Petunia again
Date: 2025-04-25T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Australian wit and humor; Country life -- Australia -- South Australia

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Title: Petunia again

Sketches

Author: S. Elizabeth Jackson

Release date: April 25, 2025 [eBook #75957]

Language: English

Original publication: Adelaide: G. Hassell & Son, 1920

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75957

Credits: Charlene Taylor, MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PETUNIA AGAIN ***

Petunia Again

SKETCHES

BY S. ELIZABETH JACKSON

A book is very like a kite, being made of paper and sent out at a venture.

G. K. Chesterton.

ADELAIDE
G. HASSELL & SON
1920

TO

MY GRANDFATHER

J.T.C.

The little girl that was me: "I've nothing to read in the train."

My grandfather: "And you won't need anything. There will be things to see and people to listen to."

PREFACE.

"At Petunia" was received so kindly that I venture to offer these final sketches. The little township on the plains is now for me only a happy memory. Unlike their predecessors, most of the present sketches and essays have appeared before, either in Orion, The Adelaide University Magazine, The Red Cross Record, or The Woman's Record, which I have to thank for allowing me to re-publish.

S.E.J.

Woodside,
10th November, 1920.

CONTENTS

Petunia Again
| Page
Welcome | 1
The Backblocks | 3
The Aeroplane | 5
From the Chinese | 8
Adopting Emily | 10
Twocott | 13
A Country Writer | 14
The Hypnotist | 23
Tin Lizzie | 24
The Show | 26
The Haircut | 28
Scipio | 29
Bill Boundy | 31
An Angry Man | 33
Alcibiades | 36
News | 37
Amusing Daisy | 39
Obiit | 41
The Drought | 41

The Works of Simple Simon, LL.D.,
D.Litt., Ph.D., M.B., B.S.

An Emendation | 44
A Protest | 46
A "Lancet" Article | 48
An Application of Psychology to Medicine | 50
Our National Bulletin | 52
Nigger | 60
Miscellaneous
The Queen City of the South | 62
A Literature in the Making | 68

Petunia Again

Welcome

Such a week as we have had in the country! You talk about the stopping of the cars giving people a welcome rest in the evenings. Well, we have no cars to stop, and only three trains a week, and still we can manage eleven social engagements in six days! Three of them were welcomes to soldiers. Seventy-eight went away from this district, and every time one returns (and that is very often now, thank God!) all the houses along the route from the railway station are decorated with flags. I expect that sometimes he wonders why people who take the trouble to decorate in his honour do not come out to wave. When he gets to the Institute he knows, because we are all there waiting to cheer and make speeches. Nothing about our boys has been finer than the courtesy with which they take our cheers and let us say "Thank you." It relieves us, but oh, how it embarrasses them! They redden, but they smile, and are far from looking foolish when they "get up to reply." The speeches aren't always very easy to reply to, either, because what we call courage and duty-doing they think just a matter of course. Perhaps nothing more to the point has ever been said to them than this spontaneous outburst in one speech:—"By Jo, we are glad to see you." It was worth all the rest about gallantry, and endurance, and honour, and so on. We thought all that, too, but just then what was delighting us was to see them. We had missed them, and now they were back and we would meet them in our daily lives again. And next morning their mothers would wake up happy because George and Clem were safe back, actually in the house in their own room at that moment!

Well, besides these official (and yet quite informal) welcomes there was also a large private party where another soldier, welcomed some time before, was to dance and talk with his friends, and there was also a Butterfly Fair, because now the war is over we simply must have a piano for the Sunday School Kindergarten. And there was the Red Cross meeting, and a Home Mission meeting, and the literary society, and choir practice, and a Band of Hope concert, and, of course, football on Saturday, for most of our players are coming back again now, though there are some we shall never see.

The Backblocks

Too many town people are prepared to talk as though "the outbacks" were anywhere beyond a 20-mile radius of the G.P.O. When you are really in the backblocks you turn the washing machine for your hostess, make complicated arrangements for keeping the ants out of the sugar, help "separate," cut out some jumpers for the children on the newest town pattern, and take your afternoon ride on the poison-cart attending to bunny. Once or twice a week you go into the township for the mail. You bath frugally because all the water is caught off the roof or in the dam, and you empty the tub on to what garden there is, for none can be wasted.

I pity all healthy women who never have a chance to go sometimes where life, though not easy, is simple and self-contained and wholesome, where the work cannot be delegated to the baker or the small goods man or the dressmaker just because the weather is hot or you don't feel up to the mark. Without this you cannot feel all the joy of being thoroughly essential to your family—nor its occasional terror. Only very fine women can live such a life properly, though. You have to find your happiness and your amusement in the life itself, not in some artificial amusement patched on for the moment. You have to find it in permanent and ultimate things, in love and work and effort and hope and helpfulness, not in "The Pictures" or a variety show.

I don't pretend not to enjoy a variety show myself when I'm in town, and I don't pretend that Petunia is in the backblocks, but it is in the country, and I am quite sure that country life is as enjoyable as a town one, though not every one feels it. Anyone can take a pill, but not all can make one, nor even pick out the ingredients from a lot of herbs and drugs presented to them.

I suppose that is the trouble with Joyce Wickhams. She has gone to work in town so that she can go to the Pav. and Henley Beach on band nights as often as she likes. I hope she will miss feeding the swill to the grunting, shoving, greedy pigs, miss the leisurely cows, miss the glow of health that you feel—without thinking about it—as you canter out for them. And Saturday's tennis is never quite so nice in town as it is in the country, where you know everyone on the courts very well, are going to sing with most of them at the concert in March, and went with them to the working bee at the school last week. We shall miss Joyce. She was the best housemaid we've ever had in our dialogues, and the most popular waitress at tea meetings. Of course she will laugh a great deal at Charlie Chaplin, and the town entertainments will be very clever, but the fun that is made for you doesn't make so much of your mind and heart laugh as the fun that you help make yourself.

The Aeroplane

The excitement continues. We've had rain and we've seen the aeroplane! In fact they came together. On Sunday it was given out in the churches that between 10 and 11 on Monday, Capt. Butler would fly over Petunia and drop Peace Loan literature. Farmers immediately decided that one morning off couldn't make much difference to a bad season, and mothers and daughters exchanged glances in which the washing was postponed. When the school mistress had it announced in the Twocott chapel that there would be no lessons next morning, the children's flushed faces were as good as cheers. Even the Hobbledehoy, who had seen the great sight in town, of course, was not so blasé as he pretended.

On Monday motors and traps and waggons poured into Petunia through driving wind and rain. Pedestrians with umbrellas struggled against the blast. I don't quite know what we expected. Perhaps we thought the aeroplane would only be visible from the main street, or that it would land there, or that the literature would, and in any case, we all wanted to take our excitement in company. We lined up for shelter in the lee of shops and houses. Opinions differed. Some thought the Institute the best site, some the post-office, and some plumped for the vicinity of the Recreation Ground, as affording a clear view and a suitable place for an airman to descend (or drop out) after a spiral or a nose-dive.

The Postmaster suggested that the weather might be too ... but we shut him up for a croaker, and poddled about exchanging anticipations and chaffing young Jones, who was "look-out" to report the arrival to the expectant school. A stockman drifted in with a herd of yearlings, and we watched him zig-zag them resignedly past the groups of traps and people. Wet ruts gleamed in some fitful sunshine along the straight road stretching between green paddocks into the moist distance. There came an unexpected sound overhead, and the school children burst along the street with decorous hilarity. Something we had seen in pictures emerged from the grey and glided overhead, and into the distant grey again, "like a spoggy in the sky," as young Allen poetically observed.

It was in sight for quite four minutes.

Half an hour later we were fairly certain that there were to be no nose-dives, no spirals, not even any literature. We snubbed the Postmaster, and closed in on the Institute, where the chairman of the district tried to focus our attention on the Peace Loan, and make us feel we had not come out for nothing. Then laughing people turned their collars up round their ears, climbed into buggies, and shook the reins. "Gid-dup."

From the Chinese

A few people despise poetry; many more speak respectfully of it only because they think they ought to, not because they, personally, understand it or even appreciate it. Of course, it is quite easy to enjoy a poem without understanding its technique, its rhyme, rhythm, and so on, or without being able to say in what, apart from the form, it differs from prose. "Can't you feel it?" is often the sufficient answer, in the words of a certain professor of classics.

The following fragment from the Chinese makes us feel that it is poetry, though the translator cannot convey to us the poetic form of the original.

PO CHU-I STARTS ON A JOURNEY EARLY IN THE MORNING.

Washed by the rain, dust and grime are laid;

Skirting the river, the road's course is flat.

The moon has risen on the last remnants of night;

The traveller's speed profits by the early cold.

In the great silence I whisper a faint song;

In the black darkness are bred sombre thoughts.

On the lotus-banks hovers a dewy breeze;

Through the rice furrows trickles a singing stream.

At the noise of our bells a sleeping dog stirs;

At the sight of our torches a roosting bird wakes.

Dawn glimmers through the shapes of misty trees....

For ten miles, till day at last breaks.

"More than a thousand years have elapsed since that journey," says the Times reviewer, "and nobody knows the words of that 'faint song,' or the nature of those 'sombre thoughts,' but we are just as intimately acquainted with Po Chu-I as if he had enlarged by the page on his emotional complexities.... Chinese poetry aims to induce a mood rather than to state a thought.... Po Chu-I's sorrows and joys and placid reveries hover in the mind after the book is closed, and that—and not the number of startling remarks made—is the test of a poem's value."

To-day or a thousand years ago, China or Australia, it is all the same. You and I have made journeys like that, and can share the poet's mood. We have arisen early and crept about by lantern-light, we have let ourselves out on to a road that lies white under a cold moon, and have thrilled and hasted in the chill air. The first solemn joy gave place to gloom as the heralding darkness enveloped the world. And then we felt the dawn-breeze among the gum trees, and heard the creek rustle through the water-cress. A dog barked, a bird peeped, and the first pink cloud floated in the brightening sky. And then the world woke up, the magpies and the farmyards and the pumping engine, and we were glad that we were afoot and off, and a little proud about it.

And a thousand years ago an old, old Chinaman sang our mood for us, and lo! it was poetry. And because we have felt it all for ourselves, though we did not know how to tell about it, what he says plays on our minds like music, and we live the mood again.

Adopting Emily

"Seen that fine tabby in the woodhouse?" enquired Joshua.

"She's got a beautiful white chest," agreed Hob, "and that loose skin and soft fur like old M'Glusky."

"And a pink nose," said Daisy.

"And her eyes are amber. Do let's adopt her," said I.

"Yes, let's," chorused the others—all except Marjorie, who prefers mousetraps, and says that where one or two cats are gathered together, or something, there is always an awful noise. However, we determined to have that tabby.

Have you ever tried to adopt a duchess? A duchess in reduced circumstances? Then you don't know what we have been through with Emily. (We call her Emily after Miss Fox-Seton, the "large, placid creature, kind rather than intelligent," who became Marchioness in one of Mrs. Hodgson Burnett's books.) Emily is a cat of character. She didn't want to be adopted. She didn't mind renting our woodheap, but preferred not to have to meet the family. She would keep herself to herself, thank you. She used to sit, serene and dignified, blinking in a sunbeam among the roots, lifting her white bosom and gently kneading the ground. If you offered her food she seemed to put up her lorgnettes at you, and it wasn't any good leaving the saucer and going round the corner. When you came back Emily was gone, and the food wasn't.

She certainly impressed us. We built up all sorts of legends around her. Her disdain for food and her calm refusal either to accept our advances, to withdraw from her place, or to be seen hurrying at any time, seemed so very aristocratic. And then how she kept up appearances! Marjorie scarcely took the same view as the rest of us, especially after Emily so haughtily snubbed the milk she had offered herself. She said she didn't believe she was a duchess at all; more of a peroxide barmaid about Emily, if you asked her, a minx with a bust who put on airs. And a few nights later she said she wouldn't have cats encouraged about the place. She said she believed Emily was the cause of that jazz party on the lawn in the moonlight.

Emily jazz! Never!

"Adopting Emily" became the favourite diversion of our leisure. In the end it was very mortifying, very mortifying indeed. We were all sitting on our heels round the woodheap coaxing Emily, and Emily as usual was barely tolerating our presence, too proud to withdraw, when Mr. Wickhams came across the paddocks to borrow another axe.

"Well, I'm blowed!" said he; "so this is where our old cat goes. She's only been home for meals since the wife turned her out of the hat-box."

Yes, what we took for dignity was sulks, and her aristocratic superiority to food was due, to put it bluntly, to a full stomach. Mr. Wickhams handsomely forgave us for trying to abduct his best mouser as he stretched a long arm into the wood and hauled her off by the scruff of the neck. Such an indignity for Emily.

Twocott

Driving out to Buxton on Wednesday afternoon, I picked up little Jennie Elliott walking home from Twocott.

"Do you go to school already?" I exclaimed.

"Oh, I've been going a long time—ever since Christmas. We got a nice teacher. She is always good to us—unless she can't help it; and we are always good to her, unless we can't help it." Dear understanding little mite. "All of us are in the second grade nearly." "All of us" have now learnt to sing, and Jennie is always out early—unless she is kept in.

She held on tightly to the side of the dog-cart and looked about the country while she prattled out the gossip of the school from the point of view of a six-year-old, and I felt a swelling of gratitude to the wonderful teacher who keeps eight grades busy and happy and proud of themselves, and convinced that she is proud of them, too! "All of us" have a very nice time at Twocott, and are learning to be considerate and tolerant and self-controlled, as well as the more formal lessons, and all taught by a mere woman who understands the art of discipline without a stick.

A Country Writer

A writer in The Times Literary Supplement complains of the dearth of good novels of country life. The modern author, he asserts, claps the story on to any county, irrespective of the spirit of the place. He takes a tourist's trip to Cornwall or Yorkshire, and makes a book out of it, though his dialogue was never heard on land or sea, flowers bloom together whose seasons never met, and his pitiful town thinness of mind is visible alike in what he sees and in what he fails to see.

Against these degenerate moderns the letter sets Richard Doddridge Blackmore, and regrets that all his novels but one are neglected by an undiscriminating or too hasty generation.

Now it is the virtue of country libraries that, though only the feeblest of modern novels may find a way there, the best of the old linger on their shelves long after they have been ejected from more pretentious places. And so, while this letter was still fresh in my mind, in our Institute at Petunia, rubbing sides with volumes by Mrs. Gaskell and Miss Braddon, I came across "Cripps the Carrier," whose title page proclaimed it to be "by the author of Lorna Doone." I took it home, despite my doubt, as I eyed its yellow pages and heavy print, that I should pay with yawns for my virtuosity.

And then on the very first page I met Dobbin, "the best harse as ever looked through a bridle."

"Every 'talented' man must think, whenever he walks beside a horse, of the superior talents of the horse ... the power of blowing (which no man hath in a comely and decorous form); and last, not least, the final blessing of terminating decorously in a tail.... Scarcely any man stops to think of the many cares that weigh upon the back of an honest horse. Dobbin knew all this, but was too much of a horse to dwell on it. He kept his tongue well under his bit, his eyes in sagacious blinkers, and sturdily up the hill he stepped, while Cripps, his master, trudged beside him."

At the second page I was smiling outright, and knew that not a word of this book would I knowingly skip.

Such is the quality of the writing that not only do we learn to know Zacchary Cripps and his brother Tickus (christened after the third book of the "Pentachook," as they called his sixth brother), his horse Dobbin, and Mary Hookham, "as he was a tarnin' over in his mind," together with Squire Oglander, Lawyer—or "Liar"—Sharp, as Zac addressed him, "wishing to put all things legal," Miranda his wife, and Kit his son, as well as or better than we know our neighbours, but we are all the time falling in love with that sly rogue, that mellow scholar, that lover of a horse and a pretty girl, Richard Doddridge Blackmore. Here is a man who knows and loves and smiles over the rustic mind and life, as he knows and loves the trees, the hedges, the ruts, the sunlight, and the frosts, and all the ways of Nature. He is leisurely, and you must be leisurely with him. You must stop to see what he sees, and accompany all his friends on their goings out and comings in, smiling and enjoying with him. He cares more for the telling than for the story; he knows, like Louis Stevenson, that "to travel hopefully is better than to arrive."

Oxford and Oxfordshire are the scenes of the story, and we hear more of town than gown, and more of Beckley than either. If the precise critic ask whether it be a novel of character or of place or of plot, the precise critic is a fool. There is the country, with its lanes and hedges and changing seasons, and there are the people who carried and delved and gossiped and wondered, sympathized with the trials of their "betters," and did their duty by parish church and parish "public," "same as Christians ought to." And if you put it squarely to Squire (or Parson?) Blackmore: "Come, now, you don't expect me to believe that Lawyer Sharp actually ... eh?" he will vouchsafe such a Philistine not so much as a wink in reply, though you may catch a quizzical twinkle at a generation too bald-minded to enjoy a hop field because the blossom must be held up on poles.

Blackmore, like Shakespeare, knows every turn of the bucolic's slow, sturdy, tortuous mind; he loved his pauses, the dawning of perception, his easy missing of the point, his superstitions, and his common sense. Read this (it comes in that passage where the escaping Grace Oglander appeals to the Carrier to shelter her from pursuit in his van):

"But missy, poor missy," Cripps stammered out, drawing on his heart for every word, "you was buried on the seventh day of January, in the year of our Lord 1838; three pickaxes was broken over digging your grave by reason of the frosty weather, and all of us come to your funeral! Do 'ee go back, miss, that's a dear! The churchyard to Beckley is a comfortable place, and this here wood no place for a Christian."

And he can paint the brisk homely maids as well as the gaping tongue-tied men.

"Now, sir, if you please. You must—you must," cried Mary Hookham, his best maid, trotting in with her thumbs turned back from a right hot dish, and her lips up as if she were longing to kiss him, to let out her feelings.... "Sir, if you please, you must ate a bit.... 'Take on,' as my mother has often said, 'take on as you must, if your heart is right, when the hand of the Lord is upon you; but never take off with your victuals.'... All of us has our own troubles," said Mary, "but these here pickles is wonderful."

In the affectionate malice of the misadventures into which is plunged Hardenow, that earnest, scholarly Tractarian, there is all the fun of a man who is teasing a beloved and misguided friend. The muscles he is so proud of shall be laughed at, into brambles he shall plunge, and lose his hat and tear his neckcloth into ribbons; in a pig-net shall he be caught, and his athletic legs having struck terror into the mind of Rabbit John, bound with thongs shall he be, and left in an empty pig-stye, the very parlour of pig-styes ("on the floor, where he had the best of it, for odour ever rises"), there to continue his fast for many hours. Pity him not overmuch; "his accustomed stomach but thinks it Friday come again!"

Aye, Blackmore knew man, and maid, and beast—even pig. Lying in this plight, Hardenow sees:

"... a loose board, lifted every now and then by the unringed snout of a very good old sow. Pure curiosity was her motive, and no evil appetite, as her eyes might tell. She had never seen a fellow and a tutor of a college rolling, as she herself longed to do; and yet in a comparatively clumsy way. She grunted deep disapprovement of his movements, and was vexed that her instructions were so entirely thrown away."

Here is a picture of a little child, seen through his hole by the distracted tutor:

"A little child toddled to the wicket gate and laid fat arms against it, and laboured, with impatient grunts, to push it open.... He gazed with his whole might at this little peg of a body, in the distance toppling forward, and throwing out behind the whole weight of its great efforts.... This little peg, now in battle with the gate, was a solid Peg in earnest; a fine little Cripps, about five years old, as firm as if just turned out of a churn. She was backward in speech, as all the little Crippses are; and she rather stared forth her ideas than spoke them. But still, let her once get a settlement concerning a thing that must be done to carry out her own ideas, and in her face it might be seen, once for all, that stop she never would till her own self had done it....

"Taught by adversity (the gate had banged her chubby knees, etc.) she did thus: Against the gatepost she settled her most substantial availability, and exerted it, and spared not. Therewith she raised one solid leg, and spread the naked foot thereof, while her lips were firm as any toe of all the lot, against the vile thing that had knocked her about, and the power that was contradicting her. Nothing could withstand this fixed resolution of one of the far more resolute moiety of humanity. With a creak of surrender the gate gave back; and out came little Peggy Cripps, with a broad face glowing with triumph."

I have told you of Dobbin; I suppose I mustn't detain you to hear about Lawyer Sharp's horse? "A better disposed horse was never foaled; and possibly none—setting Dobbin aside, as the premier and quite unapproachable type—who took a clearer view of his duties to the provider of corn, hay, and straw, and was more ready to face and undergo all proper responsibilities.... He cannot fairly be blamed, and not a pound should be deducted from his warrantable value, simply because he did what any other young horse in the world would have thought to be right. He stared all round to ask what was coming next, he tugged on the bridle, with his fore feet out, as a leverage against injustice, and his hind legs spread wide apart, like a merry thought, ready to hop anywhere." Later he made for Oxford, "where he thought of his oat sieve smelling sweetly, and nice little nibbles at his clover hay, and the comfortable soothing of his creased places by a man who would sing a tune to him."

One of the charms of the book is that it will make you a nuisance to your family; there are so many pictures that you simply must read them, so many phrases they must taste with you, and everything that you do quote seems to be capped and improved upon by something a little further on, and you simply must venture it.

Not a thing does he miss, from ruts (oh, that pæan on ruts! "Everything here was favourable to the very finest growth of ruts. The road had once been made, which is a necessary condition of any masterpiece of rut work; it had then been left to maintain itself, which encourages wholesome development....") to the effects of a hard frost, the borings of the Sirex Gigas, and the tufted undergrad. who tools the "Flying Dutchman" up the streets of Oxford. And nothing would we have him miss.

How can I let my dear friend Richard Blackmore, with his chuckling gossip about Worth Oglander and Grace, Cripps, and the rustics of Oxford and Beckley, fade out of memory on Petunia shelves?

The Hypnotist

The Round of Gaiety continues. We have just lived through a Sunday School anniversary (with tea meeting), a visit from the hypnotist, and the Show.

The Hobbledehoy (latterly known as Hob) wrote that his father must go to the hypnotic entertainment. He had been with some of the boys from College, and the sight of a respectable schoolmaster under the delusion that he was assisting at a dogfight left him without words to express his joy. On hearing that our new man, Fat Bill Boundy, who has the face of a natural comedian, meant to submit himself for experiment, Joshua decided that a little amusement would cheer Marjorie up, and of course he accompanied her.

Admission turned out to be 2s. 4d. and 3s. 6d.

"But the advertisement said 'Popular Prices,'" protested Joshua.

"That's right," agreed the ticket man, smoothly, "popular with the entertainer."

Joshua says that this was the only joke of the evening. Bill Boundy went up on to the platform all right, but the Great Man only made him twiddle his fingers and roll his eyes. He said that on this occasion he was "mesmerizing but not hypnotizing." Joshua sat up half the night with Jack's Reference Book and the Encyclopædia Britannica, trying to find out the difference. It appears that it consists in the size of the town in which the performance is given.

Tin Lizzie

Our minister bought a "Tin Lizzie"—at least, I'm afraid he passed it off with the old, old joke, "We'll have a Ford now, and a motor after the war." But Tin Lizzie worked harder than any horse, and our minister was well satisfied—except when he forgot to water her, or crank her, or in some way misunderstood her internal organs; and then he called her "The Pesky Thing," and even went so far as to say—I mean, of course, to think—"Dash it."

But a time came when the Pesky Thing had to be cleaned, and oiled, and crawled over, and squirmed under, and taken to pieces, and—and—sermonized over. And our minister was a persevering man, and so were his friends; and they talked and thought and read motors, and captured the local mechanic and a passing amateur and an expert; and finally they got her to go—a little way. Wherefore on Saturday night the minister went to bed happy.

But all the same he had a dream, a nightmare, a hair-raising, heart-stopping nightmare. He dreamed that he was walking to church when he noticed his boots—and they were his motor-cleaning boots, scraped on the heels and worn at the toes and cracked all over. But he was not dismayed; the pulpit would hide them.

And yet a little way, and lo, he had on his head the cap, the greasy, poacher's cap that protected his clerical hairs from the motor-drippings.

"But I can pocket my cap," this imperturbable man comforted himself.

And yet a little further, and it was his coat, his shapeless, sagging, grimy motor-coat.... And now he really was put out, for, as he foresaw,

"I shall have on those trousers in a few minutes!"

And when at last he got to church the sense of doom was upon him, and when he gave out the hymn the organ was out of order.

And they took it to pieces, and cleaned it, and oiled it, and climbed over it and crawled under it....

"Now I see that all things work together for good," dreamed our minister (he was ever an optimist), "for I've got the right togs on for the job."

The Show

During the strike our railway supported only three trains a week; for the Show it surpassed itself and ran three on one day, or, rather, two and a dog-box. But they were all full, and I do think the crowd enjoyed itself, or at any rate Marjorie's prize cake and cream puffs, which were carried off surreptitiously. Joshua says that the judging was very unsatisfactory. His two-tooth did not get a prize. Marjorie, on the other hand, considers that in the cooking and dairy sections the most exemplary fairness was shown.

In the general excitement of meeting Pete Wigglesby, whom we haven't seen for years, Joshua gave his order for a milking machine, although the drought has set in again. Marjorie wishes he would want to show off to some other old friend, and order a new house. "One without cement floors, and with no step down into the kitchen," she says, plaintively. "And with a bathroom," puts in Hob.

Peterborough Show comes next, and I fancy our men will mob it. For one thing, it is such a good opportunity to get their hair cut. You see, we are short of barbers in Petunia, and any excursions are eagerly seized. When the District Schools Picnic was held at Glenelg there were queues outside the hairdressers there till late in the afternoon, and it was considered that the managers of our fair made a great coup when they ran a saloon as a sideshow. By the end of the evening Dicky Conlon was getting to be quite an expert hair-cutter. There was a little disturbance when Joe Wickhams saw himself in the glass, but Constable Merritt knocked the razor out of his hand and pulled him off Dicky. After that it was all right, because some one had the presence of mind to take away the mirror.

The Haircut

Joshua couldn't go to Peterborough Show after all, and his hair was awful. Marjorie "could not foresee to what lengths it would go," and advised him to wear it in curling-pins. Joshua begged her to try what she could do with a basin, and finally persuaded her to take a comb and scissors and "put the reaper into the crop." Of course, the machine had to go over it several times, but at last only the stubble remained. She had some difficulty in getting the furrows on one side to meet those on the other, but finally the terrace effect was complete. Windy corner, where the roads meet on top, was a difficult point to negotiate, and Vimy Ridge took some levelling. The razor-work was particularly fine, and Joshua deserves the V.C. Marjorie was rather dashed by her failure to sell him a bottle of hair-restorer; she urged that it might help check the growth.

Scipio

Daisy is still after a pet whose usefulness she can justify as a potential mouse-catcher, but our disappointment with the Duchess has made us humbler and more discreet. This time we asked a neighbour for the gift of his apparently superfluous black kitten.

"'Taint mine," said he; "it belongs to my old Nosey. She had it in the haystack, and I have never been able to catch it to drown it. If you can get it you can have it."

"We shan't find any difficulty with Scipio," exulted the Hobbledehoy, home for "month out," "because no one has been feeding him."

"Scipio?" I asked.

"The black kitten," he explained. "What they used to call the little niggers. Good name for a gutter-snipe."

Well, we certainly have no difficulty in getting Scipio into the neighbourhood of nourishment. He (and Nosey his mother, and Miss Perkins his aunt, and the Yellow Peril from up the road) will scud across two paddocks at the sound of our call. At twenty paces, however, Scipio becomes coy. He rubs himself ingratiatingly against his mother, he sniffs towards the food, but won't be wheedled. He may daringly sneak up within six feet to snatch a piece of meat, but he runs off again growling and sticks a paw on it, and turns his eyes towards us, flattening his ears while he eats. By the exercise of great patience and by throwing bits of meat at lessening distances he has even learned to snatch the meat from Daisy's hand, to eat it without moving far, to—no, not to be stroked! At the first touch on his fur he darts to the gate, brings up, turns round, a little ashamed of his fright as he hears Daisy's cooing voice—or, perhaps, still a little hungry!—and stands ready for flight, his tail gallantly up, though, and twitching his muscles confidingly, so that the fur ripples up and down his back in the sunlight. He fixes us with his blue eyes, that are already turning green at the edges, starts forward, checks—and that is as far as we can get with the adopting of Scipio. Poor little gutter-snipe! We shall never tame him. He can't believe in human kindness. The only love he trusts is the warm touch of his mother, and she will cast him off soon, and his kittenhood will be over. Scipio will live as he can on pickings from rubbish heaps and mice in the haystacks and birds in the hedge. But it is Daisy who will be unhappy about it, not Scipio! Luckily, cats are not introspective.

Bill Boundy

Have I told you about our Bill Boundy? I have a rooted conviction that for a good many people music is simply a noise that they hope will soon stop. The reason why people will hardly ever confess to being unmusical is probably Shakespeare's unfortunate remark:

"The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils."

To me it seems very hard that people should be under a cloud simply because of some defect in their organs of Corti, or some other part of the physical apparatus for hearing the exquisiteness of tune in sound. However, Bill Boundy is undoubtedly musical. He could lean against the wall all day listening to Hob practising. "It makes the skin of my head run tight," he says, ecstatically and in apology, when Joshua motions him stablewards.

Bill is a treasure. I hope Joshua will never sack him irrevocably. He had "a week home to Munta" for Christmas, and is simply bursting with conversation. Most of his anecdotes turn upon his mother, a salty old Cornishwoman. She is a pensioner, but quite properly expects as much courtesy from the officials as if she were any other member of the public.

"I be waiting, my son," was her gentle reminder through the post office window to the negligent back of "some young Jack-a-napes." The new clerk took no notice.

"Didn't 'ee hear, son? I be standing."

"No son of yours," snapped the sensitive youth.

"Must be somebody's son," urged the old lady, calmly, "unless 'ee come out of incubator."

Jack-in-Office is now quite briskly attentive to Bill Boundy's mother.

Bill is filled with admiration and a little malice because John Thomas Trellagan's boy has just qualified as a doctor.

"Fair set up about it, John Tummas be. 'Rayther young, John,' says I. 'Shouldn't like him monkeying with my innards, 'a believe.' 'Aw,' says John Tummas, a terrible obliging man, 'they only practise on quite young children at first, 'a believe.'"

Joshua says Bill is "an ingratiating beggar." Relations were strained because Bill hadn't got the milking machine clean in time, but while they speeded up Bill wheedled Joshua into a good temper. He told him another story of John Tummas Trellagan's boy. He has had his first maternity case. The mother and child are in a bad way, says Bill, but Clarence still hopes to save the father.

Bill always knows all that goes on in the township. Now that paper and string cost so much those who forget to take a cloth for their bread have to pay a halfpenny extra. Bill was there when the butcher took his revenge by charging the baker's little messenger for the paper he wrapped the dog's meat in. Thank goodness, everyone in Petunia can take a joke.

An Angry Man

I had chosen "Mary Barton" because Mrs. Gaskell wrote it, and "Joan and Peter" because no blue stocking with a care for her reputation can afford to admit ignorance of whatever book happens to be Wells's penultimate, (or at any rate ante-penultimate), and I felt that I deserved some champagne after this solid-looking fare. I looked round the shelves gloomily, despairing of finding anything frivolous in the scanty stock from which in Petunia we draw for our week's entertainment. "Pickwick Papers"—delightful, but too old a friend. "Three Men in a Boat"—also past its first youth. "Galahad Jones"—the very best of its kind, but then we only returned it last week. "Fatima"—um-m. Well, it had the plain cover of a self-respecting publisher; good print, plenty of conversation, titled folk, a yacht. It sounded frivolous enough. I took it.

I do not regret my choice, though my pleasure was scarcely due to the writer. There is no need to tell you the story. It was about a French-Arabian young lady dressed in a burnous (yes!) and coins, who married a tuberculous Scotch peer, and fell out with a deep-dyed villain (also of the peerage), and loved a doctor, the Bayard of his profession and the saintliest scientist who ever fell into the devilish hands of Arabian bandits agitating (apparently) for the eight hour day, only to be rescued by the lady in the burnous. No, the fun was not in the story, entertaining as its author's luxurious enjoyment of herself undoubtedly was; the fun was entirely due to reading in the wake of an angry man with a pencil, who took the whole thing seriously.

He began on the first page. "A baronet would not be called 'Lord,'" he reproves mildly. You could see his feeling; purely irritation with the printers. But as the story progressed it became clear that it was not the compositor who was at fault. "The authoress evidently does not understand titles," he snarls. "Earl Harben would not be referred to as 'Lord Eric.'" He slashes his pencil through "the Lady Eric," and bang goes "her grace." Fury nearly obliterates the "gh" in "straightened circumstances." Next he reasons with the misguided person who has been adjudged worthy of the dignity of print (my own idea is that a doting husband paid for the whole thing himself). "Not a burgomaster and a maire," he pleads; "not in the same town. One is German, the other French." Other anomalies he passes with a mere flick of the pencil, an exasperated sniff, as it were. I stuck to the yarn solely for the pleasure of savouring his hot fury, his cold despair, his pleading, his rage.

"The Presbyterians"—the infuriated man nearly dug through the page—"do not pray for the dead."

And then came the (for me) sad page whereafter comment ceased. He had pounced on an exotic phrase.

"Pure Yankee!" he exclaims, triumphantly, and all is forgiven. I parted from him with sorrow.

His conclusion was wrong, of course, as I could prove if I met him. No one ought to accuse an American woman of not understanding the British peerage!

Alcibiades

The pet problem is solved! A chum has presented Hob with a small black pup, and, as Hob found to his disgust that even Prefects can't keep dogs at school, he brought him home at the Michaelmas holidays.

"What is his name?" demanded Daisy.

"The Dam Dog," replied Hob.

"What!" ejaculated Marjorie.

"The Dam Dog. Oh, it's all right, mother. It means 'dog that washes in a dam.' D.A.M., you know."

"Thank you, Hob. I know you go to college, but I can spell 'dam' myself—both ways. You must find some other name for your dog."

The little fellow kept us all awake the night Hob left, and Joshua remarked in the morning that he thought Marjorie might now be more willing to let the name stand. However, Hob wrote to say that he had decided upon Alcibiades.

This time it was Joshua who put his foot down. He said that, if ever the time should come (which he doubted) when the dog was useful with sheep he was not going to make a fool of himself by shouting "Alcibiades."

So now "his name is Alcibiades," as Daisy explains, "but we call him Peter."

Peter is a lovable little chap. He barks, prances, pounces, worries, with all the energy possible to a little barrel-shaped body that has only just ceased to wobble when it walks. Yesterday the police-constable called with news of our missing cow. Peter took the opportunity to bite his trousers and pull his boot laces, and then rolled over and over in an ecstacy of self-importance.

News

Don't apologize for sending "no news, only views, blended with a cold in the head." I never can see why letters should be newsy.

"There is nothing to write about; I am not doing anything," people say. But if they are not doing they are thinking, and our thoughts are often more interesting to our friends than events, which very likely have little connection with ourselves at all. I've an idea that the best correspondents, like the best essay writers, are the egoists.

I am not one of the best letter-writers, however. In fact, I feel distinctly newsy. There is always something going on in Petunia. For instance, some more of our boys have returned from the war. We were pleased! A turkey was dressed in honour of one, and then the date of arrival was several times postponed. The problem of problems is—how long will a turkey keep even in (home-made) cold storage this weather? Any little unusual smell was greeted anxiously with, "I hope that isn't the turkey!"

Twocott gave a strawberry fête and magic lantern in honour of its soldiers, only the strawberries didn't come, and the lantern was missing. Still, the evening was a great success; there was so much more time to talk and play.

But the policeman's wife has had the most excitement. Her husband was away, and she was awakened by strange noises. At first she thought it was smothered laughter, and then she thought it was curses (not smothered); presently there was a crash and a groan. In the shadow of the lane opposite a writhing mass of men bore something stealthily into the darkness. Our policeman's wife is a heroine. She resolved not to desert the children, and buried her head in the bedclothes. In the morning Mrs. Odgers, coming over to borrow some dripping, was full of the kindness of the men who had moved the piano into her new house on their way home from the political meeting at Buxton.

Amusing Daisy

I do wish all girls took a course of home nursing. I've been nursing Daisy with one hand and reading up the subject with the other, so to speak. I can now sponge the patient with almost no exertion to her and without letting her get cold, at least, not very; and I can change the sheets without moving her from the bed. When Daisy gets better perhaps Marjorie or Joshua will give me a turn, just so that I can perfect my art. Daisy liked the cap I wore to protect my hair; it decided her to be a nurse herself some day. But the best subject for amusing the restless little soul was Peter—well, then, Alcibiades. I told Joshua about the beautiful echo that would reverberate "over the downs" if he called "Alcibiades," but he said life was too short for elocutionary exercises while you round up sheep. "You mean your temper is too short," observed Marjorie very justly.

Of course, I couldn't have Peter in the room catching scarlatina and spreading infection, but Daisy was never tired of hearing about him. We country people don't keep our animals in the Zoo and visit them once a year. They are part of our life, and we talk about them accordingly. Dobbin, now—but I suppose I mustn't? Well, well, to return to Peter. Sometimes he would stand on a bench under the window and put his paws on the sill, eagerly looking in with his bright black eyes, his ears pricked, his ecstatic tail hopefully suggesting a walk. And then bones. He loves bones, nice old gamey ones, disinterred with excitement and later buried again with earnest care. The ambition of his heart is to gnaw them inside. He prances in proudly, tail up, head up, bone on one side, and then at the reprimand, the transparent bubble of his innocence pricked, he turns round (laughing, doubtless, at his discomfiture), and makes for his mat—when he doesn't defy you from under the table. And to see him tugging at an apron-string, legs set, eyes bulging!

"What else does he do?" enquires Daisy solemnly. I can't think of anything else, and I say lamely:

"Well, once he barked at a beetle."

Obiit

Peter is dead.

Daisy is inconsolable. He was such an engaging little fellow.

He was the only dog that Marjorie ever allowed inside.

He is buried under the apple tree where he used to forage so busily for bones.

The Drought

Last birthday Hob got a rather special penknife. This disposed him to be generous with his third and oldest.

"If I give you this," he meditated to little Allen from next door, "I suppose you will cut yourself with it?"

"I wouldn't," protested Allen. Hob gave it to him. Last week when Daisy and I were going to the library Allen came prancing up to us.

"I've got a cut finger," he exclaimed, triumphantly. Then, suddenly remembering, "But I didn't do it with Hob's knife." He danced backward on his toes so as to face us as we walked on.

"I've been to town," offered Daisy.

"See the aererplane? See the Cave? See Father Christmas?" he demanded.

"Yes," bragged Daisy.

"I ain't," said Allen, wistfully.

And the harvest is so scanty that Father Christmas will have to be very frugal if he is to come at all to the homes of some working men. Petunia looks very sad, bare and brown and dusty. The sparrows hop about with parched open beaks, waiting their turn when the tap drips, and on Sundays the dejected draught horses stand about in the trampled dust while the hot wind soughs through the stunted shrubs, and the sun blazes on bare paddocks, and shimmers on the iron roofs. In winter it is different. The light shines clearly on gay green crops and whitens the curving blades, and the horses mosey companionably along the roadsides, nibbling the grass, twitching humorous nostrils, gambolling clumsily and shaking their bell-bottomed pasterns, screaming with laughter when sportively bitten by a friend. Oh, man and beast love Petunia in winter! But droughts really ought not to be allowed. It is moving to think of ill-fed cattle and disheartened workers.

"Then welcome each rebuff

That turns earth's smoothness rough,

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go,"

writes Browning. In the good seasons I find this advice inspiring. When the rebuff begins it seems less so. And when one thinks of the returned soldiers who are only getting three bushels to the acre (not even enough for seed!) one remembers with tears that it is easier to die for a country than to live for it. "Beginning again" after the years at the war takes resolution and courage, the willingness to take risks, and the patience not to take them hastily, that are as true tests of manhood as any they had abroad.

The Works of Simple Simon, LL.D., D.Litt., Ph.D., M.B., B.S.

An Emendation

Amid the welter of possible misprints in such writers as Shakespeare, Shelley, and Coleridge, one obvious correction would appear to have been overlooked.

"Pussycat, Pussycat, where have you been?

I've been to London to look at the Queen.

Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there?

I frightened a little mouse under her chair."

So runs one of the earliest-known (to me) and best-loved poems.

But is it credible that the romantic young cat who trimmed his fur and hoisted his tail and fared forth to catch a glimpse of Majesty would create a vulgar scene in that adored presence? Is it credible that, returning, he should boast of his boorishness, like a gutter-snipe making a pied de nez? Nor can I think that what he saw at Court turned our gallant to a cynic, coarsely sniggering out his disillusion. No, I prefer to believe that a pedantic regard for mechanical accuracy of metre has caused the printer to err. For "frightened" I believe we should read "caught."

"I caught a little mouse under her chair."

The astonishing thing is that no previous editor seems to have thought of this. Of course, there will be some dissenters.

"What!" will exclaim the upholder of things as they are, instead of as they might so much better be, "Would you have us sentimentalize the cat, and by pathetic fallacy pretend that the young prig thought to 'serve his Queen'?"

"Not at all," I reply. I will tell you my idea. Having stepped softly and daintily into the presence and slipped behind the tapestry and out again near the throne, he gazed adoringly at the lovely Queen, at her soft hair under the crown, at her rosy fingers, her silk-clad knee, the graceful brocaded train with which his pussy-humour longed to play. And then his eyes, big and black with the unaccustomed splendour, suddenly espied the natural, homely mouse licking his whiskers impudently in the fancied security of the royal throne. Pussycat was shocked and interested (like a little boy with a dog in church), and he watched and watched till he was all pussy, till the Court faded and Pussycat's strategic eye made him pounce before he thought.

And when the Ladies-in-Waiting fainted because they dared not scream, and the Gentlemen-in-Waiting dashed forward because they thought Pussycat might scrunch the mouse under the royal chair, Pussycat laid back his ears and darted his eyes defensively, and with a laughing growl laid it at the Queen's own feet.

And so when, safe back at home over a saucer of milk, Pussycat told a reproachful little boy where he had been, and the little boy screamed with delight,

"Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there?"

Pussycat, hugging himself for his naughty boldness, and smiling to think how the Queen had smiled, and vastly enjoying the sensation he was making, burst out with his answer (and that is the meaning of the irregular metre, the long pause and stress):

"I caught a little mouse under her chair!"

A Protest

I have long regretted the publicity accorded to the pieman incident—solely on the pieman's account.

"Simple Simon met a pieman,

Going to the fair."

Our family has always been noted for its straightforward simplicity. I was hungry, I was curious in pie-lore, and I made the request which I conceive any youth, bred to gracious treatment, would have made.

"Said Simple Simon to the pieman,

Let me taste your ware."

So might the Prince of Wales himself have spoken. O, sordid, oh mercenary pieman! Where was thy pride of bakery, where thy manners? Thou did'st neither feed the hungry nor wait with honest pride a meed of praise. Thine not the artist soul, thine not the joy of giving; thine, alas! but lust of pelf. What does the paltry fellow reply?

"Said the pieman to Simple Simon,

Show me first your penny."

With sorrow and scorn I gave answer candidly:

"Said Simple Simon to the pieman,

For sure I haven't any."

My simple dignity speaks for itself. A more sophisticated youth would have demanded the production of the hawker's licence.

A "Lancet" Article

A subject on which I have several times reflected is tuberculosis, and I believe that I can cure it. An account of my method and of how I hit upon it will doubtless gratify my readers.

I have always held that Nature's avenue of healing is the lips. In my youth I studied physics, and passed the Senior—or was it the Junior? Anyway, the idea came to me of disintegrating the molecules of which the bacillus or germ is composed. To be precise, I meant to grab the nitrogen out of them. Unfortunately, I recollected that there is nitrogen in the tissues as well, and I did not feel certain that I could disintegrate one without the other.

My present device is strictly scientific. Beginning with the principle that cure is to be through the lips, and that the goal is to be the elimination of the bacilli, I asked myself how they could be extracted. Not with forceps, that was clear. Then, in the course of my extensive reading I was much struck in "The English at the North Pole," with the adhesion of nails, knives, and other steel and iron ware to the magnetic pole. "What," thought I to myself, "if I were to magnetize the bacilli?" Of course, the tubercle bacilli contain no iron, but iron can be taken through the lips, and some of it would roost on the germs in passing. I followed this procedure, and then, having opened the patient's mouth to its fullest extent, dangled a magnet down the throat. On withdrawing the instrument it was found that 149,563,769 tubercles, or more than can dance on the point of a needle, adhered to it. No other treatment is necessary, though the operation needs to be performed daily (at a fee of £10 10s. per time) for twelve months. The operator should wear a mask, and should boil his face and hands thoroughly after each operation.

At the end of this time the patient will be in a very different condition from what he was before.

I tried this treatment on T.B. He was 96 years old, with a previous history of fractured skull and varicose veins. The epidermis of his nose was found to be a good deal reddened. I administered three ounces of iron, and applied the magnet. The operation was entirely successful. There is no prognosis, because the patient choked. Through what? Through the flocking of the germs to the magnet. This proves that the dose of iron was too strong. Care must be taken to prevent the magnetization of too many bacilli at the same operation.

I confidently look forward to receiving large sums for this treatment, especially if well-advertised in gullible quarters.

An Application of Psychology to Medicine

The insistent demands of Psychology (too long regarded with jealousy) to be called in to the aid of Medicine have at length been recognized. In corpore sano is an easy matter compared with mens sana. The medical man soon learns to prescribe his nostrums, and to draw up a diet which shall suit the palate of his patient; the very skilled can even hit upon the exact vintage which shall be most acceptable. The mentality is also diagnosed with as much insight as can be expected; but now the treatment is less easy to decide. The book-list proves harder than the wine-list, for here the doctor is on less familiar ground. It is at this point that the psychologist's work is of value. Disciples of Æsculapius will be glad to receive the following typical book-list communicated to us by a rising young physician of South Australia (a remote province of our Empire in the outlying parts of the Southern Hemisphere) who has used it with success.

First week of treatment.—Letting the mind down gently. Works by Ethel Dell, Gertrude Page.

Second week.—Mind to be lulled. "Just David," "Pollyanna." (In very obstinate cases, e.g., returned soldiers, "Jessica's First Prayer" and "Eric, or Little by Little" may be added.)

Third week.—Stage of acute self-pity, to be discharged by weeping over woes of others. The "Elsie" books, "The Wide, Wide, World." Confessions (anybody's).

Fourth week.—Patient needs rousing. This is a very critical period, and the psychosis of the individual must be carefully studied. No general prescription can be given, but the following suggestions are made: For elderly Methodist spinster, Victoria Cross novel (preferably that alleged to have set a bookstall alight); jaded divorcé (or divorcée), "Golden Heart Novelettes"; case of delirium tremens, Patriot, or other temperance organ. President of the Liberal Union: "Direct Action," "Sabotage." (If these fail, get him to make up his income-tax return.) Member of the I.W.W.: Probate lists; failing these, the speeches of Irvine and Hughes will be found efficacious. Doctor (difficult case, especially at night): works of Mrs. Baker-Eddy, or the present article.

Fifth week.—Patient annoyed to hear he is looking better. Mild case: Emerson's Essays (one to be taken after each meal). Obstinate case: Degree 1, the Bible; degree 2 (probably a lodge patient), advise to make peace with God, and send for a clergyman.

Sixth week.—Patient returns to his wallowing: Hegel or Bertrand Russell; Thompson or Lodge, and "Science from an Easy Chair"; "Structure and Growth" or "Psychology for Little Tots"; Wells or Charles Garvice; London Punch or The Pink 'Un; "Horner's Penny Stories" and the Sunday Circle; all according to taste.

Our National Bulletin

At Fremantle the observant academic on his travels to the Antipodes notes the rush of his Australian fellow-passengers for a large, bright pink compendium. "Ah!" he thinks to himself, "that national paper of theirs!" and at the first opportunity he purchases a copy in order to study the manners and customs of the inhabitants.

"Bai Jove!" he gasps weakly, as he opens on a huge and brutal Norman Lindsay cartoon, a quite unnecessarily unpleasant sketch by Mack or Souter, or (as The Bulletin itself might say) at the allegedly humorous caricatures of "Poverty Point," or "Sundry Shows." On the Red Page he is upset to find Looney's Shakespeare theory taken seriously, the sacred laws of punctuation explicitly and at length, but without explanation, denied, and (in "A Satchel of Books") a snub administered to E. V. Lucas, while space is devoted to analysis and appreciation of some unheard-of Australian writer. He considers the tone of the Society gossip columns "most regrettable" ("vulgar" is his word if no Australian is in earshot), and when he turns to Aboriginalities for local colour, his refined literary palate is outraged at the—the travesty on the English language which he finds. There is perhaps the story of an egg-stealing crow, "whose black nibs" carries away "bunches" of "this fruit." And the whole paper is like that! Even "Plain English!" From the number of abuses attacked, in provocative captions like "Australia for the Asiatics," "Murder at £4 11s. 3d. a Time," it appears that nothing, except perhaps an occasional piece of work by a Bulletin young man, goes right in Australia. Unless our academic is a brave man, with sound missionary instincts, he writes at once to resign his appointment. He really must refuse to herd with these callow vulgarians.

Is The Bulletin really characteristic of Australia? In the long run, and with modifications, yes. It is the one paper which every good Australian, at home or abroad, reads, and reads with gusto. It contains argument, comment, or anecdote about nearly every subject on which the Australian is interested. Its opinion may be wrong and its manner blatant, but there is never any doubt that it has an opinion, and it is never dull for a single sentence. But it is surely the reductio ad absurdum of some, as well as the highest power of other, of our characteristics. Like the comic writers of the eighteenth century, it holds the mirror up to nature—Australian nature—and its mirror is always unsentimental and sometimes distorting.

Young nations are self-confident—and so is The Bulletin; self-confident and bumptious and cock-sure. The Cheerful Cherub must certainly have had this paper in mind when he wrote:

I always envy editors
With minds both deep and bright;
They always feel so positive
That what they think is right.

Whatever the subject, when the hail of argument ceases, the pulverized reader wonders why he had not agreed to this before; or, if he still has a doubt or objection, he keeps it to himself, because obviously it is all his foolishness. Indeed that is The Bulletin attitude in every subject and in every paragraph. "It am It, and the other fellow is a fool, most probably a damned fool." The Bulletin really has convictions, too; its violence isn't entirely explained, as the psycho-analysts explain swearing, as an attempt to make up for the defects of genius by the violence of style. No, The Bulletin knows its happy-go-to-football-match average Australian; it is perfectly aware that to make him listen to reason you must (and this is the reason both for our yellow press and our stump oratory) hold him by the scruff of the neck while you shout your lesson in his ear. And so The Bulletin hits you in the eye with its red cover, and, having caught your attention, rapidly emits a brisk succession of crisp ideas, conveyed in a style of studied unexpectedness. It is terse and trenchant and clear, though no one could call it nervous or sympathetic or scholarly or refined. Those responsible have had extraordinary success in achieving uniformity of manner through all their many regular and paragraph writers. The essentials are something to say (captious for preference), and trenchancy in saying it. Probably in no other paper of its size are there fewer tiresome circumlocutions. Even Death is briskly handled. "Died last week ..." begins the paragraph. De mortuis, too, not nil nisi bonum, but whatever you like. The Bulletin doesn't think much of classical learning, and perhaps it has thrown a courteous precept or two overboard at the same time.

But the paper has a code of its own, an air of sea-green incorruptibility and impartiality, and a fearlessness in defying the conventional, which, even if it is sometimes only the aggressiveness of crudity, makes its value more than that of a succès de scandale. Politically it stands for two or three principles, which are rooted (and which it assisted to root) in Australian conviction, and for two or three others which will probably become so. It stands for a White Australia and Protection and Self-Defence; it is anti-Imperial and anti-Party and anti-Hughes, but no one can doubt that it is always and wholly pro-Australian. It is the critic of all parties, with an opinion as far removed from stick-in-the-mud Liberalism as it is from the Party that Declines to Work. Its treatment of Royalty is probably characteristic of the bulk of Australians. It wishes us to understand that it holds no brief for Royalty, but that it likes and respects "the Princelet" for himself, and wishes it could rescue him from the pitiful efforts at entertainment of the vulgar Sassiety and official classes. "Refer to us for information on Teddy's tastes. Young Windsor and we are pals," it rather patronizingly suggests. Imagine H.R.H. having a Bulletin and Bohemian good time with Harrison O. and Henry Horsecollar and Pat O'Maori and the rest! (Though occasionally one wonders whether they live in so hectic a Bohemia as they would have us believe.) For the pompous and the stupid they have no pity; to Gaud Mayors and Gaud Mayoresses and Gent Helps they mete out treatment savage or contemptuous, according to the degree of offence. Pitiless publicity and offensive epithet are The Bulletin's ungenerous treatment of inexperience and human weakness alike with incompetence and considered roguery and political opposition.

The aspiring Australian inevitably submits his literary productions to The Bulletin. Its frank and wholesome judgments are what he wants. Its reviews of literary works are in accordance with the best typically Australian opinion, though in its admiration for the vigorous and the original and the characteristic it fails to appreciate some of the fundamentally sound and admirable achievement which the conventional often represents. The sound discipline it imposes upon writers of verse is in striking contrast with this. In prose, too, of course, it insists on grammatical English, but scholarship, and much that scholarship implies, are alien to The Bulletin (and to the young Australian?) temperament. It is so much easier and more flattering to ignorance to assume that mere common-sense can take precedence of intelligence which is instructed and disciplined. In noticing a work on sociology, ostentatiously to give its author—and one so well known—as "a" Professor J. J. Findlay, is a perverse and provincial parade of ignorance and detachment which discredit the writer. A reviewer should at least know the literature and personnel of his subject.

The Bulletin is full of energy and character and youth. Like youth, in its horror of being Wowserish it assumes a bold bad air, but fundamentally it has the wholesomeness as well as the intolerance of youth. With the passage of years perhaps its intolerance and its slang will wear off together, for most of us do not want to see the rise of a mongrel Australian tongue akin to the worst kind of Americanese. It deals with everything from sport to business, from literature to politics, and all with an absence of qualm as to its ability that of itself inspires confidence. That it excludes certain types of writer is no reproach, for unity requires selection. Despite the following imaginary list, the present writer is graciously pleased to admit that he for one would not like to do without his weekly Bulletin.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

Elia: Using "Roast Pig"; returning "Dream Children" and "Poor Relations" for decent burial.... R.L.S.: Yarn has the right stuff in it. Keep on.... "Paradise Lost": Send a couple of bullock drays for the M.S. What's it all about, anyway?... Walt Whitman: You can't get away with that verse, not in this paper.... A.A.M.: Joke feeble. You might try it on London Punch.... Alice Meynell: What do we care about your blooming kids?... Sage of Chelsea: Got a grouch about something, haven't you? Work it off on the woodheap.... Walter Pater: Take it away.... Robert B.: Just misses being a shocking example.... Bagehot: Laodicean stuff not in our line. For Gawsake lose your temper sometimes.... Bernard Partridge: Drawing accurate, but not enough kick in the figures. So the holy lady with the wings is Peace, is she?... W.W.:

"A primrose by the river's brim,
A simple primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more."

Beats us what more it ought to have been—two primroses? Our Temperance Editor protests.

Nigger

I.

Master was away all the afternoon; it was very dull. He did not come back in the evening. Nigger was uneasy. Once during the night he slipped his chain and went in search.

"Perhaps he'll be in when I get back," he thought hopefully.

And later: "He's sure to be here for breakfast."

But he wasn't.

Nigger searched every room and sniffed the furniture. No master. Nigger was lonely. He cuddled up on the forbidden cushions of the garden-seat with Simonette, waiting for master to come whizzing round the corner. He opened an eye at a noisy cycle, and cocked his ear for a motor. He trotted up the drive, he wheeled sharply round to the stables, he cut back, barking, to master's room. No master.

After a little dejected self-examination Nigger paid a rapid visit to several rabbit-holes. Whatever the strain, duty must be done. He came back to be comforted.

"I know," he yapped joyously, "he's afraid to come home; he's hiding behind a tree."

But he wasn't.

"Then I darn well hope," snapped Nigger, "that they'll shut him up for a day when he does turn up." He sighed heavily.

But they didn't. They shut Nigger up instead.

II.

The sun shone on the pale sodden summer grass, and the raindrops on the trees glistened. The clouds were rolling back over the plain and the sea. Nigger wanted a walk. He danced down the drive, and looked back to see if anyone were following. No one. Nigger wagged his tail and tried again. The invitation was ignored. Nigger drooped his tail (what there was of it) and came back.

Simonette got her coat; Nigger wagged; an umbrella; Nigger sprang into the air and spun round and round and barked. Simonette would indicate the general direction of the walk, and he, Nigger, could introduce all the variety. Simonette went over the hill; so did Nigger—and right and left, too; he knew all the best rabbit-holes.

But Simonette heard him tell little kennel-bound Kiwi, "Oh, just a middling walk. Better than nothing, of course. But if only a man had been here...!"

And since master came back Nigger hasn't even spoken to Simonette.

Miscellaneous

The Queen City of the South

Writers about the Old World can take so much for granted. Even the Colonial knows what to expect when the scene is laid in Tooting, Maida Vale, or the Boul' Mich'. He is intimate with some of the geographical details, and with the social atmosphere of very different parts of London and Paris. Regent Street, Clapham Junction, and the Edgeware Road are as atmospheric for him as the Domain and Toorak. The writer of the New World has no such advantage. He cannot be certain that even the names of his capital cities will be recognized, and he knows that few readers abroad (abroad, for him, is the Northern Hemisphere) will care to learn even the general outlines of God-knows-what insignificant citylet. Yet Australian States and cities, nay, the very suburbs, are almost as broadly distinct and as superficially varied as anything in the Old World, even though they are not as mellow or as complex; and our citizens are as much moulded by their surroundings.

Some years ago Foster Fraser tried to help us out as he whizzed through each capital. Thus he labelled Sydney "for pleasure," Melbourne "for business," and Adelaide "for culture." But Adelaide is the only city that is satisfied with his judgment. All six capitals bridle with pleasure when "the Queen City of the South" is mentioned, which, as any South Australian will tell you, is absurd; every unbiassed person knows that the phrase is only a descriptive variant for Adelaide.

The only superiority freely accorded to Adelaide by her sister cities is that of piety. The reason is partly the number of her churches, but far more, I think, a malicious disinclination to let drop the legend of our mayor who veiled with decent calico our Venus and our Hercules. Some of our many later statues more rightly bring a blush to the aesthetic cheek of the young person, but not, alas, because they are unclad.

South Australia is a long, narrow State running down the middle of the continent from the centre to the sea, from which, and her port, Adelaide is not seven miles distant. The cattle tracks of the dry, hot (and cold) Far North, and all the railways through the wheat and sheep and copper areas, and all good roads everywhere, lead towards Adelaide. That Queen City herself lies like a jewel on the broad and beautiful plain, in the bend of the arm of hills which sweep inland from the shore. The heart of it is a square mile of broad streets intersecting at right angles, bound by gardened terraces, and secured from the rough jostling and elbowing of the suburbs by broad belts of park land sacred to browsing cows and horses, cricket, tennis, football, and bowls. East Terrace has specialized in markets, for it lies nearest the hills and the vegetable gardens; West Terrace faces the monuments and the sad little mounds of a cemetery. Within these confines are five tree-shaded lawns where children may play, and seats for those who choose to watch the gay flower-beds. To the south are crowded streets and populous lanes, lined mainly with dwellings; to the middle and north business has developed.

Three or four shopping streets for womenkind, ten or twelve streets of offices for men, and some of warehouses and factories, are so far enough for this hub of the State. King William Street bisects it from north to south, lined with banks and shops and huge hotels (huge for us, you know), and cutting it at right angles is Rundle Street, a kind of Drapers' Row. Next to Rundle Street, and parallel with it, is North Terrace, where the chambers of doctors and dentists intermingle with warehouses. The Terrace is broad and treed and gardened like a boulevard, and even along its garden and pedestrian side buildings have been allowed. Here are the Railway Station and Parliament House, and, east of King William Street, Government House behind its palm trees and lawns, the Public Reading Rooms and Library, the Art Gallery, the University, and the big Exhibition Building, which forms one entrance to an Oval and Showground. Still further east is the long red-bricked General Hospital, with its wide, shady lawn, and the ironwork entrance to the lovely Botanic Gardens.

At the back of all these, between sloping banks of grass and flowers, flows the Torrens. There is a little embarrassment about showing our river to visitors, lest they should wish to row too far west or east, and we South Australians do not care to expose our limitations to dwellers on Thameside. The fact is that our river has to be carefully saved up and dammed back for the purpose, and once a year we empty it for excavation and repairs. Some precisians call it a lake—an artificial lake. One midwinter, when the mud-banks gleamed grey and slimy, and only a narrow trickle forced a way along the middle of the bed, we were subjected to civic humiliation. The Governor-General announced a hasty and unpremeditated visit. Every effort was made to fill the Torrens against his Excellency's arrival, but despite all that man could do we had to hurry the representative of majesty past a very meagre stream.

This north end of the city is undoubtedly the loveliest. Here the line of lower roofs is broken by towers and spires and miniature sky-scrapers rising above the quaint architecture of a cruder time and art. And it is over this north end of the city, with its corrugated sky-line, its river and its lawns, that the slender Cathedral looks, standing on a hill above churches and houses whose bases are lost in greenery. East and south are pretty suburbs where each house stands in its own garden, but only in North Adelaide are the homes so spacious, so serene, so certain of their beauty and their fitness. Oddly enough, this retreat of wealth and leisure has for western neighbour the region where the gas and soap and bricks are made, where hides are tanned and laundry work is done. But then North Adelaide holds up her skirts with jewelled hands and stands clear of the squalor of Bowden and Hindmarsh by a whole park width.

When electric cars were brought to Adelaide the Municipal Tramways Trust had the humorous notion, or perhaps it was only the business instinct, fortified by democratic principle, of whizzing the North Adelaide cars down the hill and round to Bowden. And so pretty misses with books or racquets or clubs rub shoulders with stout old parties laden with string bags and parcels, and dingy women are bitterly amused when their grubby offspring wipe their boots on the dresses of remote and silken ladies. The fastidious gaze reluctantly on the lashless, pink-lidded outdoor patients, on the monstrous and deformed. Oh, the classes meet the masses in the Hill Street car!

A Literature in the Making

Criticism often seems presumptuous, yet until we have examined and weighed, how can we set a price—appreciate? For us who are but amateurs, and who have taken our growth in a province, the attempt to fix the price (as against assessing the value for us, which is always legitimate, for it reveals our own position rather than the subject's) of the great writers of the world is true presumption; our legitimate training in criticism we get by exercising our discrimination on our unfortunate contemporaries and compeers, the not-yet, the perhaps not-to-be, acclaimed.

In 1916, G. Hassell & Son published a small brown pocket volume, "Poems, Real and Imaginative," by M. R. Walker. Like so many other little books between 1914 and 1919, it was intended to aid the funds of the Red Cross; unlike, on the other hand, so many of its companions, it really deserved for its own sake the sympathetic attention of all literary Australians. The Bulletin was rather off-handed with the little stranger, for The Bulletin, hardy parent that it is, often favours the lusty, the clamorous, even the violent and rude, more than the child with the low, sweet voice; but there must have been many who pondered the twenty-four sets of verses in the wee book, for it ran into a second edition.

It has been out long enough now for us to estimate it impartially.

Not a mine of pure gold, it is good enough to be mistaken for such by the uncritical, bad enough to have its qualities entirely overlooked by the supercilious. All is very fair verse, bits are true poetry; but perhaps no piece, however short, is pure poetry throughout.

The topics are the simple, natural, age-old topics of the poet—the sea and the moon and the mountains, love, friendship, and country. Of these Miss Walker is most adequate to the first group, to "Sea Pictures," "A June Evening," "To the Ouse." Read this fragment of blank verse from "Half-moon Bay":—

High overhead
The forest stretching to the seven peaks
Is beautiful in slopes of wilding gum,
Wattle, and box. The sad shea-oaks,
Huddled together down a windy ridge,
Whisper their troublous sighing to the waves
A thousand feet below.
The coves and inlets of the circling bay
Are floored with giant pebbles, and the wash
Goes sweeping up the deep rock-riven cracks
To break in shallows on the level ledge,
And drop again in sparkling waterfall.

The felicities of picture and of sound in this are typical of her art, but it misses the sunshine and open-air buoyancy of "At Maria Island."

Oh the yellow broom is growing
On the sand-banks by the sea,
And the breezes blowing, blowing,
Mingle with the waters' flowing
In a haunting melody.

There the gulls are rising, falling,
To the heaving of the tide,
Listen to them calling, calling,
To the fishermen a-hauling
Nets, out where the schooners ride.

Perhaps "At Maria Island" comes nearest to maintaining throughout the same technical level, and the same trend of theme. A short and convenient instance of the vague but disconcerting shifting of the direction of the thought, and a certain incompleteness or fragmentariness, that characterize most of the pieces, is "Sea Pictures."

Know you the swinging of wild water after storm,

The racing breeze that sings along the sand,

And rocks, deep-flung, where sea-birds love to swarm,

Wave-weary for the land?

There are fair nights in summer on the sea,
And moonlight falling gentlier on the waves
Than echo's sighs, borne back again to me
From dim, sea-haunted caves.

Here the thought does not march from one verse to the next; rather there is a turning away from the question that links poet and reader in eager sympathy, to a mood of brooding, personal reminiscence. In "Blue" the jerkiness is conscious, and is covered by a conceit impossible to the serious poetic mood. In "There is a Land" it manifests itself as obscurity. Poetry is in the air, but the poet cannot freely draw breath. In the eighteen lines of this poem are examples of nearly all Miss Walker's qualities; there is inspiration, but inadequately expressed, a passionate clutching at a meaning that eludes the words, and comes out rather baldly, as in the line,

Ah Death; and some pass on, that know not and are blind.

There is technical failure—and technical felicity.

... the soul
Cries to the silence with a living cry—
A whisper that goes by upon the wind,
A breaking wave upon some lonely shore,
The list'ning hush of mountains in the dawn,
And lo! the Voice! An echo in the soul!
And then—the level stillness of the days.

The irregularity in the pulse of the thought is found also in some constructions which, though grammatical, are unexpected and not at first obvious, where, for instance, we were expecting one object to be described, and find that the epithet applies to another, the thought having moved on; it is also reflected in a technique so frequent as to become a mannerism:—

... a Voice

Calling unto its own, that, oft, the soul ...

As sullen seas that, sweeping o'er some reef ...

Where, low, the boobyallas keep....

These halts and returns would not be noticed in longer poems, or in the poems read separately; but the ear of the student begins to wait for them, as it does for some inevitable voice-pauses at line-endings where the meaning should trip on.

... tree-guarded from the light

Flinging its wide farewell across the sky.

(This also is an instance of the unexpected construction referred to above; we are expecting a further description of "deep wells of shade," what we get is an adjectival clause about "light"; perhaps it is the voice-pause that gives this feeling and sends us back again upon our construing.)

... the fishermen a-hauling

Nets,

in the quotation above also pulls us up with a jerk.

There are other tricks of manner that grow monotonous. "O Moon," "O Son of Essex," "Ah, Love," "Ah, Death," "Oh have you ever stood alone to watch ..." Apostrophe and exclamation so reiterated point to poverty of expression, to a labouring to say what cannot get itself said. And there are commonplace lines, prose in metre—

O moon, that risest now, how beautiful thou art.

Poor little girl, you did not wish to die.

Perhaps there is bathos—

A little, wandering, broken-hearted child.

But not all this can do away with the many triumphs, the recurrent charms for eye and ear—

Thy waters washing into shallow pools ...

... a moorèd boat

Asway upon the idle-swinging tide ...

The islands to the north were bathed in sleep,

Their cliffs stood out in sunshine to the sea,

Only the murmur, murmur, of the waves,

Broke the long silence unto you and me.

The songs and the scenes and the thought are not joyous. Beauty of nature, and loves of friends, or man and maid, induce wistful thoughts. The sadness may be explicit—

But in the days, ay me! the empty days,
The long, long days that lead to no fireside,
Philosophy's a thing to call a friend,
To hold to, and to cherish, lest one fail,
Afraid before the vista of the years.

Or it may sigh itself out in falling cadence, as in the song on page 24, where what should be a sigh of ecstacy falls on the ear like a foreboding. But the melancholy is never morbid. It may be hopeless, but it is resigned and controlled and quietly courageous.

Australia is too young to produce great poetry, for that never blossoms from unacclimatized minds. But the necessary conditions are gradually emerging. Australians are increasingly in sympathy with their country and its qualities: its sunlight, its seas and mountains and plains and deserts, its sheep and its wheat and forests and minerals, are all giving out their emanations into the mental medium where poetry forms; there, too, our traditions are being made or absorbed. We have not yet the plethora of elements from which the great poetic souls take shape, but crystals more or less characteristic are being precipitated from such material as there is. Those of to-day may be small and cloudy and faultily-shapen, but they presage a beauty and a perfection in the poetry of the future.

G. HASSELL & SON.
PRINTERS & PUBLISHERS,
CURRIE ST., ADELAIDE.

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Table of Contents

- Petunia Again
- PREFACE.
- CONTENTS

- Petunia Again

- Welcome
- The Backblocks
- The Aeroplane
- From the Chinese
- Adopting Emily
- Twocott
- A Country Writer
- The Hypnotist
- Tin Lizzie
- The Show
- The Haircut
- Scipio
- Bill Boundy
- An Angry Man
- Alcibiades
- News
- Amusing Daisy
- Obiit
- The Drought

- The Works of Simple Simon, LL.D., D.Litt., Ph.D., M.B., B.S.

- An Emendation
- A Protest
- A "Lancet" Article
- An Application of Psychology to Medicine
- Our National Bulletin

- Nigger

- I.

- II.

- Miscellaneous

- The Queen City of the South

- A Literature in the Making

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE