Page 74 - A Little Bush Maid

"Why on earth," Jim reflected, "couldn’t she have left the old chap alone?
The party was all right without him--we didn’t want any one else--least of

all an odd oddity like this." And though the other boys were loyal to Norah,
she certainly suffered a fall in their estimation, and was classed for the

moment with the usual run of "girls who do rummy things."

However, the Hermit was a man of penetration and soon realized the state

of the social barometer. His hosts, who did not look at all like quiet boys,
were eating their blackfish in perfect silence, save for polite requests for

bread or pepper, or the occasional courteous remark, "Chuck us the salt!"

Accordingly the Hermit exerted himself to please, and it would really have

taken more than three crabby boys to resist him. He told the drollest stories,
which sent everyone into fits of laughter, although he never laughed

himself at all; and he talked about the bush, and told them of the queer
animals he saw--having, as he said, unusually good opportunities for
watching the bush inhabitants unseen. He knew where the lyrebirds danced,

and had often crept silently through the scrub until he could command a
view of the mound where these strange birds strutted and danced, and

mimicked the other birds with life-like fidelity. He loved the birds very
much, and never killed any of them, even when a pair of thievish magpies
attacked his larder and pecked a damper into little bits when he was away

fishing. Many of the birds were tame with him now, he said; they would
hop about the camp and let him feed them; and he had a carpet snake that

was quite a pet, which he offered to show them--an offer that broke down
the last tottering barriers of the boys’ reserve. Then there were his different
methods of trapping animals, some of which were strange even to Jim, who

was a trapper of much renown.

"Don’t you get lonely sometimes?" Norah asked him.

The Hermit looked at her gravely.

"Sometimes," he said. "Now and then one feels that one would give

something to hear a human voice again, and to feel a friend’s hand-grip. Oh,
there are times, Miss Norah, when T talk to myself--which is bad--or yarn to