ly I am, auntie, so that he will carry
apples twelve miles on his own responsibility, and when he sees me won't
he vexed that all his work has been for nothing. Perhaps, though, it
would be better not to describe me, or I will get no more apples," I
would reply.

Aunt Helen was a clever needlewoman. She made all grannie's dresses and
her own. Now she was making some for me, which, however, I was not to see
until I wore them. Aunt Helen had this as a pleasant surprise, and went
to the trouble of blindfolding me while I was being fitted. While in bed,
grannie and auntie being busy, I was often left hours alone, and during
that time devoured the contents of my bookshelf.

The pleasure, so exquisite as to be almost pain, which I derived from the
books, and especially the Australian poets, is beyond description. In the
narrow peasant life of Possum Gully I had been deprived of companionship
with people of refinement and education who would talk of the things I
loved; but, at last here was congeniality, here was companionship.

The weird witchery of mighty bush, the breath of wide sunlit plains, the
sound of camp-bells and jingle of hobble chains, floating on the soft
twilight breezes, had come to these men and had written a tale on their
hearts as had been written on mine. The glory of the starlit heavens, the
mighty wonder of the sea, and the majesty of thunder had come home to
them, and the breathless fulness of the sunset hour had whispered of
something more than the humour of tomorrow's weather. The wind and rain
had a voice which spoke to Kendall, and he too had endured the misery of
lack of companionship. Gordon, with his sad, sad humanism and bitter
disappointment, held out his hand and took me with him. The regret of it
all was I could never meet them--Byron, Thackeray, Dickens, Longfellow,
Gordon, Kendall, the men I loved, all were dead; but, blissful thought!
Caine, Paterson, and Lawson were still living, breathing human beings--two
of them actually countrymen, fellow Australians!

I pored with renewed zeal over the terse realism and pathos of Lawson,
and enjoyed Paterson's redolence of the rollicking side of the wholesome
life beneath these sunny skies, which he depicted with grand touches of
power flashing here and there. I learnt them by heart, and in that
gloriously blue receptacle, by and by, where many pleasant youthful
dreams are stowed, I put the hope that one day I would clasp hands with
them, and f