University of Virginia Library

Waratah breakfasts were at nine:
Lil was down first and looked divine
In a fresh, simple, morning dress
Of gossamer, with snowiness
Unbroken save by sash pale blue
Wound round her, and a spray or two
Of the wild brook forget-me-not
Pinned in a cluster at her throat.
The others followed. One could see
Who were for church quite easily
Without appealing to the vote.
Old Mr Forte in his frock coat
And Chesterfield looked most devout:
Maud Morrison was much decked out,
And Mrs Forte wore rich black silk,
Margaret ‘Surah,’ white as milk,
Miss Ridley her best summer white,
While the Professor came down dight
In Paget suit of iron-grey twill
And stiff white waistcoat. Only Lil
Was neutral. Kit was careless in
A Norfolk jacket masculine,
And Phil and Will wore old tweed clothes,
Which told as plainly as would oaths
How much church service they would hear,
And Hall replied with prompt “No fear,”
When he was challenged. Lachlan Smith
Was down too late, and Ida with
An “I don't think I'll go to-day,”
Announced her wishes straight away.

At half past ten the waggonette,
In which old Mr Forte had met
Professor Cobham, was brought round,
When he to his surprise profound
Perceived that though a hot wind blew
(The Fahrenheit marked 92°
With most oppressive sultriness,
Lil had exchanged her cool white dress
For a black silk with pannier
And flounce, and other heavy gear,
And long tight gloves—such sacrifice
Will women make to touches nice.
She certainly looked very well,
And what the vulgar call ‘a swell,’
But not so graceful or so bright
As in her simple dress of white.
However it would not have done
For younger sisters to have gone
Much dressed, while elder went arrayed
In simple fabrics simply made.
The gentlemen left in the lurch
(For want of space) all walked to church,
A pretty little bluestone pile
Which Mr Forte had built, with aisle
And nave and chancel. It was decked,
With some fair notion of effect,
By Lil, and Maud, and Margaret.
The hymns to pretty tunes were set,
But like the sermon ill-prepared:
The gossips of the township stared,
As village gossips always will,
At Mrs Forte, and Maud, and Lil,
To criticize their looks and dress,
And comment on their ugliness:
And then the plate went round, and then
They shook hands and drove home again,
Along a heavy, sandy road,
While overhead a fierce sun glowed,
And the north wind with sudden gust
Caught up and eddied clouds of dust.
Arrived at home they came on Will,
And Kit, and Lachlan Smith, and Phil,
On sundry sofas lying prone,
And reading newspapers, alone,
In sheer disgust because the day
Was far too hot for tennis play.
Kit decked for dinner in a dress,
Cut with a habit's simpleness,
Made of black velvet, Will and Phil
In their old tweed shell jackets still.
The Christmas dinner was at two,
And all that wealth or pains could do
Was done to make it a success,
And marks of female tastefulness
And traces of a lady's care
Were noticeable everywhere.
The port was old, the champagne dry,
And ev'ry kind of luxury
Which Melbourne could supply was there.
They had the staple Christmas fare,
Roast beef and turkey (this was wild),
Mince pies, plum pudding, rich and mild,
One for the ladies, one designed
For Mr Forte's severer mind,
Were on the board. Yet in a way
It did not seem like Christmas day,
With no gigantic beech Yule-logs
Blazing between the brass fire dogs,
And with 100° in the shade
On the thermometer displayed.
Nor were there Christmas offerings
Of tasteful inexpensive things,
Like those which one in England sends
At Christmas to his kin and friends,
Though the professor with him took
A present of a recent book
For Lil, and Madge, and Mrs Forte,
And though a card of some new sort
Had been arranged by Lil to face,
At breakfast, everybody's place.

When dinner ended, nearly all
Stole off to have a snooze or sprawl
Upon the lounges in the hall.
The heat was too oppressive still
For outdoor exercise, but Will
Went out to give his dogs a run
In a plantation where the sun
And wind were broken by the trees.
And Kit, who bore the heat with ease,
Challenged Professor Cobham's skill
At billiards; Hall, and Smith, and Phil,
Lazily blowing clouds of smoke,
And criticising every stroke.
Each of the players much surprised
The other,—Kit had not surmised
That the professor's play would show
Such mastery of “running through,”
So quick an eye and sure a hand,
Nor he that she had such command
Of check and screw, and would display
So much sound judgment in her play.

And so the long close afternoon
To its late end dragged slowly on,
Without a breeze from morn to eve
The suffocation to relieve.
Sunset just took away the glare
But did not cool the heat-charged air,
And everybody in the house
Was glad when tea-time came to rouse
Their languid torpor and despair.

Tea over, no one seemed to care
To face the hothouse atmosphere
Of the verandah, but drew near
To listen to Lord Chesterfield
And the Professor, who distilled
The pith of Schliemann's ponderous
And formidable “Ilios;”
Holding the book up in his hand
To illustrate as he explained
That those who heard might understand
A heavy subject, at the best
By no means easy to invest
With any human interest,
A fact which was not lost on Kit,
Who hinted with her ready wit
That she would like it just as well
If he would close the book, and tell
Homeric tales, and make them rife
With touches of the old Greek life
As painted by the bard. “You can
Bear out or quarrel with Schliemann
By following his theories
Or choosing those which he denies,
And we shall have our tale, and learn
Greek habits without study stern.”
The rest her action ratified,
And, as a subject she'd supplied,
Declared her Queen without resort
To Justice Ballot-box's Court.