THE AUSTRALIAN WINTER AND SPRING
The seasons in Australia are, of course, the exact reverse of those in
England. The longest day in England is the shortest day in Australia,
and vice versa. June 21st is Australia’s midwinter day; December 21st
is midsummer day. The seasons are not so strongly divided from each
other in Australia as in England.
In early September, when the days in the dear Old Country contract and
the nights lengthen, spring bursts suddenly upon Victoria; the days are
sensibly longer and the nights are shorter. “Burst” is the proper word
to employ. No soft and sweet herald announces in advance the coming
of spring. One day it is winter, the next day it is spring. It is an
act of seeming magic. Without warning, the new life, which has lightly
slumbered during the brief winter, awakens to new beauty. Here in my
garden the tiger lily is in full flower, while narcissi, geraniums,
wallflowers, orchids, daffodils, and whole riot of fragrant flowers
are as advanced as if we were already in the fullness of summer. My
five fig-trees are in the high tide of pushing life; the vines are
putting forth bud and leaf, peaches are in full blossom, and orchard
and gardens are a panorama of loveliness. This is a new kind of spring
to an Englishman; it takes one’s breath away by its swiftness. After
the slow approach of the English spring, this rapid appearance of new
life appears to be a little unreal. For all that it is most acceptable.
The Australians are glad to welcome it. They have had what they call
a terrible winter. Apologetically, they remark that this has been the
worst winter they have experienced for very many years. Dear spoiled
children! They do not know what a bad winter means. One little frost we
have had, with its legacy of thinnest ice, which the children treasured
as if it had been a marvel unheard of before. During this “terrible
winter” we have had fewer than a dozen fires in the drawing-room, and
on ten days only has it been chilly enough to necessitate an overcoat.
Every day have I sat at work in my study with the window wide open
and never the suspicion of a fire in the grate. True, rain has fallen
heavily, and on the heights far away from the city there has been a
coating of snow. At Ballarat and other places, situated at an elevation
of 1,500 to 2,000 feet above the sea, snow has fallen heavily, and the
good old game of snowballing (so rare in Australia) has been indulged
in. But that is an exception. The winter, from my point of view, has
been marvellously mild. The heavy rains have been a godsend, and have
insured a great harvest of wheat and fruit.
In the country around Melbourne, to a distance, say, of forty miles,
spring has rendered the entire landscape indescribably beautiful.
By the banks of the river the wattle is growing in all the glory of
its yellow life. There is nothing in the Old Country exactly like
the wattle. The blossom resembles mimosa glorified, but it grows on
trees which resemble the laburnum tree. Its round, fluffy flower is a
miracle of delicacy. The orchards offer a scene of beauty difficult to
describe but impossible to forget. Imagine, if you can, what it must
be like--a hill-side covered with over seven thousand apple trees in
full blossom. This is the great country of apples. One grower, who
indulges in the business as a pastime--his fortune being gained in
other directions--sent home to England last year over two hundred and
fifty thousand pounds’ weight of apples. What a larder is that in the
Old Country to fill! And apples are so plentiful that in Melbourne, in
the season, they sell for half a crown per case of forty pounds.
One of the “show” places nearest to Melbourne is Healesville, situated
in the heart of the hills, and in the early spring a place of beauty.
It is a miniature Switzerland. Mount Juliet is capped with cloud, and
an ordinary imagination suffices to pretend that beyond the mystery of
the hidden summit there lie great ranges of snow-crowned peaks. On the
other side of the valley the slopes of the mountains are covered with
tall trees, which it is easy to pretend are pines.
In the centre of that vast solitude we stand listening to the rush
of waters in the depths of the valley, and ever turning our eyes to
the heights which allured and awed us. Beyond Healesville the “bush”
commences, and into it we penetrate for several miles. The trees,
for the most part, are evergreen, so that the coming of spring makes
little difference to the general appearance of the scene. But in the
undergrowth the charm of new life unfolds itself on every hand. Giant
tree-ferns fling out new-green fronds at the top of their imposing
pedestals, many of which are twenty feet high. The spectacle of immense
ferns spread out after the fashion of an umbrella is quite unique. The
giants of the bush--the great gum trees--are wonderfully impressive.
Many of these eucalyptus trees are two hundred feet in height. In fact,
Victoria boasts of possessing the largest trees in the world. Their
height and girth are enormous.
Yet there is a tragedy of the bush! We drove through a charming valley
in which the hand of death was manifest. Last summer these enormous
trees and this dense bush were subjected to their baptism of fire. On
a summer afternoon, when all Nature lay panting in the heat, suddenly
a tongue of red flame shot up from the midst of the bush. It was the
work of some careless smoker who had thrown down his lighted vesta
into a heap of dry fern, or perhaps it was a spontaneous outbreak due
to the terrible heat. But when that red signal was announced the doom
of the forest was sealed. Useless for mortal man to attempt to fight
a bush fire. There was nothing possible but to ascend an eminence and
watch the frightful billows of fire pass over the forest until nothing
remained to consume. The flames ran along the ground, greedily licking
up every frond of fern, and bush of gum. The red tongues mounted the
giant eucalyptus, consuming their slender branches and picking off
their healing leaves. Masses of birds flew about in distress, as they
beheld their home destroyed. The roads were lined with rabbits, foxes,
and serpents, escaping from the fire. For days the furnace raged; and
then came the end, when a perfumed smoke, thick as black night, hung
over the country. This gradually became thinner, until finally its
last blue wreaths passed away, and Nature set herself to the work of
restoration. It is a terrible sight to behold these giant trees scarred
and half calcined, fit only, it would seem, for the axe and the saw.
Yet the work of recuperation is both rapid and astonishing. Spring
has not disdained these wounded stalwarts. Green shoots have been
flung out everywhere, and embrace, as with affection, the blackened
and carbonised trunks whose doom was all but fixed. Nature, in this
spring mood and beauty, is like some fair maiden who clasps with her
soft arms the wrinkled neck of a father who has suffered grievous
misfortune on her behalf. Only the great trees show traces of the last
great fire. The undergrowth, reduced to ashes, has sprung up again as
by enchantment. But it will take years for the giant trees to recover
themselves. A bush fire inflicts an injury which is difficult to
repair. Yet it brings with it an immense boon. Often it accomplishes
in a week, in the way of clearing dense places, what the skill of man
could hardly accomplish in years. And it has this further advantage:
it makes the wattle grow. “After a fire comes the wattle.” The hard
seeds of the beautiful flowers are cracked by the heat, and their vital
principle is thus liberated for the purpose of growth.
* * * * *
In the country the spring brings out the “pests”--the British
importations which misguided enthusiasts introduced into the
country--i.e. the sparrows, the rabbits, and the foxes. The countryside
is alive with them, and they do immense damage. The birds menace the
fruit trees, the rabbits the green stuff, and the foxes anything that
comes in their way. The fox was introduced for purposes of sport. In
turn he has turned sportsman, and holds in terror his master. The
indictment against the fox in Australia is a heavy one. In the Old
Country he is a slow breeder, and he is carefully guarded. Woe to
the luckless farmer who shoots him. My lord the squire will pay, to
a limited extent, the chicken bill rather than lose the fox. Here
there is not a farmer or a squatter who would not account it a special
providence to have the chance of shooting a fox. They give him no run.
Nothing less than sudden death satisfies them. Throughout the whole
year he fares well, but the spring-time is his great opportunity. He
pounces upon the newly born lambs, and kills three or four of them
for the pleasure of devouring the delicacy of their small tongues.
Generally the remainder of the little creature is left untouched.
Lamb’s tongue is what the fox seeks. Here, as at home, he will kill or
maim most of the occupants of the hen roosts. But, bolder than at home,
he devours ducks, swans, turkeys, and, cruellest of all, the beautiful
lyre bird. This fine creature, whose beauty demands that it should be
preserved, is being slowly exterminated by the fox, the crafty thief
that, with generations of murderous blood in its veins, has been
let loose amongst a bird population unable to defend itself. On the
side of the fox is hereditary experience; on the side of the birds
hereditary helplessness and want of suspicion. The contest is not fair.
The introducer of the fox into Australia is now regarded as a public
nuisance and an enemy of the soil.
And so, murder and beauty flourish side by side in this new country in
the spring-time. Here, as everywhere, it is a mystery of Nature, of
which the full solution is not yet given.
* * * * *
The spring entices all the world out of doors. “Houses,” says the local
sage, “are not in this country built for residence; they are merely a
refuge when our true residence--the open air--is not available, owing
to climatic derangement.” Already people are dragging their beds on to
their balconies, where they sleep. The open air becomes a hostel in
which all the wise lodge.
The long beach, stretching for many miles between Melbourne and Black
Rock, becomes, for the greater part of the spring and summer and
autumn a huge encampment, where city workers, after the toil of the
day, spend their leisure. Besides the beach there are the parks and
public gardens, second to none in the world. Hundreds of people sleep
out at nights on verandas, in gardens, and upon the seashore. The cool
nights entice into the streets a multitude of people, who throng the
highways until midnight. English is, of course, the language that is
spoken, but the life that is lived is Continental. It is impossible for
anyone to be dull here in this summer climate. The sunshine has entered
into the people’s blood and inoculated it with merriment. Men live in a
garden of God, where every prospect pleases and only a few men are vile.
* * * * *
As the spring advances and the summer approaches Australians are on
the move, bent on holiday making. It is here that the contrast between
England and Australia is seen to the advantage of the latter. There are
very, very few “workers” in Australia who are unable to afford a summer
holiday.
Surely never was there a people so enamoured of holidays as the
Australians. Upon the least excuse there is a public holiday. New
Year’s Day commences the recital. That is followed by “Foundation
Day” on January 31st, St. David’s Day in March, St. George’s Day in
April, Prince of Wales’s birthday in June, Separation Day in July, Bank
Holiday in August, Eight Hours’ Day in September, Cup Day in November,
and the King’s birthday in the same month. It is a formidable list,
extending over the various States. “The working man’s paradise” they
call Australia, and not without good reason. There is another side to
this, upon which I have yet to dwell, but just now the sunny side is
being emphasised.
From one point of view there is not the same variety of holiday resorts
in Australia as in England. How easy it is to cross from England to
France and Switzerland and Italy! And within twenty-four hours of
smoky, foggy London to be at peace under the shadow of Mont Blanc or
the Matterhorn. Or within sixty hours to enter the gateway of the
mysterious East at Tunis or Algiers! There is nothing resembling that
on the Australian side of the equator. The nearest great snow mountains
lie in New Zealand, five days’ steaming from Melbourne. But within
easy distance there are innumerable beauty spots which appeal to every
taste and every purse. The garden island of Tasmania is becoming every
year a greater favourite for many Victorians. Embarking on the steamer
late in the afternoon, the traveller finds himself at Launceston
early the next morning, and at Hobart a day later. And in that island
he finds a climate much more temperate than that of Victoria, and a
life more English than Australian. The salamander may easily run up
to Queensland, and within forty-eight hours of Melbourne find himself
in the lower tropics, amid sugar plantations, pineapple fields and
banana plots. The mountaineer may go to New South Wales to the Blue
Mountains, or to his own Buffalo range. While the ordinary person may
find what he will on seashore or in fern gully.
The great Port Phillip Bay is dotted with water-places, of which one
of the prettiest and most restful is Sorrento. Italian in name, it is
almost Italian in aspect. A tree which lines the beach resembles, at
a short distance, the olive trees for which Italy is so famous, and
the houses, often hidden in plantations, might well be taken for those
Italian retreats which lie around the Italian Sorrento. Sorrento has
the advantage of the bay and of the “back beach.” The bay is quiet,
retired, and excellent for family bathing. The “back beach”--i.e. the
ocean proper--is rugged, wild, restless. It has a majesty all its own,
and a danger to match its majesty. Its waters are treacherous. The
under-currents are strong and easily suck in the most powerful swimmer.
Worse than the currents are the sharks which abound in these waters.
They have the playful habit of dismembering venturesome people. Yet,
despite the danger, there are headstrong fools who swim out, exposing
themselves to attack. Recently a youth emerged from the water minus
a leg and two fingers; yet, incredible as it seems, on the very next
day other youths swam out into the very same sea and at the very same
place. Sometimes a shark is detained prisoner in some deep pool, and
then his fate is sealed. No pity is shown him; he is immediately shot.
It is a study in human nature to watch an old salt engaged in the task
of settling accounts with a shark. The process of dispatch is often
delayed, cruel revenge being taken upon the brute for the misdeeds of
his clan.
For my own part, I give the casting vote in favour of the fern gullies
rather than the sea. Can there be found anywhere fern _trees_ superior
to those which Victoria offers? Fern _trees_, observe. Giant ferns
grow to an immense height, after the manner of a palm. Their fronds
spread out at the top like a giant umbrella. These ferns are found in
gullies or little forests, and the spectacle they present is strikingly
beautiful. At Gembrook one enters a natural cathedral where the columns
are stately trees, whose interlacing branches form at the top a perfect
roof, and whose decorations are wonderful giant ferns, fuller of fronds
than any I have ever yet beheld. In the depths of this hidden place
there reigns a profound and almost painful silence, broken occasionally
by the sighing of the wind in the tops of the trees or by the screaming
of a pair of quarrelsome parrots. Here, within these walls of living
green, Nature seems to have her inner shrine. Men speak in whispers
to each other as they do in a cathedral. The awe of God possesses the
spirit. In that awful silence the soul of man speaks with the soul of
the world.
The railway line to Gembrook is a primitive construction, which well
matches the world through which it passes. The line is of a narrow
gauge, and it mounts ever higher until it reaches an altitude of many
hundreds of feet above the level of the sea. Throughout its length it
winds round and round, skirting modest precipices and passing through
avenues of trees. The scenery is indescribably beautiful. At many
points a vista opens up along which vast stretches of country appear,
hemmed in upon the horizon by the gleaming waters of the ocean. Nothing
that I have seen in Australia so much resembles a ride in Switzerland
as this journey from Fern Tree Gully to Gembrook. At the summit, on
a hot summer day, the air is keen and bracing, and in the hotel at
midsummer we found a fire blazing. This ride, apart from the charm
of the scenery, offers a study in colonisation. Part of the country
is the “bush” proper, left in all its native wildness. Everywhere we
found marks of the visit of that dreaded enemy, fire. Huge gum trees,
calcined and dreadful looking, stood out against the blue sky. Fierce
flames had ravaged the district, sparing nothing. Elsewhere we found
the work of clearing going on. Wooden chalets rose in the centre of the
bush, and around these men had commenced to group small fields already
yielding produce. Little by little the bush is disappearing under the
hands of small farmers. At one place we found a miracle in the way of
productiveness. Eighteen years ago a farmer purchased some hundreds of
acres of bush. It was one mass of “scrub,” as desolate a place as one
would find anywhere. To-day it is the first “nursery” in Victoria. Upon
its cleared ground thousands of fruit trees grow, and these are sent
all over the States. The soil is wonderfully rich. As we wound round
about the estate in the train, and observed these hundreds of acres
in cultivation, and reflected that all this work had been accomplished
within twenty years, the whole scene resolved itself into a mirror
of this great country. From scrub to fertility--it is the history of
Australia. And the best is yet to come, when an enlightened forward
policy will encourage immigration, and so arrange affairs that the vast
spaces of the biggest country in the world shall be filled with a happy
working population.