Yarrahappini
Yarrahappini in the sunshine, the kind of sunshine that pushes the
thermometer's silver thread up to 100 deg.!
Right away in the distance on three sides was a blue hill line and
blue soft trees.
And up near the house the trees were green and beautiful, and the
flowers a blaze of colour.
But all the stretching plain between was brown. Brown burnt grass
with occasional patches of dull green, criss-crossed here and there
with fences; that ran up the little hills that in places broke the
plain's straight line, and disappeared in the dips where rank grass
and bracken flourished. The head station consisted of quite a little
community of cottages on the top of a hill. Years ago, when Esther
was no bigger than her own little General, there had been only a rough,
red weather-board place on the hill-top, and a bark but or two for
outhouses.
And Mr. Hassal had been in the saddle from morning to night, and
worked harder than any two of his own stockmen, and Mrs. Hassal had
laid aside her girlish accomplishments, her fancy work, her guitar,
her water-colours, and had scrubbed and cooked and washed as many a
settler's wife has done before, until the anxiously watched wool
market had brought them better days.
Then a big stone cottage reared itself slowly right in front of the
little old place with its bottle-bordered garden plot, where nothing
more aristocratic than pig's face and scarlet geranium had ever grown.
A beautiful cottage it was, with its plenitude of lofty rooms, its
many windows, and its deep veranda. The little home was kitchen
and bedrooms for the two women servants now, and was joined to the
big place by a covered way.
A hundred yards away there was a two-roomed cottage that was occupied
by the son of an English baronet, who, for the consideration of
seventy pounds a year and rations kept the Yarrahappini business
books and gave out the stores.
Farther still, two bark humpies stood, back to back. Tettawonga,
a bent old black fellow, lived in one, and did little else than
smoke and give his opinion on the weather every morning.
Twenty years ago he had helped to make a steady foundation for
the red cottage that had arrived ready built on a bullock-dray.
Fifteen years ago he had killed with his tomahawk one of two
bushrangers who were trying to pick up Yarrahappini in the
absence of his master, and he had carried little trembling
Mrs. Hassal and tiny Esther to place of safety, and gone back
and dealt the other one a blow on the head that stunned him
till assistance came.
So, of course, he had earned his right to the cottage and the
daily rations and the pipe that never stirred from his lips.
Two of the station hands lived in the other cottage when they
were not out in distant parts of the run.
Close to the house was a long weather-board building with a heavy,
padlocked door.
"Oh, let's go in," Nell said, attracted by the size of the
padlock; "it looks like a treasure-house in a book--mayn't we
go in, please, little grandma?"
They were exploring all the buildings--the six children in a body,
Mrs. Hassal, whom they all called "little grandma," much to her
pleasure, and Esther with the boy.
"You must go and ask Mr. Gillet," the old lady said; "he keeps
the keys of the stores. See, over in that cottage near the tank,
and speak nicely, children, please."
"Such a gentleman," she said in a low tone to Esther, "so clever,
so polished, if only he did not drink so."
Meg and Judy went, with Baby hurrying after them as fast as her
short legs would allow.
"Come in," a voice said, when they knocked. Meg hesitated
nervously, and a man opened the door. Such a great, gaunt man,
with restless, unhappy eyes, a brown, wide brow, and neatly
trimmed beard.
Judy stated that Mrs. Hassal had sent them for the keys, if he had
no objection.
He asked them to come in and sit down while he looked for them.
Meg was surprised at the room, as her blue eyes plainly showed, for
she had only heard him spoken of as the store-keeper. There were
bookshelves, on which she saw Shakespeare and Browning and Shelley
and Rossetti and Tennyson, William Morris, and many others she had
never seen before. There were neatly framed photographs and engravings
of English and Continental scenery on the walls. There was a little
chased silver vase on a bracket, and some of the flowers from the
passion vines in it. The table with the remains of breakfast on
it was as nice on a small scale as the one she had just left in
the big cottage.
He came back froth the inner room with the keys. "I was afraid I
had mislaid then," he said; "the middle one opens the padlock,
Miss Woolcot; the brass fat one is for the two bins, and the
long steel one for the cupboard."
"Thank you so much. I'm afraid we disturbed you in the middle of your
breakfast," Meg said, standing up and blushing because she thought he
had noticed her surprise at the bookshelves.
He disclaimed the trouble, and held the door open for them with
a bow that had something courtly in it, at least so Meg thought,
puzzling how it came to be associated with salt beef by the
hundredweight and bins of flour. He watched them go over the
grass--at least he watched Meg in her cool, summer muslin and
pale-blue belt, Meg in her shady chip hat, with the shining fluffy
plait hanging to her waist.
Judy's long black legs and crumpled cambric had no element of the
picturesque in them.
Mrs. Hassal unfastened the padlock of the store-room. Such a
chorus of "ohs!" and "ahs!" there was from the children!
Baby had never seen so much sugar together in her life before; she
looked as if she would have liked to have been let loose in the
great bin for an hour or two.
And the currants! There was a big wooden box brim full--about
forty pounds, Mrs. Hassal thought when questioned.
Bunty whipped up a handful and pocketed them when everyone was
looking at the mountain of candles.
"Home-made! my DEAR, why, yes, of course," the old lady said.
"Why, I wouldn't dream of using a bought candle, any more than
I would use bought soap."
She showed them the great bars of yellow, clean-smelling stuff,
with finer, paler-coloured for toilet purposes.
Hams and sides of bacon hung thickly from the rafters. "Those are
mutton hams," she said, pointing to one division. "I keep those
for the stockmen."
Pip wanted to know if the stores were meant to serve them all their
lives, there seemed enough of them: he was astonished to hear that
every six months they were replenished.
"Twenty to thirty men, counting the boundary riders and stockmen
at different parts of the place; and double that number at shearing
or drafting times, not to mention daily sundowners--it's like feeding
an army, my dears," she said; "and then, you see, I had to make
preparations for all of you--Bunty especially."
Her little grey eyes twinkled merrily as she looked at that small
youth.
"You can have them back," Bunty said, half sulkily. He produced
half a dozen currants from his pocket. "I shouldn't think you'd
mind, with such a lot; we only have a bottleful at home."
On which the old lady patted his head, unlocked a tin, and filled
his hands with figs and dates.
"And have you to cook every day, for all those men?" Meg said,
wondering what oven could be found large enough.
"Dear, no!" the old lady answered. "Dear, dear, no; each man
does everything for himself in his own hut; they don't even get
bread, only rations of flour to make damper for themselves. Then
we give them a fixed, quantity of meat, tea, sugar, tobacco,
candles, soap, and one or two other things."
"Where do you keep the wool and things?" said Pip, who had a soul
above home-made soap and metal dips for candles; "I can't see any
shed or anything."
Mrs. Hassal told him they were a mile away, down by the creek,
where the sheep were washed and sheared at the proper season. But
the heat was too much to make even Pip want to go just then, so they
attached themselves to Mr. Hassal, leaving little grandma with
Esther, the General, and Baby, and went over to the brick stables
near.
There were three or four buggies under cover, but no horses at all,
they were farther afield. Across the paddock they went, and up the
hill. Half a dozen answered Mr. Hassal's strange whistle; the
others were wild, unbroken things, that tossed their manes and fled
away at the sight of people to the farthermost parts where the trees
grew.
Pip chose one, a grey, with long, fleet-looking legs and a narrow,
beautiful head; he prided himself upon knowing something about
"points." Judy picked a black, with reddish, restless eyes, but
Mr. Hassal refused it because it had an uncertain temper, so she
had to be content with a brown with a soft, satiny nose.
Meg asked for "something very quiet" in a whisper Judy and Pip could
not hear, and was given a ruggy horse that had carried Mrs. Hassal
eighteen years ago. Each animal was to be at the complete disposal
of the young people during their stay at Yarrahappini, but the rides
would have to take place before breakfast or after tea, they were told,
if they wanted any pleasure out of them; the rest of the day was
unbearable on horseback. Nellie was disappointed in the sheep,
exceedingly so. She had expected to find great snow-white beautiful
creatures that would be tame and allow her to put ribbon on their
necks and lead them about.
From the hill-top the second morning she saw paddock after paddock,
each with a brown, slowly moving mass; she ran down through the
sunshine with Bunty to view them more closely.
"Oh, WHAT a shame!" she exclaimed, actual tears of disappointment
springing to her eyes when she saw the great fat things with their
long, dirty, ragged-looking fleece.
"Wait for a time, little woman," Mr. Hassal said; "just you wait
till we give them their baths."