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Publié par
Date de parution
03 novembre 2021
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9781774642504
Langue
English
Billabong, a large cattle and sheep property in the Australian countryside, is home to twelve-year-old Norah Linton, her widowed father and her older brother, Jim. Norah's prim and proper aunts, who live in the city, consider she is in danger of "growing up wild" - riding all over Billabong on her beloved pony, Bobs, helping with mustering, and joining in all the holiday fun when Jim and his friends come home from boarding school. A fishing trip results in unexpected drama when they discover a mysterious stranger camped in the bush. Who is this stranger and why is he there?
Publié par
Date de parution
03 novembre 2021
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9781774642504
Langue
English
A Little Bush Maid
by Mary Grant Bruce
Firstpublished in 1910
Thisedition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria,BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
Trava2909@gmail.com
Allrights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced ortransmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage orretrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, whomay quote brief passages in a review.
“It seemed to Norah that she pulled Bobs up almost in his stride.”
A LITTLE BUSH MAID
by Mary Grant Bruce
CHAPTER I
BILLABONG
N ORAH’S home was on a big station in thenorth of Victoria—so large that you couldalmost, in her own phrase, “ride all day and neversee any one you didn’t want to see”; which was agreat advantage in Norah’s eyes. Not that BillabongStation ever seemed to the little girl a placethat you needed to praise in any way. It occupiedso very modest a position as the loveliest part ofthe world!
The homestead was built on a gentle rise thatsloped gradually away on every side; in front tothe wide plain, dotted with huge gum trees andgreat grey box groves, and at the back, after youhad passed through the well-kept vegetable gardenand orchard, to a long lagoon, bordered with treesand fringed with tall bulrushes and waving reeds.
The house itself was old and quaint and rambling,part of the old wattle and dab walls yet remainingin some of the outhouses, as well as the greyshingle roof. There was a more modern part, forthe house had been added to from time to time bydifferent owners, though no additions had beenmade since Norah’s father brought home his youngwife, fifteen years before this story opens. Then hehad built a large new wing with wide and lofty rooms,and round all had put a very broad, tiled verandah.The creepers had had time to twine round themassive posts in those fifteen years, and some evenlay in great masses on the verandah roof; tecoma,pink and salmon-coloured; purple bougainvillea,and the snowy mandevillea clusters. Hard-headedpeople said this was not good for the building—butNorah’s mother had planted them, and becauseshe had loved them they were never touched.
There was a huge front garden, not at all aproper kind of garden, but a great stretch of smoothbuffalo grass, dotted with all kinds of trees,amongst which flower beds cropped up in most unexpectedand unlikely places, just as if some gianthad flung them out on the grass like a handful ofpebbles that scattered as they flew. They werealways trim and tidy, and the gardener, Hogg, wasterribly strict, and woe betide the author of anysmall footmarks that he found on one of the freshly-rakedsurfaces. Nothing annoyed him more thanthe odd bulbs that used to come up in the midst ofhis precious buffalo grass; impertinent crocusesand daffodils and hyacinths, that certainly hadno right there. “Blest if I know how they evergets there!” Hogg would say, scratching his head.Whereat Norah was wont to retire behind a pyramidtree for purposes of mirth.
Hogg’s sworn foe was Lee Wing, the Chinesegardener, who reigned supreme in the orchard andthe kingdom of vegetables—not quite the samething as the vegetable kingdom, by the way! LeeWing was very fat, his broad, yellow face generallywearing a cheerful grin—unless he happened tocatch sight of Hogg. His long pigtail was alwaysconcealed under his flapping straw hat. Once Jim,who was Norah’s big brother, had found him asleepin his hut with the pigtail drooping over the edge ofthe bunk. Jim thought the opportunity too goodto lose and, with such deftness that the Celestialnever stirred, he tied the end of the pigtail to theback of a chair—with rather startling results whenLee Wing awoke with a sudden sense of being late,and made a spring from the bunk. The chair ofcourse followed him, and the loud yell of fear andpain raised by the victim brought half the homesteadto the scene of the catastrophe. Jim was theonly one who did not wait for developments. Hefound business at the lagoon.
The queerest part of it was that Lee Wing firmlybelieved Hogg to be the author of his woe. Nothingmoved him from this view, not even when Jim, findinghow matters stood, owned up like a man. “Youallee same goo’ boy,” said the pigtailed one, profferinghim a succulent raw turnip. “Me know.You tellee fine large crammee. Hogg, he tellee crammee,too. So dly up!” And Jim, finding expostulationuseless, “dried up” accordingly and atethe turnip, which was better than the leek.
To the right of the homestead at Billabong aclump of box trees sheltered the stables that werethe unspoken pride of Mr. Linton’s heart.
Before his time the stables had been a conglomeratemass, bark-roofed, slab-sided, falling to decay;added to as each successive owner had thought fit,with a final mixture of old and new that was neitherconvenient nor beautiful. Mr. Linton had apologizedto his horses during his first week of occupancyand, in the second, turning them out to grasswith less apology, had pulled down the rickettyold sheds, replacing them with a compact and handsomebuilding of red brick, with room for half a dozenbuggies, men’s quarters, harness and feed rooms,many loose boxes and a loft where a ball couldhave been held—and where, indeed, many a onewas held, when all the young farmers and stockmenand shearers from far and near brought eachhis lass and tripped it from early night to earlydawn, to the strains of old Andy Ferguson’s fiddleand young Dave Boone’s concertina. Norah hadbeen allowed to look on at one or two of thesegatherings. She thought them the height of humanbliss, and was only sorry that sheer inability todance prevented her from “taking the floor” withMick Shanahan, the horse breaker, who had paid herthe compliment of asking her first. It was a greatcompliment, too, Norah felt, seeing what a manof agility and splendid accomplishments was Mick—andthat she was only nine.
There was one loose box which was Norah’s veryown property, and without her permission no horsewas ever put in it except its rightful occupant—Bobs,whose name was proudly displayed over thedoor in Jim’s best carving.
Bobs had always belonged to Norah. He hadbeen given to her as a foal, when Norah used toride a round little black sheltie, as easy to fall offas to mount. He was a beauty even then, Norahthought; and her father had looked approvinglyat the long-legged baby, with his fine, well-bredhead. “You will have something worth riding whenthat fellow is fit to break in, my girlie,” he had said,and his prophecy had been amply fulfilled. MickShanahan said he’d never put a leg over a finer pony.Norah knew there never had been a finer anywhere.He was a big pony, very dark bay in colour, and“as handsome as paint,” and with the kindestdisposition; full of life and “go,” but withoutthe smallest particle of vice. It was an even questionwhich loved the other best, Bobs or Norah.No one ever rode him except his little mistress.The pair were hard to beat—so the men said.
To Norah the stables were the heart of Billabong.The house was all very well—of course she lovedit; and she loved her own little room, with its redcarpet and dainty white furniture, and the twolong windows that looked out over the green plain.That was all right; so were the garden and the bigorchard—especially in summer time! The onlypart that was not “all right” was the drawing-room—anapartment of gloomy, seldom-used splendourthat Norah hated with her whole heart.
But the stables were an abiding refuge. She wasnever dull there; apart from the never-failing welcomein Bobs’ loose box, there was the dim, fragrantloft, where the sunbeams only managed tosend dusty rays of light across the gloom. HereNorah used to lie on the sweet hay and think tremendousthoughts; here also she laid deep plansfor catching rats—and caught scores in traps ofher own devising. Norah hated rats, but nothingcould induce her to wage war against the mice.“Poor little chaps!” she said; “they’re so little—and—andsoft!” And she was quite saddenedif by chance she found a stray mouse in any of hershrewdly-designed traps for the benefit of the largergame which infested the stables and had even thehardihood to annoy Bobs!
Norah had never known her mother. She wasonly a tiny baby when that gay little motherdied—a sudden, terrible blow, that changed herfather in a night from a young man to an oldone. It was nearly eleven years ago now, but noone ever dared to speak to David Linton of his wife.Sometimes Norah used to ask Jim about mother—forJim was fifteen, and could remember just alittle; but his memories were so vague and mistythat his information was unsatisfactory. And, afterall, Norah did not trouble much. She had alwaysbeen so happy that she could not imagine that tohave had a mother would have made any particulardifference to her happiness. You see, she did notknow.
She had grown just as the bush wild flowersgrow—hardy, unchecked, almost untended; for,though old nurse had always been there, her nurselinghad gone her own way from the time she couldtoddle. She was everybody’s pet and plaything;the only being who had power to make her stern,silent father smile—almost the only one who ever sawthe softer side of his character. He was fond andproud of Jim—glad that the boy was growing upstraight and strong and manly, able to make hisway in the world. But Norah was his heart’s desire.
Of course she was spoilt—if spoiling consistsin rarely checking an impulse. All her life Norahhad done pretty well whatever she wanted—whichmeant that she had lived out of doors, followed inJim’s footsteps wherever practicable (and in agood many ways most people would have thoughtdistinctly impracticable), and spent about two-thirdsof her waking time on horseback. But thespoiling was not of a very harmful k
