The Kangaroo Hunters; Or, Adventures in the Bush by Clarence Young
CHAPTER I.
The Rector and the Soldier.--The Mayburn Family.--A Mission toIndia.--The Orphans of Wendon.--Ruth the Unlucky.--Jack's Project.--TheAddition to the Mayburn Establishment.
"I am a selfish creature, O'Brien," said Mr. Mayburn, the rector ofWendon, to his invalid friend. "I cannot forbear from coming once moreto annoy you with my lamentations, and to ask your counsel, for I ammost unhappy. Every object I behold, every word I hear, recalls to mymind my bereavement. I cannot remain in this place after the loss of mybeloved wife. She was the moving power of my household. It was she, infact, who was the pastor and director of the parish, the skilful tutorof her children, the guide and the guardian of her weak and erringhusband. Alone, I am unfit for my responsible office; I shudder over theconviction that I am faithless to my vows; I know, O'Brien, that I donot fulfil my duty."
"There is an easy remedy for your distress, my good friend," answeredCaptain O'Brien; "my advice is, do your duty, and be comforted."
"It is physically impossible, O'Brien," said the mourner. "My nerves areshattered; my health is completely destroyed. I shrink from communionwith society; and though I exert myself to give my boys their dailylessons, I would afterwards gladly enclose myself in my study, and liveamongst my books."
"No doubt you would," replied O'Brien; "but God did not send us intothis world to vegetate in solitude, and bring forth no fruit. Act,Mayburn, I beseech you, man; power comes with action, you know well; andwhatever man has done, may be done. Work! work! is the counsel of theworn-out dying soldier to him who has yet the labors of life spreadbefore him."
"But you have no idea how feeble my bodily powers are," groaned therector.
"I can form a very tolerable idea of your strength," said the captain;"for the last time I was out I saw you plunged up to the knees in thegreen marsh, regardless of a cold north-east March wind."
"I remember the day well," answered Mr. Mayburn, with animation, "for Iwas fortunate enough to obtain the eggs of the crested grebe in themarsh. You will not have forgotten that the preceding summer I got afine specimen of the bird."
"Very well," said his friend; "now, if you were able thus to toil and toendure to save the eggs of a bird, you may surely exert yourself stillmore to save the soul of a Christian. Go more among your poor; talk tothem, help them with your knowledge, and teach them to live happily anddie happily. I am not without experience in such work, Mayburn; as longas I was able, I had a little flock of my own; and in secular matters atany rate, was a sort of parish priest among my soldiers. I felt aninterest in the history and in the daily life of every man in mycompany, and was never more at home than in the nooks and corners wheremy poor fellows dwelt. It was this pleasant and profitable work thatMrs. Mayburn ably accomplished for you, and I see Margaret is treadingin her steps; go with her, Mayburn, support her in her virtuous course,and you will discover that life has still its pleasures for you."
"Not here! not here! my dear O'Brien," answered Mr. Mayburn. "SometimesI determine to relinquish this parish, and accept one of smallerpopulation, where the responsibility would be less; at other moments Iam prompted to adopt an entirely opposite course, and to make up for mypast wasted life by devoting my remaining days to missionary labors indistant lands, where I might be more stimulated to exertion, in thenecessity of action. Give me your advice, O'Brien, on which of these twoplans to decide. On the one hand, I have the temptation offered me toexchange for a small living on the north-eastern coast, where I shouldmeet with many ornithological novelties; on the other hand, I know Ihave still sufficient interest among my old friends to obtain theappointment to some mission in the colonies. I should prefer NorthernIndia or South Australia, both affording rich fields to the naturalist."
"A matter of secondary consideration," said O'Brien, smiling. "But waita month or two, my good friend; we must not decide hastily on such animportant step; and before that time has elapsed, you will havefulfilled the last pious offices for me. Do not be agitated, Mayburn. Iknow that I am dying; these old wounds have slowly, but successfully,undermined the fortress; it cannot hold out long. But be comforted; I amresigned and calm, nay, I am happy, for I know in whom I trust. Now,Mayburn, to you and to your sweet daughter I must bequeath my wild,half-taught boy. Give him all the book-lore he can be made to imbibe;above all, Mayburn, make him a Christian. To Margaret I intrust hisphysical education. I should wish him to be fitted to perform such workin this world as it may please God to call him to. I am thankful that Imust leave him poor, as he will thus be exempt from the grandtemptation, and forced into healthy action. May God direct his labors tothe best and wisest end."
The words of his dying friend had for some time a salutary influenceover the amiable but vacillating Mayburn. With remorse and shame helooked on his own discontent, and with a brief gleam of energy he turnedto the duties of his office; but long habits of self-indulgence inliterary pursuits and literary ease were not to be suddenly overcome;and when the grave closed over his faithful friend and wise counsellor,O'Brien, he soon shrunk back into morbid, solitary musings, andgradually sunk into his accustomed indolence. But a waking of remorseinduced him to write to his old college friend, the Bishop of ----, topray that he might be allowed to resign his living, and be appointed tosome distant mission.
Mr. Mayburn, though upright in principle and amiable in disposition, wasyet unfitted, from his deficiency in firmness, for the responsibilitiesof his office; but his constitutional timidity and indolence had escapednotice during the lifetime of his valuable and energetic wife, who haddirected his actions and concealed his feeble nature. But it was thewill of God that she should be suddenly called from him; and, stunnedwith his loss, he abandoned himself to sorrow and inaction. The death ofhis valuable friend and counsellor, Captain O'Brien, cut away the lastprop of the feeble man, who was now alternately sunk in useless grief orhaunted with the horrors of neglected duties.
Pious and eloquent, his people declared he was an angel in the church;but in their humble dwellings his visits, like those of angels, "wereshort and far between." In his family, it was his pleasure tocommunicate to his children the rich treasures of learning that hepossessed; but the lessons of life, the useful preparation for thebattle of the world, he had not the skill or the energy to teach.
His daughter, now sixteen years of age, had been ably instructed by herexcellent mother, and possessed good sense and prudence beyond heryears. Arthur, the eldest son, one year younger, had benefited by hismother's advice and example equally with his sister, whom he resembledin disposition. His brother Hugh, not yet thirteen years old, was tooyoung to have profited much by instruction, and was more volatile thanMargaret and Arthur. But the children were all frank, true, andconscientious; and had yet escaped the temptations and perils of theworld.
Gerald, the orphan son of the faithful and attached friend of Mr.Mayburn, Captain O'Brien, was the most weighty charge of his timidguardian; though but twelve years old, he was bold, independent, andforever in mischief; and hourly did Mr. Mayburn groan under hisresponsibility, for he had solemnly promised to fulfil the duties of afather to the boy, and he trembled to contemplate his incapacity forthe office.
"Margaret," said he to his daughter, "I request that you or Jenny willnever lose sight of that boy after he leaves my study. I am continuallydistracted by the dread that he should pull down the old church towerwhen he is climbing to take the nests of the harmless daws, or that heshould have his eyes pecked out by the peacocks at Moore Park, when heis pulling the feathers from their tails."
"Do you not think, papa," answered Margaret, "that you are partlyresponsible for his mischievous follies? You have imbued him with yourornithological tastes."
"He has no taste, Margaret," replied her father hastily. "He has nojudgment in the science. He has never learned to distinguish the_Corvidae_ from the _Columbidae_; nor could he at this moment tell you towhich family the jackdaw he makes war with belongs. He is negligenthimself, and, moreover, he allures my son Hugh from his serious st
"Papa," said Margaret laughing, "Gerald could repeat 'How doth thelittle busy bee,' when he was four years old, and I do not think that arepetition of it now would make any serious impression on him."
"He has no taste for the higher range of poetry," said his distressedguardian; "and has too much levity to seek knowledge in the directpaths. What would you think of giving him to learn an unpretending poemby Mrs. Barbauld, which describes the feathered tribes with tolerableaccuracy. It commences,
'Say, who the various nations can declare, That plough, with busy wing, the peopled air!'"
"Gerald is not lazy, papa, he is only thoughtless," said Margaret. "Letus hope that a few years will bring him more wisdom; then he will learnto admire Homer, and to distinguish birds like his good guardian."
Mr. Mayburn sighed. "But what shall I do with the boy," he said, "whenmy duties summon me to distant lands? I am bewildered with doubts of thefuture. Will it be right, Margaret, to remove you and my promising boysfrom country, society, and home, perhaps even from civilization?"
"No, no, papa, you are not fitted for a missionary to savages," answeredMargaret, "you must choose some more suitable employment. And if you arebent on quitting England, surely you cannot suppose, whatever may beyour destination, that we should consent to be separated from you."
"God forbid that it should be so!" exclaimed the father. "But I cannotbut feel, my child, that I have been selfish and negligent. Give me someconsolation--tell me that you think I may yet do some good in a strangeland. I am persuaded that I shall be better able to exert myself amongcomplete heathens than I am among these cold, dull, professedChristians."
"If you feel this conviction, papa," said Margaret, "it is sufficient.When we earnestly desire to do right, God always provides us with work.We must all try to aid you. And Gerald is now our brother, papa; he mustaccompany us in our wanderings. The boys anticipate with great delightthe pleasures of a sea-voyage, and I myself, though I regret to leave mypoor people, enjoy the idea of looking on the wonders of the world."
"Then, Margaret," added Mr. Mayburn, "I must trust you and Jenny towatch that giddy boy, Gerald. Warn him of the dangers that surround him.I should never survive if he were to fall overboard. I promised O'Brienmuch; but, alas! I have done little."
Margaret engaged to use all needful watchfulness, though, she assuredher father, Arthur would care for the young boys; and being nowconvinced that her father's resolution to leave England was earnest andunchangeable, the young girl, assisted by Jenny Wilson, the old nurse,set about the serious preparations for this important change; and when amission to a remote part of India was proposed to Mr. Mayburn, he foundthe whole of his family as ready as he was himself to enter into thisnew and hazardous undertaking.
"I looked for nothing better, Miss Marget, my darling," said nurseJenny; "and my poor mistress, lying on her death-bed, saw it allplainly. Says she to me, 'Nurse,' says she, 'your good master will neversettle after I'm gone. He'll be for shifting from this place; but mindthis, nurse, you'll stick to my childer.' And then and there I said Iwould never leave ye; 'specially you, Miss Marget; where you go, I mustgo, and I hope God will spare me to nurse childer of yours. Thoughwhere you are to meet with a suiting match I cannot see, if master willchoose to go and live among black savages."
"Not so bad as that, nurse," said Margaret, smiling. "I trust that ourlot may be cast on a more civilized spot, where we may find many of ourown countrymen living among the benighted people we are sent to teach;and even they, though ignorant and degraded, are not absolutely savage,neither are they blacks, my dear nurse."
"Well, my child, you know best," answered Jenny. "But there's a soretask laid out for you, that will have all the work to do. Not but whatmaster is a grand hand at preaching, and can talk wonderful, nows andthens, to poor folks; but he cannot get round them as you can. He neverseems to be talking to them as it were face to face, but all likepreaching to them out of his pulpit; and somehow he never gets nigh handto them. But it's God will, and, please Him, we must all do our best; weshall be missed here; and oh, Miss Marget, what will come of poor RuthMartin? and we promising to take the lass next month, and make a goodservant of her. Here's Jack, too; just out of his time, a fair goodworkman, and a steady lad, and none but you and master to look up to,poor orphans."
"Do not be distressed, nurse," replied Margaret, "I have thought of allmy scholars; I have prepared a list of those I wish papa especially torecommend to his successor; and perhaps Mrs. Newton will take Ruth ontrial."
"She won't do it, Miss Marget," answered Jenny. "I tried her before, andshe flounces, and flames, and says all sorts of ill words again thelass, as how she's flappy and ragged, and knows nothing; and when Iasked her what she could expect from childer as was found crying overtheir poor father and mother lying dead under a hedge; she saidoutright, she should expect they would turn out vagabonds, like themthey belonged to. Yes, she said that; after you had given the poorthings schooling for six years."
It was not the least of Margaret Mayburn's pangs, on leaving Wendon,that she must be compelled to abandon the poor children of the parish,whom she had long taught and cared for; and she sighed over theincapacity of the rough orphan girl that she now set out with herfaithful nurse to visit.
Ruth and Jack Martin had been found one cold morning of winter in a laneleading to the village of Wendon, sitting by the side of the hedge,weeping over the dead bodies of their parents, who had perished fromfamine and fever, exposed to the storm of the previous night. Thechildren were conveyed to the workhouse, and from their story, andfurther inquiries, it was made out that their mother had left a tribe ofgipsies to marry a railway _navvy_, as the children called their father.He was a reckless, drunken profligate; and after losing his arm from anaccident which originated in his own carelessness, was dismissed fromhis employment, and driven to wander a homeless vagrant. The childrensaid they had lived by begging, and had often been nearly starved; buttheir mother would never let them steal or tell a lie, and she had oftencried when their father came to their lodging very drunk, speaking verybad words, and holding out silver money, which their mother would nottouch.
But at last he was seized with a bad fever on the road, and, houselessand penniless, they crept under a haystack; from thence the childrenwere sent to the road-side to beg from passengers, or to seek somefarmhouse, where charity might bestow on them a little milk or a fewcrusts of bread; but the poor wife sickened of the same disease whichwas carrying off her husband, and in their desperation the wretchedsufferers dragged themselves to the road which led to the village, inhopes of reaching it, and finding shelter and aid. But it was too late.In the midst of the beating snow, and in the darkness of a winter'snight, the man sank down and died. The wretched woman cast herself downbeside him, and, overcome by sorrow and long suffering, did not surviveto see the morning light.
The sympathy created by this melancholy event procured many warm friendsfor the orphans. They were fed and clothed, sent to school, andcarefully instructed in that pure religion of which they had formerlyhad but vague notions. Jack, the boy, who was about eleven years of agewhen they were orphaned, was a thoughtful, industrious lad; for threeyears he made useful progress at school, and in the last three years,under a good master, he had become a skilful carpenter. Ruth, who wastwo years younger than her brother, had inferior abilities; she wasrough, boisterous, and careless; and was ever the dunce of the school,till at length the schoolmistress begged she might be put to somethingelse, for she declared she made "no hand at learning." She was thenplaced with an old woman, who daily
There was still another who would deeply feel their loss; and Margaretwas accompanied by her brothers, who were anxious to see their untiringassistant, Jack. It was he who gave his useful aid to them in theconstruction of bows, bats, leaping-bars, and all the wooden appliancesof school-boy sports; and above all the people of the village, the boysmurmured most that they must part with Jack.
They found the industrious lad busily engaged in making a new crutch forNanny, the old woman with whom the orphans lived. "You see, MasterHugh," said he, "poor Ruth happened to throw down Nanny's crutch, andthen the careless lass fell over it, and snapped it. I reckon it hadbeen a bit of bad wood; but this is a nice seasoned stick I've had laidby these two years for another purpose, and it comes in nicely; forNanny was cross, and poor Ruth was sadly put about, and this will setall straight."
At this moment, Ruth, who had been sent out to milk Nanny's cow,entered in woful plight. She had neglected to tie Brindle's legsproperly, and the animal, irritated by the teasing bark of an ill-taughtlittle dog, had struggled to extricate itself, kicked Ruth into the mud,and the milk-pail after her, and then run off, pursued by its tormentor;and the girl returned with her dress torn and dirty, and her milk-pailempty. Nanny scolded, Jack shook his head, Margaret gently remonstratedwith her for her carelessness, and, worst cut of all, the younggentlemen laughed at her. Then Ruth fairly sat down and cried.
"Well, Nanny," said Margaret, "you must look over Ruth's fault thistime, for we have some sad news for you all. We are going to leaveWendon."
Jack threw down his work, and Ruth, forgetting her own vexation, held upher hands, crying out, "Not without me, please, Miss Marget. Youpromised to try and make me good for something; please do, Miss Marget,and I'll pray God to make me of some use to you."
"But, Ruth," said Hugh, "we are going far away from here, across thewide sea, and among people who neither talk, nor look, nor live as wedo."
"How many legs have they, Master Hugh?" asked the awe-struck girl.
"Only two legs, and one head, Ruth," answered he, laughing; "and we feelpretty sure that they will not eat us; but, for all that, I am afraidthey are a little bit savage, if they be roused."
"Will you be so kind as to tell me, Mr. Arthur," said Jack, "where youmay be going really."
Arthur then explained to Jack the plans of Mr. Mayburn, and assured himthey all felt a pang at leaving Wendon; and especially they regrettedthe parting from the children they had themselves assisted to teach.
"Then let us go with you," cried Ruth vehemently.
"Cannot we both work and wait on you? If I stay here I shall be sure toturn out a bad lass. Jack, honey, we'll not be left behind, we will runafter Miss Marget and Mr. Arthur."
Jack was thoughtful and silent, while Margaret said to the weepinggirl,--"If we had only been removing to any part of England, Ruth, wewould have taken you with us, if it had been possible; but we dare notpropose such an addition to the family in a long voyage, which will costa large sum of money for each of us; besides this, we are going to acountry where your services, my poor girl, would be useless; for all theservants employed in cooking, house-work, and washing, are men, who bearthe labor, in such a hot climate, better than women could."
"If you please, Miss Margaret," said Jack, eagerly, "I have thought ofsomething. Will you be kind enough to tell me the name of the ship youare to go in, and I will get my master to write me out a goodtestimonial, and then I will seek the captain, to offer to work for mypassage and for that of poor Ruth, if you will agree to try her; for yousee, Miss Margaret, we must never be parted. And when once we're landed,please God, we'll take care to follow you wherever you may go."
Margaret was deeply affected by the attachment of the orphans; andthough she felt the charge of Ruth would be a burden, she promised toconsult her father about the plan, and the brother and sister were leftin a state of great anxiety and doubt.
As they walked home, Margaret and Arthur talked of Jack's project tillthey satisfied themselves it was really feasible; and Arthur believedthat, once landed in India, the lad might obtain sufficient employmentto enable him to support himself and his sister.
"Oh, Jack will be a capital fellow to take with us," said Hugh. "I knowpapa will consent, for he could always trust Jack to find the birds'nests, and bring away the right eggs, as well as if he had gone himself.Then he is such an ingenious, clever fellow, just the man to be castaway on a desolate island."
"I trust we shall never have occasion to test his talents under suchextreme circumstances," said Arthur; "but, if we can manage it, I shouldreally like Jack to form a part of our establishment. As to thatluckless wench, Ruth, I should decidedly object to her, if we could becruel enough to separate them, which seems impossible. But I shallalways be haunted with the idea that she may contrive, somehow, to runthe ship upon a rock."
"Oh! do let us take Ruth, Meggie," exclaimed Gerald; "it will be suchfun. Isn't she a real Irish girl, all wrong words and unlucky blunders.Won't she get into some wonderful scrapes, Hugh?"
"With you to help her, Pat Wronghead," replied Hugh. "But mind, Meggie,she is to go. Papa will say what you choose him to say; and I willcajole nurse out of her consent."
And serious as the charge was likely to become, it was at length agreedthat Jack and Ruth should be included in the party with the Mayburns;and the girl was immediately transferred to the rectory, to undergo ashort course of drilling previous to the momentous undertaking.