While on expanded wing and flashing side
Splendours of hidden colours shone revealed.
Such was the day that brought me once again
To Wongan.—Birds and days are wondrous things.
We know not what brown bird, what dawn of pain
Hides red and gold beneath its folded wings.
Wongan Hills in Drought
Sweet Wongan Hills! Oh could I but restore
In smallest measure your great gifts to me—
Could I but smooth your dear brown faces free
From lines of care, and see you smile once more.
I’d bring a giant’s brimming howl of rain
To bathe your burning brows, your dusty hands.
I’d crown and girdle you with flowery bands.
And wrap you round in cloth of gold again.
As when with breaking heart I crept to you
And at your feet poured out my tale forlorn;
While from your quiet strength to me was given
The healing peace that maketh all things new.
You smiled a heartening benison at morn,
You wrapped me in your crimson robe at even.
The Wongan Wayside
PART I.—August, 1915
The Wongan Way, like the way to a certain place in Ireland, is a “long, long way" in many respects. It is a long way from the city to begin with; and when we arrive at the railway station, which is called Wongan Hills, it is still a long way to the siding that should he called Wongan Gap, but is not. Here we are met and driven out through the Gap, and between the hills to our friends at Wongan Hills West—the real Wongan Hills.
Here and now the Wongan wayside is beautiful throughout the changeful days and restful nights. The Angel of the Rain has wept in pity over the land that last year languished in drought and dust. The “early and the latter rains" have brought healing and hope to the marred, scarred faces of the bare brown hills.
Last year My Lady of Spring passed by the land, sighing. She could not trust her precious things with us. She would not place her tender children in homes where the Angel of the Rain had not attended, to see that their cradles were curtained and cushioned with green ; their sweet faces washed clean, and their tiny feet kept white and soft. So we had no flowers.
But now the hillsides are white and gold with scrub blossom; and all along the roadsides we see quaint orchids, patches of blue, tufts of lilac, clusters of pink, and tradings of scarlet. The wild fuschias are in