In the previous chapter I have spoken of Mr. Warner and his fruit orchard. The old saying that misfortunes, like blessings, never come singly was verified in their case. One day, not long after the previous incident, Miss Warner was in the orchard pruning some young trees. As she moved away from a tree she had finished with, she felt a sharp slap on her right thigh and knew at once she had trodden on a snake, which animals are very numerous in that part of the country. Her bush training had taught her that it is safest in such a case to stand quite still until you know which end of the snake you are treading on. Perchance it may be on its head, and if so you can easily dispatch it; and if, unfortunately, you are on its tail, well, no earthly power can save you from being bitten before you can jump clear. As ill-luck would have it, Miss Warner had trod upon the snake’s tail and it had retaliated by digging its poisoned fang into her thigh. It was just about to make another stab, when she struck at it with her pruning knife, cutting it in two and killing it instantly. Then she coolly wiped the point of the knife on her dress, and deliberately made a cross cut into her thigh where the snake had bitten her. Then, while the blood was spurting from the wound, she called out to her father who came running to her, knowing by the sound of her voice that something was the matter. In a few seconds he had torn his handkerchief into strips and tightly bound the leg above and below the wound. Then, saddling his horse and one for the wounded girl, they set off on their twelve mile ride to Newcastle.

You can imagine what that ride was like to Miss Warner, up hill and down dale as fast as the horses could go, the great gash in her leg was very agony of pain. It required endurance, nerve, and pluck—qualities our colonial bush-reared maidens are in no way deficient in. Her father, too, had a very good reason for letting her ride on horseback. Snake poison, as is well known, causes sleepiness, which, if succumbed to, knows no waking. Had Mr. Warner taken her in a trap, he would not have been able to prevent her from falling asleep, so had put her upon her horse, hoping to reach Newcastle before the poison took effect. They had ridden about nine miles when Miss Warner became very faint, and could scarcely keep her seat on her horse. Just then they met a young man riding out to the lake district, and as soon as he heard the state of affairs, he at once turned his horse round and went back to Newcastle to obtain a doctor.

Fortunately the doctor was in, he immediately ordered his carriage, and taking his instrument case and some antidote to counteract the snake poison, he set out and met Mr. and Miss Warner just outside the town. He at once helped her off her horse, then she was taken more dead than alive to the nearest house, and all that medical skill could do and suggest was done for her, but it was fully three months before she was able to return home, and then looked a perfect wreck in comparison to her former robust self. But the brave spirit was in no way quenched by the suffering she had gone through.

The other brave girl was the daughter of an old boat-builder name Parrell, who lived on the banks of Lake McQuarrie, with his wife and his one daughter, Jennie, who was seventeen years of age, and had been born in the bush of Australia. Like most of the girls reared in the bush, she was a fearless horse-woman, a strong swimmer, a first-class shot with a revolver, as cool as a cucumber at all times, and, to crown all, one of the prettiest girls in those parts, at least I thought so, and many a young fellow beside, but Jennie would have none of us, but would laugh and shake her head at our attempts to oust each other in our efforts to win her favour, but it was all to no purpose, Jennie remained heart-whole, and we sighed in vain.

The house they lived in was built of weatherboard, and stood at the mouth of a small creek, where it emptied itself into the lake. All the rooms were on the ground floor, and were divided by a thin partition about six feet high, thus making two bedrooms and a good-sized living room, all furnished very comfortably, the beds used being the ordinary trestle camp beds. One night I had gone over to try and get a chat with Jennie—the night was hot and sultry, there was not a breath of air moving, the day had been one of the hottest we had had, the mosquitoes were terribly vicious. When I got there I found that Mrs. Parrell and Jennie, unable to bear the heat and mosquitoes any longer for that day, had gone to bed under their mosquito curtains, so Mr. Parrell and I sat on a log outside the cottage door. There was some satisfaction in being near the object of my admiration at any rate, and her father always gave me a very hearty welcome, which was something in my favour, at least I thought so. They had been in bed about two hours—while we had been yarning—when Mrs. Parrell heard her daughter quietly calling her.

“What do you want, lassie?” she replied. “Can’t you sleep?”

“No, mother, there is a snake in my bed,” the girl answered. “It is lying on my naked legs. I dare not move or it will bite me. Tell my father quick.”

The terrified mother needed no second bidding, springing out of bed she rushed to the door and told her husband.

“Hush, mother,” he said quietly, laying his hand on her arm, “don’t make a sound, or you will do more harm than good.” Then quietly he crept into his own room and speaking softly, said:

“Where is it now, Jennie? Don’t be afraid, lassie.”

“On my stomach, father, and it is working up to my breast,” she replied in a low tone.

I thought, of course, the father would have rushed into the room, and at one blow would have killed the reptile. Not so, the old man had learnt by experience a better way than that.

The door of the bedroom was just at the foot of the girl’s bed, and any noise, either by opening or shutting it, would have startled the snake, and, perhaps, made it plunge its poisoned fang into Jennie’s body, and thus have ended her young happy life, but the father knew just what to do under the circumstances. Going to a cupboard that stood in the corner of his room, he took down an old violin, then crossing, without a sound, over to the end of the room farthest away from the bed, he drew the bow lightly over the strings making a soft plaintive sound. The moment the snake heard the noise, it poised its head up on the girl’s breast, and as the soft plaintive notes floated about the room it began to wriggle along towards the foot of the bed in the direction of the sound. The brave girl kept her nerve and presence of mind marvellously. She knew full well her very life depended on it, for the slightest movement on her part, while the snake was on her body, would have been fatal. But as soon as she felt the snake slip off the bed she sprang up and out of the way. The snake, when it heard her move, made a dart for a small knot hole in the planking of the floor, through which it had entered the room, but it had Jennie to reckon with, and before it could reach it she had thrown a pillow upon it, then her father rushed in and dispatched it with a stick, he brought it outside, and we measured it, and found it was three feet nine inches in length, and was about as thick as a broom handle. It was a carpet snake, one of the most deadly enemies to be encountered in bush life. A few minutes afterwards, Jennie and her mother having dressed, came outside, and I could not help telling her how much I admired her nerve and courage, and asked how she knew it was a snake?

“Why because it was so cold and clammy,” she replied, making a wry face. “A snake is always cold, no matter how hot the place may be where it gets into.”

The next day I had occasion to go to Newcastle on some business for Mr. Williams and looked forward with some pleasure to the twelve mile ride through the bush on the back of old Blunderbuss, a horse that had once belonged to that king of bushrangers, Captain Morgan, and after having passed through several people’s hands, had become the property of Mr. Williams. We had only gone a few miles on our way, when I began to notice that what little air there was had an acrid smell about it, and every step it seemed to become more close and stifling. Blunderbuss, too, began to twitch his ears and sniff. Then a little farther on the cause of it burst upon me—the bush was on fire—for a second or two I pulled up, and looking round, to my amazement the trees near by began to blaze and crackle, and there I was with fire in the front of me and sweeping along the path over which I had come. There was nothing to be done but try and get through to where it was already burnt, so putting spurs to the horse we began our race for life. Hotter and hotter grew the blast, as I urged the panting beast forward. Kangaroos leaped out from among the burning scrub, and fled onward, a greater enemy than man was upon them. Then a drove of wild horses went madly past, while the birds shrieked and fluttered above our heads, powerless to help themselves. Onward, still onward we went, the flames hissing and crackling over our heads, and still we seemed to be no nearer to the outlet, no track was visible, and all around was the thick hot air. Blunderbuss, too, seemed to be pulling in quite an opposite direction, then it flashed across my mind that perhaps the instinct of the poor beast would lead us into safety, so giving him his head and hoping for the best I let him go his own way. In an instant he wheeled almost round, and sped onward towards what seemed a veritable inferno of flaming trees, with head outstretched and feet scarce touching the hot earth he dashed through the blazing mass, and presently to my joy I saw that he was making for an old bridle path that led around the cliffs to Newcastle, and thankful I was, for had it not been for the instinct of Blunderbuss we might both have perished miserably. As we slackened our speed now that the danger was past, I turned to look at the sight we were leaving behind. Overhead was a dusky canopy of thick black smoke, there stood the black bare trees between us and the still raging fire, farther away the sparks were dropping from the thick smoke like a hailstorm, then again it looked like a moving curtain of crimson smoke, with the falling and blazing twigs and small branches, like coloured fireworks—all blue, red and yellow, while tongues of flame licked up the dry scrub and grass.

It was a grand sight to look at when you were safely out of it, but we were both in a sorry state, for our hair was singed and our skin blistered where the flames had touched us. The next day Blunderbuss and I returned to Belmont, needless to say we gave the still burning bush a wide berth, and reached home before nightfall. The fire was burning for the best part of a week, and when some weeks afterwards I passed that way again, I marvelled how we had ever passed through that furnace of flame.