CONTENTS
Reading edition
PART I
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE BABY AMONG THE BOMBSHELLS 13
II. STRAWBERRIES AND CREAM 24
III. THE CONQUEST OF THE CRAGS 36
IV. LINOLEUM 46
V. THE EDITOR 57
VI. THE PEACEMAKER 68
VII. NOTHING 79
VIII. THE ANGEL AND THE IRON GATE 89
IX. SHORT CUTS 98
PART II
I. THE POSTMAN 113
II. CRYING FOR THE MOON 123
III. OUR LOST ROMANCES 134
IV. A FORBIDDEN DISH 144
V. AN OLD MAID’S DIARY 153
VI. THE RIVER 163
VII. FACES IN THE FIRE 172
VIII. THE MENACE OF THE SUNLIT HILL 184
IX. AMONG THE ICEBERGS 196
PART III
I. A BOX OF TIN SOLDIERS 207
II. LOVE, MUSIC, AND SALAD 216
III. THE FELLING OF THE TREE 227
IV. SPOIL! 237
V. A PHILOSOPHY OF FANCY-WORK 247
VI. A PAIR OF BOOTS 256
VII. CHRISTMAS BELLS 265
BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION
It was a chilling experience, that first glimpse of New Zealand! Hour after hour the great ship held on her way up the Cook Straits amidst scenery that made me shudder and that scowled me out of countenance. Rugged, massive, inhospitable, and bare, how sternly those wild and mountainous landscapes contrasted with the quiet beauty that I had surveyed from the same decks as the ship had dropped down Channel! I shaded my eyes with my hands and swept the strange horizon at every point, but nowhere could I see a sign of habitation—no man; no beast; no sheltering roof; no winding road; no welcoming column of smoke! And when, in the twilight of that still autumn evening, I at length descended the gangway, and set foot for the first time on the land of my adoption, I found myself—twelve thousand miles from home—in a country in which not a soul knew me, and in which I knew no single soul. It was not an exhilarating sensation.
That was on March 11, 1895—twenty-one years ago to-night. Those one-and-twenty years have been almost evenly divided between the old manse at Mosgiel, in New Zealand, and my present Tasmanian home. As I sit here, and let my memory play among the years, I smile at the odd way in which these southern lands have belied that first austere impression. In my fire to-night I see such crowds of faces—the faces of those with whom I have laughed and cried, and camped and played, and worked and worshipped in the course of these one-and-twenty years. There are fancy-faces, too; the folk of other latitudes; the faces I have never seen; the friends my pen has brought me. I cannot write to all to-night; so I set aside this book as a memento of the times we have spent together. If, by good hap, it reaches any of them, let them regard it as a shake of the hand for the sake of auld lang syne. And if, in addition to cementing old friendships, it creates new ones, how doubly happy I shall be!
FRANK W. BOREHAM.
Hobart, Tasmania.