An October Day 



j^jk N every side shone the wattle in a golden, shimmering 

 ^^ mass ; it stretched across the empty paddocks, climbed 

 up the hillsides, reared its long heads to peep over the grey 

 fences, doing its utmost to turn the ugly little mountain village 

 into a field of gold. The wind, which came whistling from the 

 west, took the flower spikes in its boisterous grasp and shook 

 the sweetness from them ; and the odour went wafting through 

 the breeze, beating down the smell of dust, and creeping with 

 a delicate fragrance into the little weatherboard mountain 

 cottages. < I 



" The wattle has never been better than it is now," said 

 the residents. " It must be due to the dry winter." And the 

 visitors agreed with them that, whatever the cause, the long 

 golden spikes could not possibly be longer or more golden. 

 " It is little wonder," they said, " that poets break into song 

 in the spring. The sight of that golden sheet of blossom 

 under the bright blue sky is enough to drive the most un- 

 imaginative to verse." 



And, instead of tearing headlong to the bottom of the 

 gullies, as they generally do, the visitors stayed awhile in the 

 village, just to feast their eyes upon the wattle, and to fill 

 their arms with the fluffy balls, which shrank into little hard 

 knobs almost immediately. Even the golfers on the way to 



