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Mates at Billabong By: Mary Grant Bruce (1878-1958) |
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by Mary Grant Bruce (1878 1958).
CONTENTS CHAPTER I NORAH'S HOME
CHAPTER II TOGETHER
CHAPTER III BATH AND AN INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER IV CUTTING OUT
CHAPTER V TWO POINTS OF VIEW
CHAPTER VI COMING HOME
CHAPTER VII JIM UNPACKS
CHAPTER VIII A THUNDERSTORM
CHAPTER IX THE BILLABONG DANCE
CHAPTER X CHRISTMAS
CHAPTER XI "LO, THE POOR INDIAN!"
CHAPTER XII OF POULTRY
CHAPTER XIII STATION DOINGS
CHAPTER XIV CUNJEE v. MULGOA
CHAPTER XV THE RIDE HOME
CHAPTER XVI A CHILD'S PONY
CHAPTER XVII ON THE HILLSIDE
CHAPTER XVIII BROTHER AND SISTER
CHAPTER XIX THE LONG QUEST
CHAPTER XX MATES
CHAPTER I NORAH'S HOME The grey old dwelling, rambling and wide,
With the homestead paddocks on either side,
And the deep verandahs and porches tall
Where the vine climbs high on the trellised wall.
G. ESSEX EVANS.
Billabong homestead lay calm and peaceful in the slanting rays of the
sum that crept down the western sky. The red roofs were half hidden in
the surrounding trees pine and box and mighty blue gums towering above
the tenderer green of the orchard, and the wide flung tendrils of the
Virginia creeper that was pushing slender fingers over the old walls.
If you came nearer, you found how the garden rioted in colour under the
touch of early summer, from the crimson rambler round the eastern bay
window to the "Bonfire" salvia blazing in masses on the lawn; but from
the paddocks all that could be seen was the mass of green, and the
mellow red of the roof glimpsing through. Further back came a glance of
rippled silver, where the breeze caught the surface of the lagoon too
lazy a breeze to do more than faintly stir the reed fringed water.
Towards it a flight of black swans winged slowly, with outstretched
necks, across a sky of perfect blue. Their leader's note floated down,
as if in answer to the magpies that carolled in the pine trees by the
stables. The sound seemed to hang in the still air. Beyond the tennis court, in the farther recesses of the garden, a
hammock swung between two grevillea trees, whose orange flowers made a
gay canopy overhead; and in the hammock Norah swayed gently, and
knitted, and pondered. The shining needles flashed in and out of the
dark blue silk sock. Outsiders mothers of prim daughters, whom Norah
pictured as finding their wildest excitement in "patting a doll" were
wont to deplore that the only daughter of David Linton of Billabong was
brought up in an eccentric fashion, less girl than boy; but outsiders
are apt to cherish delusions, and Norah was not without her share of
gentle accomplishments. Knitting was one; the sock grew quickly in the
capable brown fingers that could grip a stock whip as easily as they
handled the needles. All the while, she was listening. About her the coo of invisible doves fell gently, mingling with the
happy droning of bees in the overhead blossoms. Somewhere, not far off,
a sheep bell tinkled monotonously, the only outside sound in the
afternoon stillness. It was very peaceful. To Norah, who knew that the
world held no place like Billabong, it only lacked one person for the
final seal of perfection. "Wish Dad would come," she said aloud, puckering her brow over a knot
in the silk. "He's late and it is jolly dull without him." The knot
came free, and the needles raced as though making up for lost time. Two dogs lay on the grass: a big sleepy collie that only moved
occasionally to snap at a worrying fly; and an Irish terrier, plainly
showing by his restlessness that he despised a lazy life, and longed
for action. He caught his mistress's eye at last, and jumped up with a
little whine. "If YOU had the heel of a sock to turn, Puck," said Norah, "you'd be
more steady. Lie down, old man." Puck lay down again discontentedly, put his nose on his paws, and
feigned slumber, one restless eyelid betraying the hollowness of the
pretence. Presently he rolled over and chancing to roll on a spiky
twig, rose with a wild yelp of annoyance... Continue reading book >>
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Literature |
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