120 BUSH DAYS 



could not imagine that placid face and immaculate head poking 

 through bushes and prickly undergrowth. I looked at her 

 slightly over-plump figure, well laced in, and erect in its most 

 correct gown of grey muslin. Xo, that was not the figure 

 for creeping stealthily through bush and scrub, for hiding 

 behind trees, or flattening on to the ground. It was the face 

 and the figure of one w r hose interest in botany would travel no 

 farther than a ripe, juicy peach or a strawberry plant, and to 

 whom the only birds that mattered were a fat goose or plump 

 young duckling. 



I pushed the strawberries again towards her, and said, " Oh. 

 it just amuses me." 



For how could one ever hope to explain to that placid, well- 

 fed person the joy of the bush. How could she be expected 

 to know the delight of rising with the rising sun to listen to 

 the world's great morning song, to know the thrill that comes 

 at the sound of the first nesting note, the tense excitement of 

 creeping, creeping quietly and stealthily through shrubs and 

 bushes to peep into the nest of some new bird friend? How 

 could she know the rush of pleasure which floods one's being 

 at the sight of the first spring orchid, or the scent of the first 

 spring bloom? 



And how could one ever hope to explain to the owner of 

 those clear, colourless eyes, the peace that wraps one round 

 under the shade of the big gums and turpentines, or the feel- 

 ing of content that creeps into one's heart at the sighing song 



