Page 7 - A Little Bush Maid

Before his time the stables had been a conglomerate mass, bark-roofed,
slab-sided, falling to decay; added to as each successive owner had thought

fit, with a final mixture of old and new that was neither convenient nor
beautiful. Mr. Linton had apologised to his horses during his first week of

occupancy and, in the second, turning them out to grass with less apology,
had pulled down the rickety old sheds, replacing them with a compact and
handsome building of red brick, with room for half a dozen buggies, men’s

quarters, harness and feed rooms, many loose boxes and a loft where a ball
could have been held--and where, indeed, many a one was held, when all

the young farmers and stockmen and shearers from far and near brought
each his lass and tripped it from early night to early dawn, to the strains of
old Andy Ferguson’s fiddle and young Dave Boone’s concertina. Norah had

been allowed to look on at one or two of these gatherings. She thought
them the height of human bliss, and was only sorry that sheer inability to

dance prevented her from "taking the floor" with Mick Shanahan, the horse
breaker, who had paid her the compliment of asking her first. Tt was a great
compliment, too, Norah felt, seeing what a man of agility and splendid

accomplishments was Mick--and that she was only nine at the time.

There was one loose box which was Norah’s very own property, and
without her permission no horse was ever put in it except its rightful
occupant--Bobs, whose name was proudly displayed over the door in Jim’s

best carving.

Bobs had always belonged to Norah, He had been given to her as a foal,
when Norah used to ride a round little black sheltie, as easy to fall off as to
mount. He was a beauty even then, Norah thought; and her father had

looked approvingly at the long-legged baby, with his fine, well-bred head.
"You will have something worth riding when that fellow is fit to break in,

my girlie," he had said, and his prophecy had been amply fulfilled. Mick
Shanahan said he’d never put a leg over a finer pony. Norah knew there
never had been a finer anywhere. He was a big pony, very dark bay in

colour, and "as handsome as paint," and with the kindest disposition; full of
life and "go," but without the smallest particle of vice. Tt was an even

question which loved the other best, Bobs or Norah. No one ever rode him
except his little mistress. The pair were hard to beat--so the men said.