“TOM, I invite you to a walk.”
“Well, George, a walk is a great temptation this beautiful day.”
It was the month of January in Australia. A blazing hot day was
beginning to glow through the freshness of morning. The sky was one cope
of pure blue, and the southern air crept slowly up, its wings clogged
with fragrance, and just tuned the trembling leaves,--no more.
“Is not this pleasant, Tom?--isn’t it sweet?”
“I believe you, George! and what a shame to run down such a country as
this! There they come home and tell you that the flowers have no smell,
but they keep dark about the trees and bushes being haystacks of
flowers. Snuff the air as we go, it is a thousand English gardens in
one. Look at those tea-scrubs, each with a thousand blossoms on it as
sweet as honey; and the golden wattles on the other side, and all
smelling like seven o’clock.”
“Ay, lad! it is very refreshing; and it is Sunday, and we have got away
from the wicked for an hour or two. But in England there would be a
little white church out yonder, and a spire like an angel’s forefinger
pointing from the grass to heaven, and the lads in their clean frocks
like snow, and the lasses in their white stockings and new shawls, and
the old women in their scarlet cloaks and black bonnets, all going one
road, and a tinkle-tinkle from the belfry, that would turn all these
other sounds and colors and sweet smells holy, as well as fair, on the
Sabbath morn. Ah, England! Ah!”
“You will see her again,--no need to sigh. But this is a lovely land.”
“So ’tis, Tom, so ’tis. But I’ll tell you what puts me out a little
bit;--nothing is what it sets up for here. If you see a ripe pear and go
to eat it, it is a lump of hard wood. Next comes a thing the very sight
of which turns your stomach, and that is delicious,--a loquat, for
instance. There, now, look at that magpie! well, it is Australia, so
that magpie is a crow and not a magpie at all. Everything pretends to be
some old friend or other of mine, and turns out a stranger. Here is
nothing but surprises and deceptions. The flowers make a point of not
smelling, and the bushes, that nobody expects to smell or wants to
smell, they smell lovely.”
“What does it matter where the smell comes from, so that you get it?”
“Why, Tom,” replied George, opening his eyes, “it makes all the
difference. I like to smell a flower,--a flower is not complete without
smell; but I don’t care if I never smell a bush till I die. Then the
birds,--they laugh and talk like Christians; they make me split my
sides, bless their little hearts! but they won’t chirrup. It is
Australia! where everything is inside-out and topsy-turvy. The animals
have four legs, so they jump on two. Ten-foot square of rock lets for a
pound a month; ten acres of grass for a shilling a year. Roasted at
Christmas, shiver o’ cold on Midsummer Day. The lakes are grass, and the
rivers turn their backs on the sea and run into the heart of the land;
and the men would stand on their heads, but I have taken a thought, and
I’ve found out why they don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because, if they did, their heads would point the same way a man’s head
points in England.”
Tom Robinson laughed, and told George he admired the country for these
very traits. “Novelty for me against the world. Who’d come twelve
thousand miles to see nothing we couldn’t see at home? One does not want
the same story always. Where are we going, George?”
“Oh, not much farther,--only about twelve miles from the camp.”
“Where to?”
“To a farmer I know. I am going to show you a lark, Tom,” said George,
and his eyes beamed benevolence on his comrade.
Robinson stopped short. “George,” said he, “no! don’t let us. I would
rather stay at home and read my book.”
“Why, Tom, am I the man to tempt you to do evil?” asked George, hurt.
“Why, no! but, for all that, you proposed a lark.”
“Ay, but an innocent one,--one more likely to lift your heart on high
than to give you ill thoughts.”
“Well, this is a riddle!” and Robinson was intensely puzzled.
“Carlo!” cried George suddenly, “come here; I will not have you hunting
and tormenting those kangaroo rats to-day. Let us all be at peace, if
_you_ please. Come, to heel.”
The friends strode briskly on, and a little after eleven o’clock they
came upon a small squatter’s house and premises. “Here we are,” said
George, and his eyes glittered with innocent delight.
THE LARK IN THE GOLD-FIELDS.
CHARLES READE.