Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1909-07-16

presses. IuIIl Trees, always sum
trees. This great forest is exempt
from the touch of autumn and win
ter-the trees never shed their leaves
Spring, summer, autumn, winter, they
stand in their gray greenness, with a
coloring as soft and gentle as the
olive groves.
Life in the bush implies life on a
station or a selection, or else in bush
township built far from the ten OF
twelve large cities of Australia. AS a
rule the "bushies" are well read and
know a good deal. There are excep-
tions, of course. An old bushman was
greeted by his wife one morning with
the news "Gladstone's dead!" He
looked at her minute. Then he shook
his head. Gladstone! Gladstone!
No, I can't say l knew i'm. But he'd
know mel
Bush girls are wonderfully deft and
domesticated. There is nothing they
can't do. They can scrub, iron, wash,
cook, harness q horse, milk a cow or
kill a fowl. They play the piano with
a wonderful touch that Slav might
envy, a velvet, passionate touch. They
can do up" shirts and will wash and
iron a frilly muslin frock in no time,
then wear it with charming grace.
They passionately love books, love to
steal away in solitude and lie on the
grass with q novel or a book Of poems.
1T may be quite safely said that no
people in the world love poetry so
much as the people in the Australian
bush.
i There is one defect in these people
of the bush. Their accent is atrocious.
They offer you "cyke" and "gripes."
They drawl their vowels and speak
slowly and not well. Why this hide
Gus Cockney accent should have taken
possession Of Australia is hard to say.
But its growth Is probably to be ac-
counted for by the climate. The end
less summer makes drawing so much
easier than crisp speech. Be that as
1t may one feels little sorry when a
charming, fair haired bush girl, in the
daintiest Of muslin gowns, with a de-
/ llightful smile and deep, sweet eyes
asks you how you liked the Bong-bons
horserices yesterday and If you're go
ing to the Junee da-ance to-ni-i-ght.
And when, with this same Cockney
twang, she talks to you Of Chopin and
Beethoven and Tschaikowsky and
Shelley and Keats and Swinburne and
lis bright and enthusiastic and clever
and twang sounds uglier than ever. 1t
seems so at variance with that charm
/ ing personality, that intelligent mind,
that love of beauty, poetry, music.
Naturally there Is little sham about
life in the bush. Everything Is dead
| ly real Many superfluous conventions
that flourish in the old worlds are un-
known here. Servants hate to call you
ma'am.s mo, Mrs. Brown! Yes, Mrs.
Brown! Mrs. Brown, here's Mrs
Jones'" suits their democratic hearts
much better.
People arrive in a buggy or on
horseback whom no one has ever seen
before. They are welcomed and made
at home instantly. They may after a
bit mention the name Of some one
they know who knows these people
they have just come to, but on the
other hand they may not. Simple man
nered, kind hearted, marvellously gen.
erous are the people in the bush. Un-
derneath they are as subtle as Tus-
cans. They are curiously clever. They
are melancholy in a happy kind OF
Way. The irony Of a young country
is to be noticed in the things they
laugh at.
Among the guests at an out west
party was a newly married English
lady. When this lady arrived she took
off scarf of old lace and laid 1t on
the drawers in her hostess's bedroom.
Later on she saw the hostess dancing
gayly in scarf exactly like hers. Still
later, when about to leave, she found
her own scarf gone! In great dismay
she told her husband, an Australian.
He laughed and Immediately informed
one Of the daughters Of the house.
Peals of laughter burst forth on all
sides when it was discovered that
mother" had put on Mrs. Allan's
scarf, thinking with delightful vague
ness that it belonged to one Of her
own daughters. She had seen 1t there,
draped it about her shoulders without
a word to any one and had worn 1t
contentedly all the evening in the face
Of its real owner and all the while the
girls were wondering where mother
had got that scarf from! The incident
was taken as a great joke, whereas
Mrs. Allan had expected dismay and
confusion.
Steele Rudd gives this delightful
silhouette in one Of his Australian
books, the best stories ever written
about the bush.
Hardly day passed but what Dave
made several trips to our place in
quest of something or other. If 1t
wasn't meat or a jug Of milk or the
loan of dish for Lily to bake some
thing in that he came for it would be
a few potatoes ora clothes prop or the
axe to cut bit Of wood with, or even
Bills bride or Joe's saddle, until there
was scarcely anything to be found at
our place at all. Often Lily would re-
quire> few little things for the house
and she'd come along herself and bor-
row them from mother.
Frequently it was needle she
would require-the one she had was
broke'-or perhaps 1t would be a bit
of black cotton to patch Dawes dark
trousers with-she always had q good
supply Of white cotton. Sometimes
she had two reels Of It; ours and her
own, And Dave was always coming
for water. When he wasn't coming
for a bucket of water he was marching
off with one. Rarely did we ever sit
down to meals without hearing some
one at the tap. And We always knew
II was Dave pettiny q bucket of water.