# In Bad Company, and other Stories/A Mountain Forest

A MOUNTAIN FOREST
Excepting perhaps the ocean, nothing in Nature is more deceitful than a mountain forest. Last time we crossed through snow, enveloped in mist and drenched with pitiless rain. Now, no one could think evil hap could chance to the wayfarer here—so dry the forest paths, so blue the sky, so bright the scene, so soft the whispering breeze. The shadows of the great trees fall on the emerald sward, tempering the ardent sun-rays. Flickers of light dance in the thickets, and laugh at the stern solemnity of the endless groves. Bird-calls are frequent and joyous. We might be roaming in the Forest of Arden, and meet a 'stag of ten' in the glade, for any hint to the contrary. Forest memories come into our heads as we stride merrily along the winding track. Robin Hood and his merry men, Friar Tuck and Little John! Oh, fountain of chivalry! How indissolubly a forest life in the glad summer days seems bound up with deeds of high emprise; how linked with the season of love and joy, hope and pride, with a sparkle of the cup of that divinest life-essence, youthful pleasure.
'Here shall he fear no enemy,
But winter and rough weather.'
As we thus carol somewhat loudly, we are aware of a man standing motionless, regarding us, not far from a gate, humorously supposed to restrain the stock in these somewhat careless-ordered enclosures. Ha! what if he be a robber? We have been 'stuck up' ere now, and mislike the operation. He has something in his hand too. May it be a 'shooting-iron,' as the American idiom runs?
We continue to sing, however,
'Viator vacuus coram latronem.'
​Our treasury consists of half-a-sovereign and an old watch, a new hat and a clean shirt—what matter if he levy on these? He has a dog, however,—that is a good sign. Bushrangers rarely travel with dogs. And the weapon is a stick. Ha! it is well. Only an official connected with the railway line, awaiting the mailman. We interchange courtesies, and are invited to the camp with proffer of hospitality. We feel compelled to decline. We may not halt by any wayside arbour.
We reach St. Bago Hospice at Laurel Hill before lunch time. Sixteen miles over a road not too smooth. Really, we have performed the stage with ridiculous ease. We are half tempted to go on to Tumut; but twenty-eight miles seems a longish step. Let us not be imprudently enthusiastic. We decide to remain. The hospice has put on a summer garb, and is wholly devoid of snowballs or other wintry emblems. The great laurel, the noble elm, the hawthorn, are in full leaf and flower. The orchard trees are greenly budding. At the spring well in the creek five crimson lories are drinking. They stand on a tray, so to speak, of softest emerald moss, walking delicately; all things tell of summer.
During the afternoon, so fresh did we feel that we took a stroll of five miles, and visited the nearest farmer. As we stepped along the red-soiled path, amid the immense timber, we realised the surroundings of the earlier American settlers. Hawk-eye might have issued from the ti-tree thicket by the creek and chuckled in his noiseless manner, while he rested la longue carabine on a fallen log. Uncas and Chingachgook would, of course, have turned up shortly afterwards.
The tiny creek speeds swiftly onward over ancient gold-washings and abandoned sluice channels. Tracks of that queer animal the wombat (Phascolomys) near his burrows and galleries are frequent. His habitat is often near the sea, but here is proof that he can accommodate himself to circumstances. Easily-excavated soil like this red loam is necessary for his comfort apparently. Ferns are not objected to. Our host at Bago informed us that one dull winter's evening he observed two animals coming towards him through the bush. He took them to be pigs, until, shooting with both right and ​left barrels, they turned out to be wombats. He had happened to be near their burrow, to which they always make if disturbed. In confirmation of this statement he presented me with a skin—dark brown in colour—with long coarse hair, something between that of a dog and a kangaroo. The thick hide covers the body in loose folds. The dogs become aware by experience that, on account of its thickness and slippery looseness, it is vain to attempt capture of a wombat. Retreating to his burrow, he scratches earth briskly into his opponent's mouth and eyes until he desists. One peculiarity of this underground animal is, that the eyes are apparently protected by a movable eyebrow, which, in the form of a small flap of skin, shuts over the indispensable organ.
We are politely received at the selector's house. A few cattle are kept; pigs and poultry abound. The father and son 'work in the creek' for gold, when the water is low, and thus supplement the family earnings. Clearing is too expensive as yet to be entered into on a large scale. Want of roads must militate for a while against farming profits in rough and elevated country. A flower-garden and orchard bear testimony to the richness of the soil. But looking forward to the value of the timber, the certainty of annual crops, the gradual covering of the pasture with clover and exotic grasses, the day is not distant in our opinion when the agriculture of this region will stand upon a safe and solvent basis. It is hard to overestimate the value of a moist, temperate climate, and this the inhabitants of the vicinity possess beyond all dispute.
The sun is showing above the tall tree-tops as we sit at breakfast next morning. The air is keen. We need the fire which glows in the cavernous chimney. In ten minutes we are off—ready to do or die—to accomplish the voluntary march or perish by the wayside.
How pleasant is it as we swing along in the fresh morning air. If we had had a mate—one who read the same books, thought the same thoughts, had the same tastes, and in a general way was congenial and sympathetic—our happiness would be complete. But in this desperately busy, workaday land, properly-graduated companionship is difficult to procure.
Still, to those who do not let their minds remain entirely fallow, there is choice companionship in these wooded ​highlands—that of the nobles and monarchs of literature is always at hand; ceases not the murmuring talk of half-forgotten friends, acquaintances, lovers, what not, of the spirit-world of letters; 'songs without words,' wit and laughter, tears and sighs, pæans of praise, sadly humorous subtleties, recall and repeat themselves. So we are not entirely alone, even were there not the whispering leaves, the frowning tree-trunks, the tremulous ferns and delicate grasses, the smiling flowerets, each with its own legend to keep us company. The sun mounts higher in the heavens; still it is not too hot. The green gloom of the great woodland lies between us, a shade against the fiercest sun-rays. So we fare on joyously. Three hours' fair walking brings us to the end of the forest proper. We take one look, as we stand on a clear hill-top—while on either side great glens are hollowed out like demoniac punch-bowls (the Australian native idiom)—at the mountains, at the oceans of frondage.
We are on the 'down grade.' At our feet lies the Middle Adelong, with deserted gold-workings, sluices, and all the debris of water-mining; a roomy homestead, with orchard pertaining, once an inn doubtless; now no longer, as I can testify.
It is high noon and hot withal. The sun, no longer fended off by o'erarching boughs, becomes aggressive. We have gained the valley and lost the cooling breeze. We request a glass of water, which is handed to us by the good-wife. We drink, and, seating ourselves upon a log on the hill-side, commence upon a crust of bread—unwonted foresight this—with considerable relish. As we happen to have Carl Vosmaer's Amazon in our hand (every step of the way did we carry her), we tackle an æsthetic chapter with enthusiasm.
In twenty minutes we breast the hill, a trifle stiffer for the rest, and, it may be fancy, our left boot-sole has developed an inequality not previously sensitive. We swing along, however, in all the pride of 'second wind,' and fix our thoughts upon the next stage, eight miles farther on. We have come about sixteen.
We pass another hill, a plateau, and then a long declivitous grade. By and by we enter upon the fertile valley which leads to Tumut. The green valley of river-encircled sward on ​either side is one mat of clover and rye-grass. We display an increasing preference for the turf as distinguished from the roadway. The sun is becoming hotter. The clouds have retired. There is a hint of storm. The heavy air is charged with electricity. We put on the pace a little. One may as well have this sort of thing over in a condensed form.
Here we stop to look at a man ploughing for maize. Our brow is wet with 'honest ——,' whatsy name? We must weigh pounds less than this morning. How far to the Gilmore Inn?' Four miles!' Thermometer over a hundred in the shade. We set our teeth and march on. We are acquiring the regular slouching swing of the 'sundowner,' it appears to us. There is nothing like similar experience for producing sympathy. We can almost fancy ourselves accosting the overseer with the customary, 'Got any work, sir, for a man to do?' and subsiding to the traveller's hut, with the regulation junk of meat and pannikin of flour. Can partly gauge the feelings of the honest son of toil, weary, athirst, somewhat sore-footed (surely there must be a nail?), when said overseer, being in bad temper, tells him to go to the deuce, that he knows he won't take work if it's offered, and that he has no rations to spare for useless loafers.
It is more than an hour later—we think it more than an hour hotter—as we sight the Gilmore Inn, near rushing stream, hidden by enormous willows. We have abstained from drinking of the trickling rill, hot and dusty as we are. Thoughts of 'that poor creature, small beer,' obtrude, if the local optionists have not abolished him.
In the parlour of this snug roadside inn we put down our 'swag,' and order a large glass of home-brewed and a crust of bread. We certainly agree with Mr. Swiveller, 'Beer can't be tasted in a sip,' especially after a twenty-mile trudge. When we put down the 'long-sleever' there is but a modicum left.
We give ourselves about half an hour here, by which time we are cooled and refreshed, as is apparently the day. Sol is lower and more reasonable. We sling on, by no means done—rather improving pace than otherwise—till overtaken by a friend and his family in a buggy. He kindly proffers to drive us in; but we have made it a point of honour to walk every ​yard, so we decline. He will leave the valise at our hotel—which kindness we accept. The rest is easy going. We lounge into the 'Commercial' as if we had just dismounted, and order a warm bath and dinner, with the mens conscia recti in a high state of preservation.