Brown Study

No Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels have I met, But yet, I like this land and its brown people too, And love the small shack we have made our home with bushland view across the broad blue bay.

Behind which mountains rise in steep ascent.

To-day I saw brown bodies bending o'er Tall kunai grass, swinging their saraf knives In rhythm slow, chanting monotonous Melodies of their distant villages; The tune goes on and on, as time does here.

The paw-paws turn from green to mellow ripe, And Sibu holds a golden leaf against the fruit To show us they are ready to be plucked.

We fear the flying foxes in the night, Black Bockis, Sibu calls them, so we gather them Against a background of the setting sun.

The marys go into the garden. One Her piccaninny slings across her shoulders, He swings as she above the flowers stoops.

It is a primitive but pretty sight To watch the marys watering at night.

Blue is the morning glory, in the fore ground The slender stalk of bird-of-paradise Parades in yellow a most elegant sight.

I love my island garden, yet to-day What would I give to see the wattles bloom And feel the frost upon the paths at home!

It’s Friday, and across the air comes the purr of a plane.

Sibu and Sangi dart out of the house and call “Balus ’e come!” They watch and so do I Waiting mv letters from home. Oh Friday, How I wait for you all the week!

I gave my husband’s helmet to a mary And told her, clean it as she cleans my shoes: (I didn’t say white shoes) and I saw her take Black brush and nugget. Was it lucky that I looked— The nearest store’s a hundred miles away!

The marys have gone to the bush and brought armfuls Of yellows and reds in colourful con trasts— Red poincianas are challenging crotons; There a r e balsams in gay little bowls on the tables And orchids are leaning against Mother’s photo.

All this is much more than mere decoration— The heart of this tropical land it ex presses.

Yet my thoughts turn to snowdrops, freezias and violets And bitter bleak winds that come in September In far-away Sydney. * * * Sibu has gone with his gun some pigeons to shoot; He never tires of this day-belong-shoot, so like limlimboo, Though he must go to the mangrove swamps before sunrise.

At two he returns. I see his empty gun, “Me find ’im, find ’im, me no look ’im,” he says.

I stoically turn to the store and take out a tin And turn it into yet another dinner dish.

But Sibu went again, and this time we said If he brought back six, one pigeon would be for him.

He showed a flash of white teeth, and we wondered . . .

Mid-day came, and I saw Sibu returning.

Over his back he proudly bore his gun, And I counted a number of pigeons slung upon it.

“Six fellah, Missus!” he called trium phantly, Sitting down under the paw-paws to pluck them. * * * Out of the night arises a terrible storm; Rain runs swiftly across the open rooms.

We wake, aware of rain upon our faces.

Three o’clock! The dread of empty tanks recedes.

At home the milkman’s cart will be clat tering down the street, Perhaps a goods train is puffing its way up-hill— And is it starry or stormy down there to-night?

The rats that run along the roof at night With sinister sounds of scuffling feet And keep us wakeful, yet are not as hard to bear As that intangible monotony, the dread Of nothing fresh to do, no difference In any day. More sapping than the steamy skies Is this unchanging sameness all the year.

Flame trees fling their flowers against the sky Their scarlet brings to Sydney’s winter, warmth, How often have I seen them m the South!

But here I saw a Chinese-red canna erowine Out of a cliff against the Coral Sea— The most arresting sight I saw that day.

The quiet bush is mirrored in the bay, Canoes sail slowly in the tropic noon, Clouds lightly float upon the mountain sides.

We drove alone along the silent sands, The sea reflected the rose-radiant sky, A silhouette of natives spearing fish Stood darkly out against the setting sun.

I never tire of seeing the moon through palms— Though often how I yearn to watch it rise Above the camphor-laurel trees at home, And see the lighted fire, and oh, just once To hear the postman’s whistle in this land. ♦ * * But, though no Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels have I met, I like this land, and its brown people, too, And love the small shack that we made our home.

Freda Macdonnell.