Government House, Perth,
_24th November_.
The day after I last wrote was, as I expected, a very full and busy
one; but we managed an early start next morning, and bowled along the
capital road between Newcastle and Perth at a fine rate, arriving safe
and sound, but as brown as berries, in Perth. The early summer days
were just setting in, and it was still delicious, and not too hot. I
enjoy the garden immensely, and _you_ would enjoy the figs! Indeed a
quantity of fruit of all sorts is now coming on; the long arcades of
vines seem absolutely laden with grapes, and the peach trees have to be
propped up, to enable the boughs to support the weight of fruit. Melons
and cucumbers appear to be in great abundance, and so do green peas,
asparagus, and all other English vegetables. When we returned to town
we found the Ice Company in full force, so we can have lots of ice
every day.
Louis was delighted to see us; but he can think and talk of nothing
else but cricket, which I fear he regards as the most important object
of his school-life.
We have been at home just three weeks—very busy ones, I assure you—and
every now and then we have had two or three days of extremely hot
weather. That only happens when a hot wind blows, and then there is
nothing for it except to shut up the house, pull down all the green
blinds to keep out the flies, and sit in the dark! However, this state
of things does not last long, and is generally brought to an end by
heavy rain, which revives us quite as much as it does the grass and the
garden.
I have not told you half enough about the cows and the poultry!
They are all very happy, and get on famously. I have lots of little
chickens, and ducks, and baby turkeys. But the hawks lead me a sad
life, and seem to be far too clever to get themselves trapped or
shot. Then every Sunday evening there is a long list of casualties
to report, because the horses are allowed to run in the paddock on
that day, and they generally reward me for the indulgence by galloping
wildly over my youngest chickens, and leaving many killed and wounded
behind them. Monsieur Puppy, too, got himself into sad disgrace the
other day. I think I told you that he was great at rats, didn’t I?
In Mauritius he often had the pleasure of catching either a rat or a
wild creature called a tanrac (something between a small hedgehog and
a large rat), but here he cannot find anything better than a mouse,
which he despises. Well, the other day he was in the paddock with me,
and something suddenly moved in the long grass. In an instant Puppy had
pounced on it, snapped it up and flung it over his head. Alas and alas!
it was not a rat, but only a dear little duckling. Puppy was quite
horrified, and turned the poor little corpse over and over, evidently
in hopes that if he could only put it on its legs it would recover. But
it was quite dead, and you never saw any dog so thoroughly ashamed of
his mistake as Monsieur Puppy was. He kept close to me all the rest of
the time, and did not venture even to look at a fowl or duck. I think
he is rather afraid of the three or four big black swans which live in
the pond, and he does not understand how I can have courage to let them
swim up and eat bread out of my hand. He tried to make friends with a
cygnet, a gawky, light-brown creature, who waddles awkwardly about the
gardener’s cottage door; but the cygnet declines steadily all Puppy’s
playful advances.
There have been two or three bazaars since our return, and the one at
Fremantle, for the beautiful parish church there, was very large, and
really extremely pretty. I confess I am very glad of them, because I
can buy such heaps of toys; different and better toys than those in the
shops here. Do you want to know why I am buying up all the toys in the
place, until my dressing-room looks like a shop? Well, I will tell you,
but it is a profound secret. I am going to have a Christmas tree, or
rather three or four Christmas trees, for a lot of the school children,
and all the Mission children and orphans must come as well as my
friends’ children, and the tree will probably have to be repeated over
and over again; so you see I want a good many toys. A box is on its way
from England with tapers, and flags, and beads, and glistening things,
and even a large waxen angel is coming 8000 miles to perch on the very
tiptop. Louis is wildly excited about it, but as he wants to spin all
the tops, and blow all the bugles, to say nothing of “borrowing” all
the knives, Catherine has to keep the key of the dressing-room in her
pocket.
This large house is so cool and comfortable, and the garden is so green
and pretty and delightful, that I confess to being rather sorry to have
to pack up and start again—to-morrow, actually!—on a third and still
more distant tour. I have told you all about the visit to the north
(that was to Geraldton); then to the east—York; and now we are going
to the south, down the coast up which we came on our arrival. And I
am sorry to leave the canaries, for I have had a huge cage made for
them, and lots of little yellow birds are just arriving from Melbourne
and Sydney. It is pleasant to see their delight when I turn them into
their fine big new home, with all its baths, and with a small field of
green at one end. There are nests, too, in the corners, and they set
to work at once to take possession of them, so it is a pity to leave
all the nurseries. The cage stands on the sheltered side of the large
wide verandah, where the birdies can get plenty of sunshine, and yet
be sheltered from the cold winds—which we have occasionally, even in
summer—as well as from the hot winds. The little creatures sing as if
they would burst their throats, and are already as tame as possible.
You would be amused if you could see how delighted the sentries are to
have this big cage to look at, and I am told they declare sentry duty
is ever so much pleasanter now that they have my canaries to break its
monotony! At all events I feel secure from cats, for I am sure the
sentry would not allow a cat within dangerous distance! It is rather
amusing to think of these old soldiers, nearly all of whom wear medals;
some have been through the Crimean campaign; two of them have ridden
in the famous Balaklava charge; several have served all through the
dreadful Indian mutiny; and now, in the evening of their days, their
duties consist in strolling up and down between gay flower-borders and
keeping guard over singing birds! They are called “Pensioners,” and
are the veterans of the Imperial force, which used to be kept here
in old convict days. They have comfortable barracks, and a grant of
land and good pay, so the fine old soldiers are very well off in this
beautiful climate. Some of them have taken their discharge and settled
in various parts of the country, and only enough remain to furnish the
guards at Government House. There used to be guards at the Treasury
and other public offices; but when the convicts were taken away there
was no longer any occasion for armed soldiers anywhere. We are a very
peaceable and orderly community, and the boys are the only troublesome
element of our little society. I don’t mean Louis specially, but all
the boys! I can’t help thinking it is the fine air which gets into
their heads and makes them so wild. Certain it is that in the other and
larger colonies the “grown ups” are quite bullied by the “larrikins”
or street boys. Ours have not yet got to that pitch, and I can’t help
laughing at the reports I hear of their misdemeanours,—probably because
my own boys have taught me what boys are capable of!
The other afternoon when I was driving through Fremantle the schools
had just broken up and the young monkeys could find nothing better to
do in the way of exercise than to tear after the carriage shouting and
hurrahing. The lady who was with me looked much alarmed, and whispered
“the larrikins”; but I stopped at a little shop which had sticks of
sweeties in its window, and addressed the foremost urchin (such a
pretty blue-eyed boy, with the heavenly expression of the conventional
seraph), declaring that I did not like troublesome boys, but that good
quiet lads should have a stick of barley sugar apiece. Every boy became
astoundingly good directly, and ever since I have had no shouting or
hurrahing. Your father laughs at me, and says, “So that’s your receipt
for managing larrikins, is it?” But I think it is a very good one,
don’t you?
I have never told you about Fremantle at all, and yet I drive nearly
every afternoon along the road between Perth and that port, which
winds under the Bluff, “Mount Eliza,” I mentioned before. The view is
so pretty, first of our own broad Swan river, then of another large
lake called “Melville Water”; after that comes a charming bit of bush
or forest; and then the road rises uphill until you get a lovely view
over the sea, with Rottnest and all the islands on the wide blue
stretch of ocean.
Just outside Fremantle there is a long steep and narrow bridge across
the wide mouth of the “Swan,” and then we drive through some very
pretty suburbs of neat, nice little houses, standing in gay gardens,
until we get to the town itself. Not a very large one, but growing
every day, and it has already capital shops. A little Government
Cottage perches on a cliff by the seashore, and I often have tea in its
summer parlour, while Louis enjoys a scramble on the rocks. I hope some
day we may have a fine harbour, and that I may see lots of big steamers
in the beautiful bay, just below the cottage windows.
There is a railway between Perth and Fremantle, which is of course a
great convenience; but I prefer the drive, partly because of choosing
one’s own time, and partly because the road is so very pretty, and
fairly good, all the way. I assure you there is great rejoicing when
I propose to Louis and Catherine to drive them down to Fremantle; but
I am so busy I have not time to do so half as often as I should like.
On our way there, a few days ago, we saw a huge snake basking in the
sunshine on some low sand-hills, a little way off the road. Though it
was too far off—a dozen yards or so—to do us any harm, the horse on
that side shied violently at it. Coming back, an hour or two later, it
was no longer there, but a much smaller snake was lying dead by the
roadside. I hear legends of a whole colony of snakes who are said to
inhabit the vast underground cellars at Government House in Perth, but
no one seems inclined to find out their truth. A good-sized snake was
slain in single combat by a gentleman visitor on a path in our garden
the other day; but I have not yet seen any nearer than this large one
asleep on the sand.