Part 1

THE WILDERNESS

AMY ELEANOR MACK

(Mrs. LAUNCELOT HARRISON)

AUTHOR OF “A BUSH CALENDAR,” “BUSHLAND STORIES,” “SCRIBBLING SUE,” ETC.

Illustrated by John D. Moore

AUSTRALIA: ANGUS & ROBERTSON LTD. 89 CASTLEREAGH STREET, SYDNEY

“The Wilderness” first appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald

Wholly set up and printed in Australia by W. C. Penfold & Co., Ltd., 88 Pitt Street, Sydney.

Registered by the Postmaster-General for transmission through the post as a book. 1922

TO SUSIE

WHO LOVES ALL LIVING THINGS

THE WILDERNESS

Once, long ago, part of it was garden, and the clearing between the redgums and ironbarks was planted with fruit trees and roses; but the gardener went the way of all flesh, and those who came after him did not have the same love for the garden. Now the bush has reclaimed its own, and roses and fruit trees are half hidden by the tangle of wild things which have gradually crept over them. Each spring the fruit blossoms still shine out on the unpruned trees--all the lovelier for their disorder--and mingle with the gold of the wattles; myriads of undisturbed bulbs--ixias, freesias and sparaxis--send up their blooms among the long swordgrass, outrivalling the blooms in my own well-worked garden beds.

Lovely as the bush-girt garden must have been in its orderly days, it now holds joys undreamed of then. With the creeping return of the wattles and tecoma, the mistletoe and hardenbergia, have come back many of the shy living creatures which had been driven away by the gardening; and now that there is no more digging and planting to disturb them they live as happily as if they were a hundred miles away from men and houses, instead of in the midst of a popular suburb.

Fortunately the wilderness is not a desirable building allotment. The little creek which bisects it makes the site too damp for a house, and so no ruthless builder casts a speculative eye upon it. But the creek is an attraction for numberless creatures--birds, butterflies, bandicoots, frogs, and myriads of those tiny living things which we carelessly group together as “wogs.”

To the entomologist the wilderness would be a perfect paradise, for it is the breeding place of many things--not all loved by the ordinary mortal. Many species of ants have their homes down there; and paper wasps love to make their wonderful many-celled nests on the old fruit trees. Cicads crawl out of the soil each spring and creep up the gum trunks to shed their husks before they wing out to fill the wilderness with their humming song.

Trapdoor spiders lurk down near the creek, and many of the web-making ones spin their light gossamer from branch to branch. Antlions have their little pits to trap the unwary, and dragonflies flitter restlessly over the water.

Most interesting of all to the non-entomological mind are the butterflies. Down in that tangle of trees, grass and ferns are to be found the larvæ and pupæ of many butterflies which in time develop into living jewels. On dull days, and in late afternoons, the funny little caterpillars of the small blue butterflies march out in a solemn procession to feed on the thick fleshy leaves of the mistletoe which grows so lavishly throughout the wilderness. Later they wander down from the mistletoe clumps and enter the nests of the stodgy brown sugar-ants to pupate. It is strange to think that these gay, blue creatures rise from among such queer bed-fellows to flutter round my garden flowers. For in time all the full-fledged butterflies leave the denseness of the wilderness to hover over my beds of zinnias and larkspurs, outshining the brightest blossoms. Most gorgeous, I think, are the vivid turquoise blue and black ones called Papilio, which attract me by their name as much as by their beauty. Very lovely, also, are the big brown butterflies with the eyes on their wings, while there is a distinct fascination about the little “skippers” which vary in shade from cream to brown, and which are known by their different flight.

The man who made the wilderness garden must have had a true Australian love, for even in the cultivated beds he planted native things. Along the upper fence he put a row of silver wattles; most of them are long since dead, and their bare branches serve as supports for the wandering tecoma and the red-berried solanum. But their children are scattered throughout the wilderness, making a silver-grey mist, which in spring gives way to a golden blaze. They are in every stage of growth, and as the older trees die off there are always new ones coming to perfection.

Pittosporums, too, he planted, which fill the mild spring evenings with their heavy sweetness; and many Christmas-bushes. These enjoy the wealth of food which comes from all the leaf-mould and decay, and at Christmas time each year their rosy branches glow like beacons through the green glade.

Close by the creek grows one of the loveliest of the wild trees, the native cherry (Exocarpus cupressiformis). There is quite an old-world charm in its formal cypress shape, which seems to reprove the irregular gums and she-oaks; and the gold-green of its tender tips stands out in lovely contrast against the blue-green and silver-grey of the other trees. When the setting sun catches it through the taller tree trunks it glows like a fairy Christmas tree, and one can picture the little folk dancing round it in a ring. It grows at the very edge of the once cultivated plot, and I think the planner of that garden must have stopped short just there in order to save the lovely thing. Beyond all this is natural bush, with tall spotted pink orchids pushing through in the spring-time, under the golden pultenea and dillwynia, and in summer a white cloud of snowbush.

There is a peculiar fascination in the mixing of wild and tame in that wilderness. The white shasta daisies growing higher than my head in their effort to see the sun through the too protective red-shooted gums; the orange-flowered mistletoe drooping from the tall ironbark to touch the appletree below, seem to me symbolical of that mixing which should come so naturally between things--and people--of this land and of the old.

Of all the trees in the wilderness there is none which so completely satisfies me as the white cedar (Melia composita). It grows on the upper edge, close to my verandah, and I know it through every varying phase. I never can decide in which season I love it most. It is one of our few deciduous trees, and after its pale golden leaves have dropped it is bare for a short space. Then a soft mauve mist breaks over it, and it is covered with a myriad lilac-coloured, lilac-scented blossoms, which pour their perfume lavishly into the world. I think it is a much lovelier tree than the lilac, for, while its colour is not so deep, the flowers grow in much lighter, more feathery fashion, and the whole effect is that of a mass of misty lace. While the blossoms are at their sweetest the little green leaf-tips have been bursting through. They grow swiftly from slender fingers to waving tassels, and then to open fans, and by the time the flowers are finished the tree is dressed in a beautiful fern-like foliage of glossy green. Nor do its charms end here. The flowers have left behind them hundreds of small green fruits, which grow and ripen, and by the time the autumn comes again and the leaves begin to fall they are ready to provide a beautiful feast for the birds. And so comes the white cedar’s crowning charm.

A tree without birds in its branches is like a room without books on its shelves--the birds are the crowning charm. The poet knew that when he wrote ecstatically of--

A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair.

My white cedar does not wear any nest in her hair, but each autumn her charm is enhanced by the beautiful green oriole in her branches.

In autumn the fat green berries have grown golden and juicy, and the oriole comes to feast upon them. He really has no right to be so near Sydney nowadays, for he is one of the larger birds, which have been driven back by the advance of the city; but somehow or other, in the mysterious bird way, he learned of my white cedar, and each year he comes to spend a month or so in the wilderness, feasting on the berries, and in between meals filling the autumn day with his lovely, clear ringing song. He is one of the lucky birds, whose voice matches his form in beauty. For he is, indeed, a beautiful bird, with his olive green back, creamy breast streaked with black, and bright red eye and bill. He is big enough, too, to show up in the landscape, and towards the end of his stay, when the cedar is nearly leafless, he makes a lovely note of colour on the bare branches against the blue sky.

But he has rivals in the wilderness--many rivals, both in voice and appearance. I am not sure that the blue jays are not more lovely to look at. Their silvery bodies and black faces are not so gay, of course, but they are slim and slender, and they float through the tree-tops with wonderful grace. They come in flocks to the wilderness during the winter, and it is a joy to watch them swaying in the tree-tops, then darting suddenly down to catch an insect on the wing, and up again to their swinging perch. Pity ’tis their voice has no beauty, but is just a querulous squawking note.