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Little Bush Maid, A

<h2> CHAPTER VII. WHAT NORAH FOUND </h2> Norah, meanwhile, had been feeling somewhat "out of things." It was really more than human nature could be expected to bear that she should remain on the log with the three boys, while Jim told amazing yarns about her. Still it was decidedly lonesome in the jutting root of the old tree, looking fixedly at the water, in which placidly lay a float that had apparently forgotten that the first duty of a float is to bob. Jim's voice, murmuring along in his lengthy recital, came to her softly, and she could see from her perch the interested faces of the two others. It mingled drowsily with the dull drone of bees in the ti-tree behind her, and presently Norah, to her disgust, found that she was growing drowsy too. "This won't do!" she reflected, shaking herself. "If I go to sleep and tumble off this old root I'll startle away all the fish in the creek." She looked doubtfully at the still water, now and then rippled by the splash of a leaping fish. "No good when they jump like that," said Norah to herself. "I guess I'll go and explore." She wound up her line quickly, and flung her bait to the lazy inhabitants of the creek as a parting gift. Then, unnoticed by the boys, she scrambled out of the tree and climbed up the bank, getting her blue riding-skirt decidedly muddy—not that Norah's free and independent soul had ever learned to tremble at the sight of muddy garments. She hid her fishing tackle in a stump, and made her way along the bank. A little farther up she came across black Billy—a very cheerful aboriginal, seeing that he had managed to induce no less than nine blackfish to leave their watery bed. "Oh, I say!" said Norah, round-eyed and envious. "How do you manage it, Billy? We can't catch one." Billy grinned. He was a youth of few words. "Plenty bob-um float," he explained lucidly. "Easy 'nuff. You try." "No, thanks," said Norah, though she hesitated for a moment. "I'm sick of trying—and I've no luck. Going to cook 'em for dinner, Billy?" "Plenty!" assented Billy vigorously. It was his favourite word, and meant almost anything, and he rarely used another when he could make it suffice. "That's a good boy," said Norah, approvingly, and black eighteen grinned from ear to ear with pleasure at the praise of twelve-year-old white. "I'm going for a walk, Billy. Tell Master Jim to coo-ee when lunch is ready." "Plenty," said Billy intelligently. Norah turned from the creek and entered the scrub. She loved the bush, and was never happier than when exploring its recesses. A born bushmaid, she had never any difficulty about finding her way in the scrub, or of retracing her steps. The faculty of bushmanship must be born in you; if you have it not naturally, training very rarely gives it. She rambled on aimlessly, noting, though scarcely conscious that she did so, the bush sights and scenes on either hand—clinging creepers and twining plants, dainty ferns, nestling in hollow trees, clusters of maidenhair under logs; pheasants that hopped noiselessly in the shade, and a wallaby track in some moist, soft earth. Once she saw a carpet snake lying coiled in a tussock and, springing for a stick, she ran at it, but the snake was too quick for her and she was only in time to hit at its tail as it whisked down a hole. Norah wandered on, feeling disgusted with herself. Suddenly she stopped in amazement. She was on the edge of a small clear space, at the farther side of which was a huge blue-gum tree. Tall trees ringed it round, and the whole space was in deep shade. Norah stood rooted to the ground in surprise. For at the foot of the big blue-gum was a strange sight, in that lonely place. It was nothing more or less than a small tent. The flap of the tent was down, and there were no inhabitants to be seen; but all about were signs of occupation. A well-blackened billy hung from the ridge-pole. Close to the tent was a heap of dry sticks, and a little farther away the ashes of a fire still smouldered, and over them a blackened bough, supported by two forked sticks, showed that the billy had many times been boiled there. The little camp was all very neat and tidy. "It looks quite home-like," said Norah to herself. As she watched, the flap of the tent was raised, and a very old man came out. He was so tall that he had to bend almost double in stooping under the canvas of the low tent. A queer old man, Norah thought him, as she drew back instinctively into the shadow of the trees. When he straightened himself he was wonderfully tall—taller even than Dad, who was over six feet. He wore no hat, and his hair and beard were very long, and as white as snow. Under bushy white eyebrows, a pair of bright blue eyes twinkled. Norah decided that they were nice eyes. But he certainly was queer. His clothes would hardly have passed muster in Collins Street, and would even have attracted attention in Cunjee. He was dressed entirely in skins—wallaby skins, Norah guessed, though there was an occasional section that looked like 'possum. They didn't look bad, either, she thought—a kind of sleeved waistcoat, and loose trousers, that were met at the knee by roughly-tanned gaiters, or leggings. Still, the whole effect was startling. The old man walked across to his fire and, kneeling down, carefully raked away the ashes. Then he drew out a damper—Norah had never seen one before, but she knew immediately that it was a damper. It looked good, too—nicely risen, and brown, and it sent forth a fragrance that was decidedly appetizing. The old man looked pleased "Not half bad!" he said aloud, in a wonderfully deep voice, which sounded so amazing in the bush silence that Norah fairly jumped. The old man raked the ashes together again, and placed some sticks on them, after which he brought over the billy, and hung it above the fire to boil. The fire quickly broke into a blaze, and he picked up the damper again, and walked slowly back to the tent, where he paused to blow the dust from the result of his cookery. At this moment Norah became oppressed with a wild desire to sneeze. She fought against it frantically, nearly choking in her efforts to remain silent, while she wildly explored in her pockets for a nonexistent handkerchief. As the water bursts from the dam the more violently because of its imprisonment, so Norah's sneeze gained intensity and uproar from her efforts to repress it. It came— "A—tish—oo—oo!" The old man started violently. He dropped his damper and gazed round. "What on earth's that?" he said. "Who's there?" For a moment Norah hesitated. Should she run for her life? But a second's thought showed her no real reason why she should run. She was not in the least frightened, for it never occurred to Norah that anyone could wish to hurt her; and she had done nothing to make him angry. So she modestly emerged from behind a friendly tree and said meekly, "It's me." "'Me', is it?" said the old man, in great astonishment. He stared hard at the little figure in the blue blouse and serge riding-skirt—at the merry face and the dark curls crowned by the shady Panama hat. "'Me '," he repeated. "'Me' looks rather nice, I think. But what's she doing here?" "I was looking at you," Norah exclaimed. "I won't be unpolite enough to mention that a cat may look at a king," said the old man. "But don't you know that no one comes here? No young ladies in blue dresses and brown curls—only wombats and wallabies, and ring-tailed 'possums—and me. Not you—me, but me—me! How do you account for being here?" Norah laughed. She decided that she liked this very peculiar old man, whose eyes twinkled so brightly as he spoke. "But I don't think you know," she said. "Quite a lot of other people come here—this is Anglers' Bend. At least, Anglers' Bend's quite close to your camp. Why, only, to-day there's Jim and the boys, and black Billy, and me! We're not wallabies!" "Jim—and the boys—and black Billy—and me!" echoed the old man faintly. "Angels and ministers of grace, defend us! And I thought I had found the back of beyond, where I would never see anyone more civilized than a bunyip! But—I've been here for three months, little lady, and have never come across anyone. Are you sure you're quite serious?" "Quite," Norah answered. "Perhaps it was that no one came across you, you know, because people really do come here to fish. Dad and I camp here sometimes, but we haven't been for more than three months." "Well, I must move, that's all," said the old man. "I do like quiet—it's annoying enough to have to dress up and go into a township now and then for stores. How do you like my clothes, by the way? I may as well have a feminine opinion while I have the chance." "Did you make them yourself?" asked Norah. "Behold how she fences!" said the old man. "I did indeed!" "Then they do you proud!" said Norah solemnly. The old man laughed. "I shall prize your expression of opinion," he said. "May I ask the name of my visitor?" "I'm Norah. Please who are you?" "That's a different matter," said the other, looking nonplussed. "I certainly had a name once, but I've quite forgotten it. I have an excellent memory for forgetting. Would you think I was a bunyip? I'd be delighted if you could!" "I couldn't." Norah shook her head. "But I'll tell you what I think you are." "Do." "A hermit!" The old man's face cleared. "My dear Miss Norah," he said, "you've made a profound discovery. I am—I am—a hermit! Thank you very much. Being a hermit my resources are scanty, but may I hope that you will have lunch with me? "I can't, I'm afraid," said Norah, looking affectionately at the damper. "The boys will be looking for me, if I don't go back. Listen—there's Jim coo-eeing now!" "And who may Jim be?" queried the Hermit, a trifle uneasily. "Jim's my brother," Norah said. "He's fifteen, and he's just splendid. Harry and Wally are his two chums." "Coo-ee! Coo-ee!" Norah answered the call quickly and turned to the Hermit, feeling a little apologetic. "I had to call," she explained—"Jim would be anxious. They want me for lunch." She hesitated. "Won't you come too?" she asked timidly. "I haven't eaten with my fellow-men for more time than I'd care to reckon," said the Hermit. "I don't know—will they let me alone afterwards? Are they ordinary abominable boys?" "Indeed, they're not!" said Norah indignantly. "They won't come near you at all, if you don't want them—but I know they'd be pleased if you came. Do!" "Coo-ee!" "Jim's getting impatient, isn't he?" said the Hermit. "Well, Miss Norah, if you'll excuse my attire I'll come. Shall I bring my damper?" "Oh, please!" Norah cried. "We've never tasted damper." "I wish I hadn't," said the Hermit grimly. He picked up the fallen cake. "Let us away!" he said. "The banquet waits!" During their walk through the scrub it occurred to Norah once or twice to wonder if her companion were really a little mad. He said such extraordinary things, all in the most matter-of-fact tone—but when she looked up at him his blue eyes twinkled so kindly and merrily that she knew at once he was all right, and she was quite certain that she liked him very much. The boys were getting impatient. Lunch was ready, and when lunch has been prepared by Mrs. Brown, and supplemented by fresh blackfish, fried over a camp fire by black Billy, it is not a meal to be kept waiting. They were grouped round the table-cloth, in attitudes more suggestive of ease than elegance, when Norah and her escort appeared, and for once their manners deserted them. They gaped in silent amazement. "Boys, this is The Hermit," said Norah, rather nervously. "I—I found him. He has a camp. He's come to lunch." "I must apologize for my intrusion, I'm afraid," the Hermit said. "Miss Norah was good enough to ask me to come. I—I've brought my damper!" He exhibited the article half shyly, and the boys recovered themselves and laughed uncontrollably. Jim sprang to his feet. The Hermit's first words had told him that this was no common swagman that Norah had picked up. "I'm very glad to see you, sir," he said, holding out his hand. "Thank you," said the Hermit gravely. "You're Jim, aren't you? And I conclude that this gentleman is Harry, and this Wally? Ah, I thought so. Yes, I haven't seen so many people for ages. And black Billy! How are you Billy?" Billy retreated in great embarrassment. "Plenty!" he murmured. Everybody laughed again. "Well," Jim said, "we're hungry, Norah. I hope you and—er—this gentleman are." Jim was concealing his bewilderment like a hero. "Won't you sit down and sample Billy's blackfish? He caught 'em all—we couldn't raise a bite between us—barring Wally's boot!" "Did you catch a boot?" queried the Hermit of the blushing Wally. "Mine, I think—I can't congratulate you on your luck! If you like, after lunch, I'll show you a place where you could catch fish, if you only held the end of your finger in the water!" "Good enough!" said Jim. "Thanks, awfully—we'll be jolly glad. Come on, Billy—trot out your frying-pan!" Lunch began rather silently. In their secret hearts the boys were rather annoyed with Norah. "Why on earth," Jim reflected, "couldn't she have left the old chap alone? The party was all right without him—we didn't want any one else—least of all an odd oddity like this." And though the other boys were loyal to Norah, she certainly suffered a fall in their estimation, and was classed for the moment with the usual run of "girls who do rummy things." However, the Hermit was a man of penetration and soon realized the state of the social barometer. His hosts, who did not look at all like quiet boys, were eating their blackfish in perfect silence, save for polite requests for bread or pepper, or the occasional courteous remark, "Chuck us the salt!" Accordingly the Hermit exerted himself to please, and it would really have taken more than three crabby boys to resist him. He told the drollest stories, which sent everyone into fits of laughter, although he never laughed himself at all; and he talked about the bush, and told them of the queer animals he saw—having, as he said, unusually good opportunities for watching the bush inhabitants unseen. He knew where the lyrebirds danced, and had often crept silently through the scrub until he could command a view of the mound where these strange birds strutted and danced, and mimicked the other birds with life-like fidelity. He loved the birds very much, and never killed any of them, even when a pair of thievish magpies attacked his larder and pecked a damper into little bits when he was away fishing. Many of the birds were tame with him now, he said; they would hop about the camp and let him feed them; and he had a carpet snake that was quite a pet, which he offered to show them—an offer that broke down the last tottering barriers of the boys' reserve. Then there were his different methods of trapping animals, some of which were strange even to Jim, who was a trapper of much renown. "Don't you get lonely sometimes?" Norah asked him. The Hermit looked at her gravely. "Sometimes," he said. "Now and then one feels that one would give something to hear a human voice again, and to feel a friend's hand-grip. Oh, there are times, Miss Norah, when I talk to myself—which is bad—or yarn to old Turpentine, my snake, just to hear the sound of words again. However, when these bad fits come upon me I know it's a sign that I must get the axe and go and chop down sufficient trees to make me tired. Then I go to sleep, and wake up quite a cheerful being once more!" He hesitated. "And there's one thing," he said slowly—"though it may be lonely here, there is no one to trouble you; no one to treat you badly, to be ungrateful or malicious; no bitter enemies, and no false friends, who are so much worse than enemies. The birds come and hop about me, and I know that it is because I like them and have never frightened them; old Turpentine slides his ugly head over my knees, and I know he doesn't care a button whether I have any money in my pocket, or whether I have to go out into the scrub to find my next meal! And that's far, far more than you can say of most human beings!" He looked round on their grave faces, and smiled for the first time. "This is uncommonly bad behaviour in a guest," he said cheerily. "To come to lunch, and regale one's host and hostess with a sermon! It's too bad. I ask your forgiveness, young people, and please forget all I said immediately. No, Miss Norah, I won't have any damper, thank you—after a three months' course of damper one looks with joy once more on bread. If Wally will favour me—I think the correct phrase is will you 'chuck me the butter?'"—whereat Wally "chucked" as desired, and the meal proceeded merrily. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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