Seven Little Australians | Page 3

trial of her life.
Without doubt she was the worst of the seven, probably because she
was the cleverest. Her brilliant inventive powers plunged them all into
ceaseless scrapes, and though she often bore the brunt of the blame
with equanimity, they used to turn round, not infrequently, and upbraid

her for suggesting the mischief. She had been christened "Helen,"
which in no way account's for "Judy," but then nicknames are rather
unaccountable things sometimes, are they not? Bunty said it was
because she was always popping and jerking herself about like the
celebrated wife of Punch, and there really is something in that. Her
other name, "Fizz," is easier to understand; Pip used to say he never yet
had seen the ginger ale that effervesced and bubbled and made the
noise that Judy did,
I haven't introduced you to Pip yet, have I? He was a little like Judy,
only handsomer and taller, and he was fourteen, and had as good an
opinion, of himself and as poor a one of girls as boys of that age
generally have.
Meg was the eldest of the family, and had a long, fair plait that Bunty
used to delight in pulling; a sweet, rather dreamy face, and a powdering
of pretty freckles that occasioned her much tribulation of spirit.
It was generally believed in the family that she wrote poetry and stories,
and even kept a diary, but no one had ever seen a vestige of her papers,
she kept them so carefully locked up in her, old tin hat-box. Their
father, had you asked them they would all have replied with
considerable pride, was "a military man," and much from home. He did
not understand children at all, and was always grumbling at the noise
they made, and the money they cost. Still, I think he was rather proud
of Pip, and sometimes, if Nellie were prettily dressed, he would take
her out with him in his dogcart.
He had offered to send the six of hem to boarding school when he
brought home his young girl-wife, but she would not hear of it.
At first they had tried living in the barracks, but after a time every one
in the officers' quarters rose in revolt at the pranks of those graceless
children, so Captain Woolcot took a house some distance up the
Parramatta River, and in considerable bitterness of spirit removed his
family there.
They liked the change immensely; for there was a big wilderness of a
garden, two or three paddocks, numberless sheds for hide-and-seek,
and, best of all, the water. Their father kept three beautiful horses, one
at he barracks and a hunter and a good hack at Misrule; so, to make up,
the children--not that they cared in the slightest--went about in shabby,
out-at-elbow clothes, and much-worn boots. They were taught--all but

Pip, who went to the grammar school--by a very third-class daily
governess, who lived in mortal fear of her ignorance being found out by
her pupils. As a matter of fact, they had found her out long ago, as
children will, but it suited them very well not to be pushed on and made
to work, so they kept the fact religiously to themselves.

CHAPTER II
Fowl for Dinner
"Oh, don't the days seem lank and long When all goes right and nothing
wrong; And isn't your life extremely flat With nothing whatever to
grumble at?"
I hope you are not quite deafened yet, for though I have got through the
introductions, tea is not nearly finished, so we must stay in the nursery
a little longer: All the time I have been talking Pip has been grumbling
at the lack of good things. The table was not very tempting, certainly;
the cloth looked as if it had been flung on, the china was much chipped
and battered, the tea was very weak, and there was nothing to eat but
great thick slices of bread and butter. Still, it was the usual tea, and
everyone seemed surprised at Pip's outburst.
"My father and Esther" (they all called their young stepmother by her
Christian name) "are having roast fowl, three vegetables, and four kinds
of pudding," he said angrily; "it isn't fair!"
"But we had dinner at one o'clock, Pip, and yours is saved as usual,"
said Meg, pouring out tea with a lavish allowance of hot water and
sugar.
"Boiled mutton and carrots and rice pudding!" returned her brother
witheringly. "Why shouldn't we have roast fowl and custard and
things?"
"Yes, why shouldn't we?" echoed little greedy Bunty; his eyes lighting
up.
"What a lot it would take for all of us!" said Meg, cheerfully attacking
the bread loaf.
"We're only children--let us be thankful for this nice thick bread and
this abundance of melting