THE BUSH FIRE.
“Will you shew yourself gentle, and be merciful for Christ’s sake
to poor and needy people, and to all strangers destitute of help?”
“I will so shew myself, by God’s help.”
_Consecration of Bishops, Book of Common Prayer._
Jack’s card is placed upright on the mantel-piece of Ruby’s bedroom,
its back leaning against the wall, and before it stands a little girl
with a troubled face, and a perplexed wrinkle between her brows.
“It says it there,” Ruby murmurs, the perplexed wrinkle deepening. “And
that text’s out of the Bible. But when there’s nobody to be kind to, I
can’t do anything.”
The sun is glinting on the frosted snow scene; but Ruby is not looking
at the snow scene. Her eyes are following the old, old words of the
first Christmas carol: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth
peace, good will toward men!”
“If there was only anybody to be kind to,” the little girl repeats
slowly. “Dad and mamma don’t need me to be kind to them, and I _am_
quite kind to Hans and Dick. If it was only in Scotland now; but it’s
quite different here.”
The soft summer wind is swaying the window-blinds gently to and fro,
and ruffling with its soft breath the thirsty, parched grass about the
station. To the child’s mind has come a remembrance, a remembrance of
what was “only a dream,” and she sees an old, old man, bowed down with
the weight of years, coming to her across the moonlit paths of last
night, an old man whom Ruby had let lie where he fell, because he was
only “the wicked old one.”
“It was only a dream, so it didn’t matter.” Thus the little girl tries
to soothe a suddenly awakened conscience. “And he _is_ a wicked old
one; Dick said he was.”
Ruby goes over to the window, and stands looking out. There is no
change in the fair Australian scene; on just such a picture Ruby’s eyes
have rested since first she came. But there is a strange, unexplained
change in the little girl’s heart. Only that the dear Lord Jesus has
come to Ruby, asking her for His dear sake to be kind to one of the
lowest and humblest of His creatures.
The child gives an impatient wriggle. “If it was only anybody else,”
she mutters. “But he’s so horrid, and he has such a horrid face. And I
don’t see what I could do to be kind to such a nasty old man as he is.
Besides, perhaps dad wouldn’t like me.”
“Good will toward men! Good will toward men!” Again the heavenly
voices seem ringing in Ruby’s ears. There is no angel host about her
to strengthen and encourage her, only one very lonely little girl who
finds it hard to do right when the doing of that right does not quite
fit in with her own inclinations. She has taken the first step upon the
heavenly way, and finds already the shadow of the cross.
The radiance of the sunshine is reflected in Ruby’s brown eyes, the
radiance, it may be, of something far greater in her heart.
“I’ll do it!” the little girl decides suddenly. “I’ll try to be kind to
the ‘old one.’ Only what can I do?”
“Miss Ruby!” cries an excited voice at the window, and, looking out,
Ruby sees Dick’s brown face and merry eyes. “Come ’long as quick as
you can. There’s a fire, and you said t’other day you’d never seen one.
I’ll get Smuttie if you come as quick as you can. It’s over by old
Davis’s place.”
Dick’s young mistress does not need a second bidding. She is out
waiting by the garden-gate long before Smuttie is caught and harnessed.
Away to the west she can see the long glare of fire shooting up tongues
of flame into the still sunlight, and brightening the river into a very
sea of blood.
“I don’t think you should go, Ruby,” says her mother, who has come
out on the verandah. “It isn’t safe, and you are so venturesome. I am
dreadfully anxious about your father too. Dick says he and the men are
off to help putting out the fire; but in such weather as this I don’t
see how they can ever possibly get it extinguished.”
“I’ll be very, very careful, mamma,” Ruby promises. Her brown eyes
are ablaze with excitement, and her cheeks aglow. “And I’ll be there
to watch dad too, you know,” she adds persuasively in a voice which
expresses the belief that not much danger can possibly come to dad
while his little girl is near.
Dick has brought Smuttie round to the garden-gate, and in a moment he
and his little mistress are off, cantering as fast as Smuttie can be
got to go, to the scene of the fire.
Those who have witnessed a fire in the bush will never forget it. The
first spark, induced sometimes by a fallen match, ignited often by the
excessive heat of the sun’s rays, gains ground with appalling rapidity,
and where the growth is dry, large tracts of ground have often been
laid waste. In excessively hot weather this is more particularly the
case, and it is then found almost impossible to extinguish the fire.
“Look at it!” Dick cries excitedly. “Goin’ like a steam-engine just.
Wish we hadn’t brought Smuttie, Miss Ruby. He’ll maybe be frightened at
the fire. My! they’ve got the start of it. Do you see that other fire
on ahead? That’s where they’re burning down!”
Ruby looks. Yes, there _are_ two fires, both, it seems, running, as
Dick has said, “like steam-engines.”
“My!” the boy cries suddenly; “it’s the old wicked one’s house. It’s it
that has got afire. My! they’ll never get that out. There’s not enough
of them to do that, and to stop the fire too. And it’ll be on to your
pa’s land if they don’t stop it pretty soon. I’ll have to help them,
Miss Ruby. And what’ll you do? You’ll have to get off Smuttie and hold
him in case he gets scared at the fire.”
“Oh, Dick!” the little girl cries. Her face is very pale, and her eyes
are fixed on that lurid light, ever growing nearer. “Do you think
he’ll be dead? Do you think the old man’ll be dead?”
“Not him,” Dick returns, with a grin. “He’s too bad to die, he is.
Those wicked old ones always live the longest. Nothing ever harms them.
My! but I wish he was dead!” the boy ejaculates. “It would be a good
riddance of bad rubbish, that’s what it would.”
“Oh, Dick,” shivers Ruby, “I wish you wouldn’t say that. What if he
was to be dead! And I’ve never been kind! I’ve never been kind!” Ruby
breaks out in a wail, which Dick does not understand.
They are nearing the scene of the fire now. Luckily the cottage is
hard by the river, so there is no scarcity of water. But the willing
workers are but few. Stations are scarce and far between in the
Australian bush, and the inhabitants not easily got together. There are
two detachments of men at work, one party endeavouring to extinguish
the flames of poor old Davis’s burning cottage, the others far in
the distance trying to stop the progress of the fire by burning down
the thickets in advance, and thus starving the main fire as it gains
ground. This method of “starving the fire” is well known to dwellers in
the Australian bush, though at times the second fire thus given birth
to assumes such proportions as to outrun its predecessor.
“It’s not much use. It’s too dry,” Dick mutters. “I don’t like leaving
you, Miss Ruby; but I’ll have to do it. Even a boy’s a bit of help in
bringing the water. You don’t mind, do you, Miss Ruby? I think, if I
was you, now that you’ve seen it, I’d turn and go home again. Smuttie’s
easy enough managed; but if he got frightened, I don’t know what you’d
do.”
“I’ll get down and hold him,” Ruby says. “I want to watch.” Her heart
is sick within her. She has never seen a fire before, and it seems so
fraught with danger that she trembles when she thinks of dad, the being
she loves best on earth. “Go you away to the fire, Dick,” adds Ruby,
very pale, but very determined. “I’m not afraid of being left alone.”
The fire is gaining ground every moment, and poor old Davis’s desolate
home bids fair to be soon nothing but a heap of blackened ruins.
Dick gives one look at the burning house, and another at his little
mistress. There is no time to waste if he is to be of any use.
“I don’t like leaving you, Miss Ruby,” says Dick again; but he goes all
the same.
Ruby, left alone, stands by Smuttie’s head, consoling that faithful
little animal now and then with a pat of the hand. It is hot,
scorchingly hot; but such cold dread sits at the little girl’s heart
that she does not even feel the heat. In her ears is the hissing of
those fierce flames, and her love for dad has grown to be a very agony
in the thought that something may befall him.
“Ruby!” says a well-known voice, and through the blaze of sunlight she
sees her father coming towards her. His face, like Ruby’s, is very
pale, and his hands are blackened with the grime and soot. “You ought
not to be here, child. It isn’t even safe. Away home to your mother,
and tell her it is all right, for I know she will be feeling anxious.”
“But is it all right, dad?” the little girl questions anxiously. Her
eyes flit from dad’s face to the burning cottage, and then to those
other figures in the lurid light far away. “And mamma _will_ be
frightened; for she’ll think you’ll be getting hurt. And so will I,”
adds poor Ruby with a little catch in her voice.
“What nonsense, little girl,” says her father cheerfully. “There,
dear, I have no time to wait, so get on Smuttie, and let me see you
away. That’s a brave little girl,” he adds, stooping to kiss the small
anxious face.
It is with a sore, sore heart that Ruby rides home lonely by the
river’s side. She has not waited for her trouble to come to her, but
has met it half way, as more people than little brown-eyed Ruby are too
fond of doing. Dad is the very dearest thing Ruby has in the whole wide
world, and if anything happens to dad, whatever will she do?
“I just couldn’t bear it,” murmurs poor Ruby, wiping away a very big
tear which has fallen on Smuttie’s broad back.
Ah, little girl with the big, tearful, brown eyes, you have still to
learn that any trouble can be borne patiently, and with a brave face to
the world, if only God gives His help!
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