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“186- was an extraordinary season. May passed, no snow – June the same, only heavy, I may say, nearly constant showers of rain. ‘A glorious year,’ the diggers called it. ‘Never such a season for work since the diggings broke out. Two months’ work at a time when there is never any water. O, what a wash-up there will be in November!’
“Such was the substance of the conversation when any two of the residents met, varied, perhaps, by remarks as to whether old So-and-so, who had been twenty years in the district, would be right in saying there was to be nine feet of snow, or whether So-and-so was a better judge in saying we were to have none at all?
“I was then living by myself, Wilfred being away in Sydney, and was looking out for him every day, and hoping he might be back before the winter fairly set in, when it was scarcely possible to travel. As I said before, June had passed, and we were getting well into July, when I heard that our English mail would be in Kiandra on the following Wednesday. It was now Friday.
“We had got a fine week for work, raining gently all the time, which is what we diggers like, and no frost, which dries up the water, and makes us all idle, when on Sunday the weather completely changed, and very suddenly, too, as, indeed, it always did there. The wind, which had been from north or east, without any warning chopped right round to the south-west, and we had a strong frost. Next day was cloudy, but at night frost was harder than ever, and everything with liquid in it, even to the tea-pot in a room where there was a fire nearly all night, was full of solid ice.
“The thermometer was down to 18° below zero in the same place; and in bed, in the next room, with four pairs of new blankets, I thought I should have been fairly frozen. We were hard at work all that day, which was a drizzly, snowy one, everything betokening a fall of snow; so, when Wednesday dawned, though not so deep as I expected, I was not surprised to find more than a foot of it all over.
“Down the country the floods had been dreadful; nearly all the bridges had been washed away, and the roads turned into bogs, so that our mails came in very irregularly, sometimes ten days behind time. You may therefore imagine I was in a great worry to hear from Wilfred, my last letter being a month old, as well as anxious for home news. So I donned my oil-skin over my blanket-coat, put on my thigh gum-boots, tied my comforter round my neck and up over my ears, and pulling my south-wester on, prepared to face the weather.
“I found the walk into town, though very heavy, not so bad as I expected, and arrived safely, without any mishaps, but rather tired and uncomfortably moist, it being a sort of drizzle all the way; but a letter from Wilfred, saying he would not leave for some time, and so would not be caught in this storm, and the perusal of a kind one from ‘the old country’ soon made me forget my discomfort, and I spent a pleasant evening at a friend’s.
“At bed-time it was a beautiful starry night; but I did not altogether fancy it. There was a kind of half soft feel through the frost, that sounded to me like a change, and the thought of the morrow’s walk was not a pleasant one; but there was no use forestalling what might never be. So to bed and to sleep; but ere my eyes were well closed, the wind began to whistle round the corner of the house, and – hallo – what’s that! Big drops of rain, and lumps of earth and gravel, were pelting the panes of glass.
“A few minutes there was a lull – a dead silence – when flash! crash! – the room was in a blaze of light, and at the same instant the thunder made the very bed shake again, and also made my heart rise to my mouth. Listening earnestly for some time, and no further disturbances occurring, I began, after thanking a kind Providence for his protection, to think over the matter, and came to the conclusion that at last we were in for a downright fall, this being the third time that, to my knowledge, such had been preceded by a single clap of thunder.
“Next day the snow came down in earnest; and as it was drifting in every direction, I took the advice of my friends, and quietly stopped where I was. Large, feathery flakes fell unceasingly all the afternoon, and by night there was fully two feet in the town; but as it looked a little better on Friday afternoon, and my dog, cat, and fowls could get nothing to eat until my return, I determined to make a start, though against the opinions of most of the town’s people.
“When I left Kiandra there was a dense fog, which shortly changed, first to a light, and then to a heavy snow; and by the time I dragged myself the mile to the top of the mountain, it was coming down, and no mistake!
“It was impossible to see one yard in any direction, and my legs were already beginning to talk; but it was too late to think of turning. I had had only to fight through one extra deep drift as yet, and knew the road hitherto well; but now I had to turn off from where the track lay hid, and had not gone far when my difficulties fairly began, and I was quickly ploughing my way through some five or six feet of snow.
“Half an hour’s hard work found me clear of that, and for a couple of miles everything went swimmingly. The snow was here firm enough to bear my weight, although now and again, bump! down I went through the crust, nearly jerking my joints out. The nearer home the deeper got the snow, and, of course, so much the more tired I felt. The main creek to be crossed was hidden entirely; and as its exact whereabouts was not very easily guessed at, you may depend it was not a pleasant sensation to plump down and find myself up to the neck. Luckily, the water was no depth, and as my boots were tight and long, a hard scramble pulled me out of my first trouble.
“A short rest, and I was again on my way; but it took me a good many hours to get the next three or four miles, even though I met no more serious difficulty than some very heavy drifts. I was getting very tired, and hungry, too, and you may fancy it was no joke wading the snow, never less than two feet, lucky if not going past the knees at every step; but at last I was in a mess, and how to get out of it I knew not. The look of the country, when a lull gave me the chance of seeing, showed I was off my road; and when I felt I was lost, my thoughts were anything but satisfactory.
“I knew not which way to turn, so sat down to think it over, and was looking around as well as the drifting snow would permit, when coming along my tracks was a large yellow dog. My heart gave a bound of delight, and jumping up, I let a ‘cooey,’1 to tell its master that some one was in the same predicament, as I doubted not he was.
“Slowly a minute or two passed, but no reply to my communication. Alas! all was silence, and I then saw, by its pointed ears and bushy tail, that it was a dingo, or native dog, which was running my footsteps. It was no use sitting where I was. So on I started in the direction I fancied, every minute feeling more and more fagged, and when at last darkness set in, was almost inclined to give up.
“My yellow friend followed me for some time at a respectful distance; and though the dingo is a sneaking coward, still, had sleep overpowered me, he might have been tempted to try how I tasted, as he must have been hungry to come so close to me as he did. So, although I never had any fear of such an event actually occurring, I was not at all sorry when he trotted off, his tail, as usual, between his legs, to join some of his companions, whose unearthly howls he heard at no great distance; there must have been five or six.
“I felt really glad they came no nearer, as a mob of them are very daring; and I have known them, when well starved for a week or two, kill calves, and even colts, when the mothers were weak and could not fight for them. But it was not very long before I found that they were not after me, as I nearly stumbled against a mare and colt belonging to myself, that were standing under a tree, and whinnied as I spoke. We had sent all our horses away two months ago but this one, as she could not be found, and we thought she was dead. The poor thing could not have tasted food for days; but what could I do but pity the pair, and feel that their end was to be food for the warregals (native dogs).
“As I had now been walking seven or eight hours, and hard at it all the time, I could see nothing for it but to yield to necessity, as sleep was fast overpowering me, when I distinctly heard the bark of a dog, which I felt confident was my old watch, ‘Jack.’ My spirits rose at once, and again I was alive, and pushed in the direction of the welcome sound.
“At the same time I caught a glimpse of a cluster of trees, whose peculiar shape I had often remarked, which told me where I was; and this fact was also quickly proved by my plunging into an old prospecting hole – the only one in the neighborhood. It was about six feet deep, and full of snow and water. I thought I was lost, as the frozen slush went down my back, and that I, who had been picked out of the Canton River, in a dark night, when the tide ran six knots an hour, was fated to be drowned in a filthy pot-hole.
“But, luckily, such was not my lot on the present occasion, as, after many a failure, I managed to pull myself out, my boots full of water, and my whole body nearly numb from the cold. Luckily, the house was only half a mile off.
“I reached it in safety, and just in time, as my feet were all but frost-bitten, when I should have been fortunate to lose only a few of my toes, as I knew a man here who had both legs cut off in consequence of a severe frost-bite.
“As it was, I was a sorry figure; my clothes were like a board, my socks were in a similar state, while icicles hung in festoons from my hair and beard. But, when at last I managed to open the door, and get a light, one or two rough towels, and some ten minutes’ hard rubbing, soon put a glow of heat over my whole body; and by the time I turned into bed, after a cup of scalding hot coffee (I was too hungry to eat), my misfortunes were forgotten, and all I felt was thankfulness for having reached my house, which seems to me, even now, to have been a very doubtful matter, had ‘Jack’ not barked when he did.
“See how many things turned out all for my good – the mare and the colt in the snow, the dingo running after her through hunger, and my dog barking at it, showed me where my house was, when I was fairly lost, and thus saved my life, and enabled me to spin you this yarn, which I must now finish by saying that since that time I am always glad to have a warm house to shelter me in such weather as this, and cannot help thinking that if any boys had ever been placed in my predicament, they would only be too thankful to remain inside on such a day as this, without requiring their mother to order them to do so.”
“But what about the poor mare? Did she die? and did the wild dogs eat the colt?”
“O, I almost forgot to tell you that, to my astonishment, in two or three days, when the snow hardened a bit, the pair found their way home, and I, after a deal of trouble, got them to the banks of the Tumut River, which, although only a couple of miles away, was so many hundred feet lower, that they could paw away the snow, and so got grass enough to live till spring when they soon got fat. The little colt I named ‘Snowdrop,’ and when she was old enough, broke her in; and many a good gallop we had over the place where she and her mother neighed to me on that dark and dismal night.”
SPRING HAS COME
SPRING has come back to us, beautiful spring!Blue-birds and swallows are out on the wing;Over the meadows a carpet of greenSofter and richer than velvet is seen.Up come the blossoms so bright and so gay,Giving sweet odors to welcome the May.Sunshine and music are flooding the air,Beauty and brightness are everywhere.ABOUT “BITTERS.”
CHARLEY and Jimmie D. were playing near the barn one day, when along came the forlornest looking cur you ever did see. The children commenced calling him, and laughed loudly as the animal came towards them, he was such an ill-looking thing.
“Good fellow! nice fellow!” said Charley, patting him. “Jim, you run in, and get him something to eat – won’t you? and don’t tell mother yet; you know she dislikes dogs so. We’ll tie him up to-night, and tell her to-morrow, if no one comes for him.”
Such another looking dog I think I never saw – scrawny and poor, as though he had never been more than half fed; a slit in one ear, tail not much to speak of, and color a dirty black and white.
Jimmie soon came back from a successful forage, and gave him a good supper. At least doggie seemed to think so, for he gobbled it up in about a minute, and then wagged the stump of his tail for more.
“No, sir,” said Charley, “no more to-night.”
Then they shut him up in a little room in a corner of the barn, and ran to find their father, and tell him, well knowing he would not care, if their mother was willing.
They found their father, who went with them to see him, and laughed long and loud as they led out the ugly beast.
Then all went in to supper; the great secret almost revealing itself in their tell-tale looks and occasional whisperings, neither of which attracted their mother’s attention.
Supper over, they made a final visit to their pet, and then left him for the night.
“What shall we name him?” said Jimmie, when they were alone in their room at night.
“O, we must have a funny name, he’s such a sorry looking feller! Wouldn’t you call him ‘Bitters’?” said Charley.
“Bitters!” said Jim, with a laugh.
“Yes, that’s bad enough.”
So Bitters he was named; and next morning they won their mother’s reluctant consent to keep the dog, provided he was kept at the barn, or away from the house, at all events.
Then they fed and played with him till school time, and shut him up till noon.
Bitters seemed to take to his new admirers, and appeared quite satisfied with his quarters, and was getting to look a little more like a respectable dog, when one morning, as he was running round a corner of the barn, he came suddenly upon the old rooster, who bristled up and showed fight. Bitters turned, and ran for dear life, as hard as he could go, and never has been seen or heard from, from that day to this, much to the boys’ regret.
F. E. S.FRED AND DOG STEPHEN
NOW, just one good cuddle,” said little six-year-old Freddie, “and then I’ll be ready for school;” and he curled himself up like a young Turk in his mother’s lap, and nestled there in a very enjoyable way.
She was sitting by the dining-room window; it was open, and a pitcher of wild phlox and pink-and-white wake-robins stood in it. While they sat there they saw Uncle Rube, who lives over on the hillside, coming along the crooked path with a basket on his arm. His head was down, and he was thinking so intently that he did not hear the steps behind him of his young dog, Stephen.
Now, Rube means to make the best dog in the world of Stephen – the playful little puppy! – and he never permits him to follow him anywhere unless by special invitation. About once a week he will say to him, “Stevie, would you like to go to your grandfather’s with me? Come on, then;” and here they will come, the puppy so glad that his gait is more awkward than ever, his fat body, twisted out of all shape, wriggling along, while his tail will flap about in every direction and his ears look like wilted cabbage-leaves.
“He doesn’t know Stevie is behind him, does he, ma? and now let’s watch and see what they will both do when they find out.” So they snugged down by the window and tittered and watched and anticipated rare fun.
Uncle Rube was whispering to himself and nodding his head and making gesticulations with his open hand, while Stephen trotted with his little soft, careful feet behind him, smelling of the ground, and thinking green grass with the dew sparkling on it was just made purposely for dogs to admire.
Just as Rube came to the big gate and stopped to unlatch it he heard a little whiffy breathing behind him, and then he looked and saw Stephen. He was very much surprised; but as he never scolded the dog, he simply said, in a very earnest way, “Steve, I am astonished! You go right back home immediately. You’re a great boy, indeed, to sneak along without ever being invited! I didn’t want you, sir, or I’d have told you so. Now go right back again.”
Oh, it was so funny! Stephen just threw his head back and whirled on his heels, and ran with all his might down the crooked path.
Then the school-bell rang, and Fred’s mother kissed him “good-morning,” and he started off with his books, and as he turned round the corner his white teeth showed prettily as, half laughing, he said to himself in wonderment, “Dear little Stevie dog! he just ran back ’zactly as if he wanted to.”
NOW THE SUN IS SINKING
NOW the sun is sinkingIn the golden west;Birds and bees and childrenAll have gone to rest;And the merry streamlet,As it runs along,With a voice of sweetnessSings its evening song.Cowslip, daisy, violet,In their little beds,All among the grasses,Hide their heavy heads;There they’ll all, sweet darlings!Lie in happy dreamsTill the rosy morningWakes them with its beams.A RIGMAROLE ABOUT A TEA-PARTY
MRS. DYERStirred the fire,Agnes StoutPoked it out,Tommy VolesFetched the coals,Alice GoodLaid the wood,Bertie PatchStruck the match,Charlotte HaysMade it blaze,Mrs. GroomKept the broom,Katy MooreSwept the floor,Fanny FrothLaid the cloth,Arthur GreyBrought the tray,Betty BatesWashed the plates,Nanny GaltSmoothed the salt,Dicky StreetFetched the meat,Sally StrifeRubbed the knife,Minnie YorkFound the fork,Sophie SilkBrought the milk,Mrs. BreamSent some cream,Susan HeadCut the bread,Harry HostMade the toast,Mrs. DeePoured out tea,And they all were as happy as happy could be.THE FAIRY BIRD
I’M so glad to-morrow is Christmas, because I’m going to have lots of presents.”
“So am I glad, though I don’t expect any presents but a pair of mittens.”
“And so am I; but I shan’t have any presents at all.”
As the three little girls trudged home from school they said these things, and as Tilly spoke, both the others looked at her with pity and some surprise; for she spoke cheerfully, and they wondered how she could be happy when she was so poor she could have no presents on Christmas.
“Don’t you wish you could find a purse full of money right here in the path?” said Kate, the child who was going to have “lots of presents.”
“O, don’t I, if I could keep it honestly!” And Tilly’s eyes shone at the very thought.
“What would you buy?” asked Bessy, rubbing her cold hands, and longing for her mittens.
“I’d buy a pair of large, warm blankets, a load of wood, a shawl for mother, and a pair of shoes for me; and if there was enough left, I’d give Bessy a new hat, and then she needn’t wear Ben’s old felt one,” answered Tilly.
The girls laughed at that; but Bessy pulled the funny hat over her ears, and said she was much obliged, but she’d rather have candy.
“Let’s look, and may be we can find a purse. People are always going about with money at Christmas time, and some one may lose it here,” said Kate.
So, as they went along the snowy road, they looked about them, half in earnest, half in fun. Suddenly Tilly sprang forward, exclaiming, —
“I see it! I’ve found it!”
The others followed, but all stopped disappointed, for it wasn’t a purse; it was only a little bird. It lay upon the snow, with its wings spread and feebly fluttering, as if too weak to fly. Its little feet were benumbed with cold; its once bright eyes were dull with pain, and instead of a blithe song, it could only utter a faint chirp now and then, as if crying for help.
“Nothing but a stupid old robin. How provoking!” cried Kate, sitting down to rest.
“I shan’t touch it; I found one once, and took care of it, and the ungrateful thing flew away the minute it was well,” said Bessy, creeping under Kate’s shawl, and putting her hands under her chin to warm them.
“Poor little birdie! How pitiful he looks, and how glad he must be to see some one coming to help him! I’ll take him up gently, and carry him home to mother. Don’t be frightened, dear; I’m your friend.” And Tilly knelt down in the snow, stretching her hand to the bird with the tenderest pity in her face.
Kate and Bessy laughed.
“Don’t stop for that thing; it’s getting late and cold. Let’s go on, and look for the purse,” they said, moving away.
“You wouldn’t leave it to die!” cried Tilly. “I’d rather have the bird than the money; so I shan’t look any more. The purse wouldn’t be mine, and I should only be tempted to keep it; but this poor thing will thank and love me, and I’m so glad I came in time!” Gently lifting the bird, Tilly felt its tiny cold claws cling to her hand, and saw its dim eyes brighten as it nestled down with a grateful chirp.
“Now I’ve got a Christmas present, after all,” she said, smiling, as they walked on. “I always wanted a bird, and this one will be such a pretty pet for me!”
“He’ll fly away the first chance he gets, and die, anyhow; so you’d better not waste your time over him,” said Bessy.
“He can’t pay you for taking care of him, and my mother says it isn’t worth while to help folks that can’t help us,” added Kate.
“My mother says, ‘Do as you’d be done by;’ and I’m sure I’d like any one to help me, if I was dying of cold and hunger. ‘Love your neighbor as yourself,’ is another of her sayings. This bird is my little neighbor, and I’ll love him and care for him, as I often wish our rich neighbor would love and care for us,” answered Tilly, breathing her warm breath over the benumbed bird, who looked up at her with confiding eyes, quick to feel and know a friend.
“What a funny girl you are!” said Kate, “caring for that silly bird, and talking about loving your neighbor in that sober way. Mr. King don’t care a bit for you, and never will, though he knows how poor you are; so I don’t think your plan amounts to much.”
“I believe it, though, and shall do my part, any way. Good night. I hope you’ll have a merry Christmas, and lots of pretty things,” answered Tilly, as they parted.
Her eyes were full, and she felt so poor as she went on alone towards the little old house where she lived! It would have been so pleasant to know that she was going to have some of the pretty things all children love to find in their full stockings on Christmas morning! and pleasanter still to have been able to give her mother something nice. So many comforts were needed, and there was no hope of getting them; for they could barely get food and fire.
“Never mind, birdie; we’ll make the best of what we have, and be merry in spite of everything. You shall have a happy Christmas, any way; and I know God won’t forget us, if every one else does.”
She stopped a minute to wipe her eyes, and lean her cheek against the bird’s soft breast, finding great comfort in the little creature, though it could only love her – nothing more.
“See, mother, what a nice present I’ve found!” she cried, going in with a cheery face, that was like sunshine in the dark room.
“I’m glad of that, deary; for I haven’t been able to get my little girl anything but a rosy apple. Poor bird! Give it some of your warm bread and milk.”
“Why, mother, what a big bowlful! I’m afraid you gave me all the milk,” said Tilly, smiling over the nice steaming supper that stood ready for her.
“I’ve had plenty, dear. Sit down and dry your wet feet, and put the bird in my basket on this warm flannel.”
Tilly peeped into the closet, and saw nothing there but dry bread.
“Mother’s given me all the milk, and is going without her tea, ’cause she knows I’m hungry. Now I’ll surprise her, and she shall have a good supper too. She is going to split wood, and I’ll fix it while she’s gone.”
So Tilly put down the old teapot, carefully poured out a part of the milk, and from her pocket produced a great plummy bunn, that one of the school children had given her, and she had saved for her mother. A slice of the dry bread was nicely toasted, and the bit of butter set by for her to put on it. When her mother came in, there was the table drawn up in a warm place, a hot cup of tea ready, and Tilly and birdie waiting for her.