Later on the horses were saddled, and every one rode out to the river,
where Brownie and the maids had already been driven by Fred Anderson,
and where they picnicked for tea. Afterwards they lay on the soft
grass, with the water murmuring past them, and Mr. Linton told them
stories--for Christmas was ever, and will ever be, the time for stories.
Simple, straightforward tales, like the man himself: old Christmases
overseas, and others in many parts of Australia--some that brought a
sadder note into the speaker's voice, and made Norah draw herself along
the grass until she came within touch of his hand. Words were never
really needed between them--being mates.
So they stayed until the golden western sky had grown rose colour, and
the rose glow faded into night, that brought with it a little cool
breeze. Then the horses were saddled, and they rode home by the longest
possible way, singing every imaginable chorus, from Good Old Jeff to
the latest medley of pantomime ditties, and ending with a wild scurry
across the paddock home. They all trooped into the house, waking its
quietness to youth and laughter.
But David Linton called to Norah.
"Come on," he said, "we'll finish up with the real Christmas songs."
So they all gathered round the piano while Norah played, and joined in
the old Christmas hymns and carols--none the less hearty in that they
sang of frost and snow with all around them the yellowing plain, dried
up by the scorching sun, and, beyond that, the unbroken line of the
little trodden Bush.
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