding out silver money, which their mother would not touch.

But at last he was seized with a bad fever on the road, and, houseless and penniless, they crept under a haystack; from thence the children were sent to the road-side to beg from passengers, or to seek some farmhouse, where charity might bestow on them a little milk or a few crusts of bread; but the poor wife sickened of the same disease which was carrying off her husband, and in their desperation the wretched sufferers dragged themselves to the road which led to the village, in hopes of reaching it, and finding shelter and aid. But it was too late. In the midst of the beating snow, and in the darkness of a winter's night, the man sank down and died. The wretched woman cast herself down beside him, and, overcome by sorrow and long suffering, did not survive to see the morning light.

The sympathy created by this melancholy event procured many warm friends for the orphans. They were fed and clothed, sent to school, and carefully instructed in that pure religion of which they had formerly had but vague notions. Jack, the boy, who was about eleven years of age when they were orphaned, was a thoughtful, industrious lad; for three years he made useful progress at school, and in the last three years, under a good master, he had become a skilful carpenter. Ruth, who was two years younger than her brother, had inferior abilities; she was rough, boisterous, and careless; and was ever the dunce of the school, till at length the schoolmistress begged she might be put to something else, for she declared she made "no hand at learning." She was then placed with an old woman, who daily complained that "the lass was of no use; she was willing enough; but if she was set to wash the cups, she broke them; and she could not even stir the fire but she would poke it out." At fifteen years old, Ruth was a strong, active girl, extremely good-natured, true, and honest, fondly attached to her brother, and devoted to her kind friends at the rectory; yet, certainly, Ruth was no favorite with the wives of the neighboring farmers, who unanimously agreed that she must have "two left hands," she was so awkward in all her undertakings. Under these untoward circumstances, it had been arranged that Ruth should undergo an apprenticeship in the rectory establishment, to fit her for household service. This event was looked forward to by the girl with great delight, and it was with much regret that Margaret set out to announce to her their plan of leaving Wendon, which must necessarily extinguish her hopes of preferment.

There was still another who would deeply feel their loss; and Margaret was accompanied by her brothers, who were anxious to see their untiring assistant, Jack. It was he who gave his useful aid to them in the construction of bows, bats, leaping-bars, and all the wooden appliances of school-boy sports; and above all the people of the village, the boys murmured most that they must part with Jack.

They found the industrious lad busily engaged in making a new crutch for Nanny, the old woman with whom the orphans lived. "You see, Master Hugh," said he, "poor Ruth happened to throw down Nanny's crutch, and then the careless lass fell over it, and snapped it. I reckon it had been a bit of bad wood; but this is a nice seasoned stick I've had laid by these two years for another purpose, and it comes in nicely; for Nanny was cross, and poor Ruth was sadly put about, and this will set all straight."

At this moment, Ruth, who had been sent out to milk Nanny's cow, entered in woful plight. She had neglected to tie Brindle's legs properly, and the animal, irritated by the teasing bark of an ill-taught little dog, had struggled to extricate itself, kicked Ruth into the mud, and the milk-pail after her, and then run off, pursued by its tormentor; and the girl returned with her dress torn and dirty, and her milk-pail empty. Nanny scolded, Jack shook his head, Margaret gently remonstrated with her for her carelessness, and, worst cut of all, the young gentlemen laughed at her. Then Ruth fairly sat down and cried.

"Well, Nanny," said Margaret, "you must look over Ruth's fault this time, for we have some sad news for you all. We are going to leave Wendon."

Jack threw down his work, and Ruth, forgetting her own vexation, held up her hands, crying out, "Not without me, please, Miss Marget. You promised to try and make me good for something; please do, Miss Marget, and I'll pray God to make me of some use to you."

"But, Ruth," said Hugh, "we are going far away from here, across the wide sea, and among people who neither talk, nor look, nor live as we do."

"How many legs have they, Master Hugh?" asked the awe-struck girl.

"Only two legs, and one head, Ruth," answered he, laughing; "and we feel pretty sure that they will not eat us; but, for all that, I am afraid they are a little bit savage, if they be roused."

"Will you be so kind as to tell me, Mr. Arthur," said Jack, "where you may be going really."

Arthur then explained to Jack the plans of Mr. Mayburn, and assured him they all felt a pang at leaving Wendon; and especially they regretted the parting from the children they had themselves assisted to teach.

"Then let us go with you," cried Ruth vehemently.

"Cannot we both work and wait on you? If I stay here I shall be sure to turn out a bad lass. Jack, honey, we'll not be left behind, we will run after Miss Marget and Mr. Arthur."

Jack was thoughtful and silent, while Margaret said to the weeping girl, – "If we had only been removing to any part of England, Ruth, we would have taken you with us, if it had been possible; but we dare not propose such an addition to the family in a long voyage, which will cost a large sum of money for each of us; besides this, we are going to a country where your services, my poor girl, would be useless; for all the servants employed in cooking, house-work, and washing, are men, who bear the labor, in such a hot climate, better than women could."

"If you please, Miss Margaret," said Jack, eagerly, "I have thought of something. Will you be kind enough to tell me the name of the ship you are to go in, and I will get my master to write me out a good testimonial, and then I will seek the captain, to offer to work for my passage and for that of poor Ruth, if you will agree to try her; for you see, Miss Margaret, we must never be parted. And when once we're landed, please God, we'll take care to follow you wherever you may go."

Margaret was deeply affected by the attachment of the orphans; and though she felt the charge of Ruth would be a burden, she promised to consult her father about the plan, and the brother and sister were left in a state of great anxiety and doubt.