Bunbury, _8th December_.
We have done a great deal of travelling lately, though not as much as
usual has been performed in the red van. By the way it is a dark green
van now, picked out with broad streaks of yellow!
The day after I wrote last, we all drove down by eight o’clock in the
morning to Fremantle—such a perfectly lovely morning as it was!—and
Catherine and I were soon put safely on board the little steamer
_Otway_, lying all ready at the pier. One of the gentlemen came with us
to take care of us, and he settled us both comfortably on the top of a
skylight (not a glass one!) rather aft, and covered us up with opossum
rugs, for the moment we got out to sea it became very cold in spite
of the sunshine. It was really quite calm, but in rather less than an
hour Catherine struggled up from beneath her fur covering, showing
a very white face, and said in a faint voice, “I think I’ll go below
now, please, my lady;” so down she went and was extremely wretched,
until we dropped anchor, at five o’clock, just off Bunbury. That was
one of the places we passed, as though in a dream of misery, when we
came round from Albany, in the storm last June, and therefore it seemed
quite new this time. All this part of the Australian coast is flat and
not at all pretty, as seen from the sea; but the people who live in it
are so kind, and hearty, and hospitable, that one need not look for any
attraction beyond their beaming faces and outstretched hands of welcome.
Several gentlemen came on board to receive me, and take me on shore
in a boat, which I was very glad to do, directly, for _I_ began to
feel uncomfortable, as the little vessel was bobbing up and down like
a cork. It had been arranged for the Governor to come two days later,
overland; so of course there was no formal reception for me, only a few
friends came down and took us quietly to the hotel, where I was very
glad to rest and unpack. The next day we drove and walked, and amused
ourselves in our own way; but the day after I was driven out some miles
on the Perth road to meet your father. When the van came up I got
into it, and drove back to Bunbury, with the Governor, and pretended
I had just arrived! There was a great reception then, and balls, and
banquets, and shows, began at once; but between these festivities the
thing I best liked doing was driving 3 or 4 miles out of Bunbury,
along a very pretty road, to the most enchanting garden you ever saw.
It was not a stiff, prim, regular garden, but a small valley, cleared
from amid the dense surrounding forest, and planted with all sorts and
conditions of flowers. Everything was in masses, lovely to look at, and
sweet to smell. And the dear charming lady, who has lived there for a
great many years, loves flowers as well as I do, and understands them
a million times better, and so we both talked flowers to our heart’s
content. I can’t tell you how happy I was in that beautiful garden, and
every spare moment I drove out to it, over and over again.
After a week’s stay—the hottest week I ever spent in my life,
anywhere—we got into the van once more and drove, some 50 miles or
so, down the coast to a little seaside place, called the Vasse. A
thunderstorm and deluges of rain the night before had beaten down the
fierce hot wind and cooled the air, so the weather became once more
pleasant, and not too hot. The Bunbury people were very unhappy at our
having chanced upon the hottest week they said they had ever known
for our visit, and of course the heat was more insupportable in the
small rooms of the little hotel, which have no through draught through
them, and were therefore like ovens. Catherine’s tiny bedroom was so
suffocatingly hot, with its zinc roof, that it made her quite ill, and
I had to leave her behind, with a nurse to take care of her.
The road to the Vasse has been made through very pretty forest; we
passed herds of cattle feeding, and horses also, on good pasture-land.
We reached the little town itself about 5 P.M.; it looked gay and
pretty, with its arches and flags, and—what I always think quite the
prettiest feature of these receptions—the bands of school children in
their smart white frocks and gay sashes. The boys are there too, of
course, but are more difficult to keep in order, and have a tendency
to break into hurrahs and cheers, and noise generally, to the great
agitation of the pretty young ladies who have them in charge. But the
girls are very quiet and demure, and make a delightful mass of colour
and brightness on their side of the arch. Next, if not before, the
school children, I love the heaps and heaps of nosegays I get,—great
big nosegays, of which I never can have too many, though no one, except
the gentleman we read about, who had all those hands, could possibly
carry so many nosegays at once.
You would hardly believe after that hot week at Bunbury that the next
week, at the Vasse, could have been so cold. I liked it, but the
uncertain showery weather was rather hard upon your father, and the
gentlemen who rode about with him in every direction, on excursions
to see everything. One delightful place they told me of, attracted me
very much by its name. What do you think of “Cattle-chosen”? And the
nice part of the story is that the cattle _did_ choose it, long ago.
When first brought there the clever cows were allowed to roam about
a little while, and choose where they liked best to feed. They did
not hesitate in the least, but went straight to this very spot and
settled themselves down among the trees. They found splendid grass
and water, and shade, and everything they needed. So their owner just
built himself a nice house on rising ground, and made a garden, and has
lived there like a fairy tale, happy ever after, and the cattle of that
station are famous for being quiet and contented, and therefore fat.
The Vasse is a very pretty little place, and the climate most healthy
and delicious. I had a pleasant drive one afternoon, with the
clergyman’s wife, to a primitive sort of small Mission Home for native
children. It was a cottage in a romantic-looking spot in the very heart
of the forest, where the children can play about, and follow their own
wild and savage instincts, for it does not do to coop them up in ever
so nice a playground. Their health suffers if they have not a certain
amount of freedom, and they dig up queer roots, and occasionally catch
and broil a snake. But when I saw them they were neatly dressed, and
looked quite as civilised as any school children anywhere. Their
manners were simple and natural, and they seemed very affectionate, and
grateful, and happy. About a dozen girls and boys were at home, and I
had a very pleasant hour with them. They immediately took me into their
entire confidence, and showed me all the favourite play-places, and the
little _Mia-mias_, or huts, they had built under the trees, and the
boys’ play-spears. How Louis would have enjoyed it all! Only he would
probably have insisted on being left at the Mission, “for always,” as
he says. When we had thoroughly explored the play-places in the forest
we came back to the cottage, and the elder children read very nicely to
me, and sang pretty hymns and produced their copy-books, and finally,
they showed me their gardens, which were really very nicely kept. Each
little girl was then made rapturously happy with a fair-haired doll,
and I gave each boy a ball or a top, and there were also baskets of
cakes, and stout parcels of “lollies,” to be found under the seat of
the carriage, and so we left after many pretty thanks and farewells.
Your father started early this morning, with two gentlemen, to go
overland—across country they say no one has yet ever driven through—to
make his way down to Albany, some 80 miles away. But another of the
gentlemen and I got into the van (papa had to travel in a strong small
carriage, with a second trap following) a couple of hours after they
had left and drove back to Bunbury, to pick up Catherine who is now
better, and make the best of our way to Perth, overland. So here I am
writing at night, rather tired after the long jolty drive from the
Vasse, but all packed and ready for our early start to-morrow.
Perth, _10th December_.
I need not tell you anything about our journey which ended happily
yesterday, except that I had a reception all to myself at a charming
little township, still called by the native name Pinjarrah. I am very
proud of the kind fuss they made about me there, because it was not
official, and if I had not been so horribly frightened I should have
liked it still better. All the ladies, young and old, of the district
round, determined to give me a welcome of their own arranging and
devising; and we drove up through a lovely arch to the door of a new
Mechanics’ Institute, and I was cordially received,—all by ladies,—for
the gentlemen had to keep in the background! and comforted with
delicious tea and cakes, and laden with nosegays; but then came the
terrifying part of it—the address. My one comfort and support was to
observe that the lady who read it seemed every bit as frightened as I
was. We stood opposite to each other and quaked! She told me afterwards
that _my_ obvious terror was the only thing which supported _her_, and
when I saw how she trembled I took courage. I wonder whether any of the
gentlemen—still in the background—laughed? However, our speeches did
not take more than two minutes a-piece to read, and when they were over
I revived directly, and enjoyed myself greatly. The dear little school
children were all there, and sang sweetly and charmingly, and then we
scrambled into the van again, and drove up to the Squire’s house—such
a pretty place, and a very good house. Here poor sick Catherine and
I were petted, and fed, and nursed to our heart’s content, and if I
had not been in such a hurry to catch this English mail, I should have
liked nothing better than to rest, as we were begged to do, for a day
or so. Not only were our hosts all that a traveller’s heart could wish,
but the garden had walks bordered by camellias as big as our biggest
laurel bushes, and there was a huge myrtle tree one mass of blossom.
Yes—I did not forget to ask about your birds’ eggs, but it is difficult
if not impossible to get eggs on account of the lofty trees. You may
track a bird to its nest, and then find there is a smooth slippery
trunk of 150 feet, without a knot between the ground and the lowest
branch. Or else, after you have scrambled up to where you saw the bird
disappear, you find the tree is hollow, and that you are as far from
the nest as ever. There are lots of birds; cockatoos, different sorts
of parrots, magpies, and so on; but it really seems impossible to get
at their eggs. I have been given some emeu’s eggs for you, and some
“Gnow’s” eggs, and black swan’s eggs; but you will observe that these
birds lay their eggs on the ground! The moment it comes to a nest in
a tree, it is built too high up for even a native to get at; and there
are such a lot of trees it is almost impossible to see where a bird
even perches. Dear things, I am glad they are so safe; but the farmers
complain dreadfully of the way the large white cockatoos eat up their
wheat, and they lay poisoned grain about for the “pretty cockies,” who
sometimes drop, apparently out of the sky, dead at your feet. This is
after they have been on a foraging excursion to the wheat-fields, and
have picked up grains steeped in arsenic.