POETS.
All the children got the writing craze at "Gillong." They all wanted to
be poets or authors, and there was one continual scribble. Papers and
books and slates were covered with little scraps of verses, till Mother
declared she could never read another bit of poetry.
Sometimes Eileen would come along with fourteen verses of very much the
same kind of jingle, and ask them to listen and criticise.
"Oh, you said all that before!" Willie would say, in disgust--"away up
there in the third verse."
"Yes, but, Willie, don't you see it's put in different words, and you
have to keep saying the same thing over--only a little bit different to
fill up."
"Ugh! you're a sickening old poet; you'd make a fellow tired."
But Eileen was not daunted. Only lately she had taken to looking very
important, and had kept quiet about her work, but, all the same, she
scribbled like grim death.
"Some day she'll come in with about a million verses and make a fellow
listen to them," Willie would grumble.
Sure enough, one day she came to them with a fat note-book, and asked
them to listen to the very best she had ever written--quite a gem, she
considered--so they all sat down to hear it:
The moon-beams shine through the summer night,
All on a garden fair,
And the perfume of the flowers arise
All on the fresh night air.
The moon-beams play with the shining leaves,
And the flowers nod and sway,
And the stars look down with gentle eyes
All night till the dawn of day.
There were about eight more verses in this strain, and then it went on:
The children play in the garden fair,
All through the summer hours,
And the birds they sing and the butterflies wing
Among the fruits and flowers.
"Butterflies wing? What's that?" asked Willie.
"Oh! that means they fly; a poet can say anything, and it's all right."
Then she went on with about twenty more verses.
"Beautiful!" cried Doris, clapping in ecstasy.
"Very nice, but too long, I think," said Mollie.
"Oh, I don't think so!" said Eileen. "I'm going to send it to one of the
Sydney papers. It's as nice a bit of poetry as ever I read in my life."
"Are you goin' to give it to a paper?" asked Doris.
"Give it? No; they'll have to pay me for it, and pretty well, too, or I
won't part with it."
So the precious MS. was sent away, and Eileen waited with what patience
she could for a reply.
Then all the others became keener than ever on writing. Doris tried to
compose, but she couldn't make the lines "fit," and would get in a rage
and tear up the paper, and she nearly drove them all crazy asking how to
spell words and getting them to help her.
"Oh, do leave it off--you'll never be a poet! You don't even know what
words go with each other," said Willie one day when she was begging his
help.
"Oh, come on--help me! It's all about pwetty bluebells and daisies and
my dolly----"
"Hang the bluebells and daisies and your old doll!" answered Willie.
"You're real ugly; you're stopping at my place, and you won't help me,"
said Doris, in a temper.
"All right, then; go on."
"I love my little Dolly."
"I do, I do, I do," chimed in Willie.
"No, that won't do," called out Doris. "I love my little dolly, I do; I
love her so; and she is nice and pwetty----"
"As everyone must know," said Willie.
"Oh, yes! beautiful. 'As everyone must know.' Write it down, Willie."
And Willie wrote down the first verse.
"She plays with the bluebells down along the crick."
"And she'll tumble in the water if you give her a good kick," quoth
Willie.
"Oh, Willie! You're nasty. You mustn't say that about Rose."
"All right, then. Go ahead."
"Down along the crick," repeated Doris, "where the daisies and the
bluebells----"
"Grow so very thick," added Willie.
"Beauful!" she cried again.
"There, that's two verses," said Willie; "that's enough for one day. All
good poets never make more than two verses in a day."
"Don't dey?" said Doris.
"No, and you ought to leave it alone now for a week, and you'll be a
real good poet when you start again."
"That'll be beauful!" she cried again, clapping her hands.
Eva used to write a lot about sunsets and moonbeams, and fleecy clouds
and brilliant birds. She used to use the dictionary a great deal those
days, finding out big words to make her poems sound grand. She always
called them poems, and she would copy them out neatly and paint little
sprays of flowers round them, and would only occasionally let them be
read. Mollie tried poetry for a time, but soon gave it up and dashed
into prose, and wrote nice articles and essays.
"There's more sense in yours than all the rest put together," said
Willie. "It's a lot nicer reading than old poetry."
Meanwhile Eileen waited for a reply about her precious MS.
"Not in yet?" she would say, as she scanned the paper every mail day.
"Oh, you might have to write a lot before you get it in print!" Mollie
would say.
"There's no doubt about mine," Eileen would answer.
One day a big envelope came, and Eileen tore off the wrapper, to find
"Not suitable" in big letters across her cherished manuscript.
"I'll never try again," she cried, almost on the verge of tears.
"They're a mean, horrid old lot, those paper people. I'm sure it is as
good as the old stuff they print. It's just because I'm not known."
They all tried to console her. In fact, Willie went so far as to say
he'd call and see those paper chaps when he went back to Sydney, and
give them a bit of his mind. Although he did not like Eileen's poetry,
he was very loyal, and sympathised most heartily with Eileen.
"I'd like to chop every one of 'em up!" said Doris. And so by degrees
Eileen's keen disappointment wore off.
Just a week later there was great shouting and commotion over the page
of a Sydney daily, for there was one of Mollie's articles in cold print,
with her name ("Mollie Hudson") shining at the foot. Oh, the joy and
excitement!
"How ever did you think of it, Mollie?" and "Oh, it's beautiful!" came
in choruses, for the little article, entitled "The Old Picnic Tree,"
breathed of the fresh air of the paddocks and the leafy shade of an old
gnarled, knotted tree.
"Mollie's a writer, Mollie's a writer," they all shouted, dancing round
her; and then they had to have a half-holiday in her honour, and spent
the afternoon at the old tree that she had written of; and they had
billy tea and nice little hot cakes that Mother had made in honour of
the occasion. They spent a wild, happy time, weaving fancies and
romances about the time when they should be all famous.
"Perhaps we'll all be real rich and clever when we grow up," said
Eileen. "Wouldn't it be lovely if the five of us were all writers or
artists or musicians, or something of that sort, and had nice big
studios and plenty of money, and--and--have a real grand jolly life."
Of course, they all agreed with her, and thought perhaps things might
turn out in that fashion; and then Willie said that he "might very
likely beat them all--he didn't speak much about what he was going to
be," he said, "but, all the same, he might surprise them all some day;
so they needn't be too surprised if he, too, became rich and famous."
"Oh, tell us all about it, Willie!" they begged.
But he said he hadn't quite finished thinking things out; but, all the
same, they needn't be too surprised if they heard of him later on being
very famous! Then he tried to look very important, although until that
moment the thought of being famous had never entered his head.
Then the shades grew long in the paddock, and they all scampered off
home to the welcome glowing fire of myall.
In an office in Sydney a man looked forward eagerly to the arrival of
the mail from the North-West, for an eager enthusiast would write in
glowing terms of the bushland. Miss Gibson would take her writing tablet
to the paddocks, and write quickly page after page:
My Dear Basil,
We are in the depths of winter, and you know what winter in the
country can be like at times. Well, it is just delightful. The clover
spreads far and wide like a great green velvet carpet, up and down the
gullies and away across the paddocks. The deep tints of the clover,
the vivid green of the crowsfoot and wild carrot mingle in a study of
lights and shades, while the little blue flower of the crowsfoot and
the golden one of the clover vie in scrolling floral effects on that
vast green carpet. How I revel in the wealth of sunshine out here in
the paddocks, but as evening draws in the chill air rises, and I hurry
back home through the clear cutting freshness, and there a glowing
fire awaits one. When the evenings are dull or rainy I sit there and
gaze into the glowing, gleaming coals, and you never saw such
beautiful, haunting colours as you see among the myall coals!--one can
weave all kinds of fancies. Great sheafs of snow-white ashes fall
silently on the hearth, like snow-white pall, and then I take the
poker and stir up the glowing heart of the fire again, and amber and
red lights gleam among the dancing flames. Some people think that I
must have a very lonely life up here, but I assure you that the time
simply flies.
I often gather the children round the fireside and tell them stories,
and just to see their eager faces is payment enough, for, do you know,
it always seems wonderful to me to watch the growing mind of a child
and hear their impressions of life, etc.? And I have been trying to
instil into them a love for and a very big interest in the beauties
and wonders of nature; for in after years, if empty and lonesome days
will come (as they too often come), they will have something to fall
back upon, and perhaps find solace in, for it is wonderful how keen a
joy we can find in the out-of-door pursuits if we have a love for and
an appreciation of the beauties of nature.
And, oh, those glorious moonlight nights we have up here in the
winter! Why, it is quite vivid. Trees and shrubs stand out clearly,
and their shadows stand out blackly under the rays of the serene
silver moon that swings high in the sky. Everything is transformed by
the kindly rays into things of beauty, and sometimes I stand and gaze
away across the paddocks bathed in the silver light and marvel at the
stillness. And, do you know, as much as I love those moonlight nights,
they make me feel lonely? I just don't know why--only that it has that
effect; and sometimes I almost welcome a rainy night, when the rain
drops beat a wild tattoo on the iron roof, and I draw up my chair to
the glowing fire and sit there and dream.
I am looking forward to the spring-time. I have promised to paint a
big picture representing the Springtime in the North-West for old
Professor Dawson, and I am all eagerness to begin.
Till then, adieu, for it will not be long ere "the whole world will
wake and sing."