Australian Tales - Setis

at the idea of soon seeing a living person who had so recently conversed
with her dear boy Sam. There are fond mothers in Australia too, who
would hail such pleasure as the happiest holiday they could have, and
would sit and listen to good news from their absent sons or daughters
with far more delight than they would listen to a grand concert.
On the appointed day Marigold Cottage looked extra stylish, and the
widow's cap was unusually prim and stiff starched. The savoury odour
which floated from her little kitchen, and the snow-white table-cloth
spread in her front parlour, indicated that some one was coming out of
the common circle of her visitors, and the good old lady's face was
beaming with happy satisfaction. Many longing glances did she cast up
the lane for signs of the approach of her expected guest as the hours
dragged lazily on; and many gentle bastings did she bestow upon the
poor birds before the fire, which had long since been done brown. It was
two hours past dinner-time, and her sharp appetite had given place to the
peculiar faintness produced by dinner delayed, while her heart was
beginning to grow sick with “hope deferred.” The ducks were
overcooked, and as dry as stuffed shags in a museum; the green peas
were boiled to green paste, and the batter pudding was getting hard as
beeswax; in fact, the nice dinner was spoiled and not fit to set before her
son's friend, who she imagined was a particularly prim and stately
gentleman. The widow was just going to sit down and have a good
cry — as she called it — when suddenly she began to laugh, for she saw
a gig stop at her gate, and heard a strange, comical voice shout out,
“Hallo, there, be's that Mrs. Blunt's cottage?”
“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” exclaimed the widow, hastily toddling along the
garden path. “Are you Mr. Trump?”
“E'es, sure enough I'm he, come to see thee at last. How be'est thee,
then?” said bluff Goliah, shaking hands with the widow till he nearly
shook her cap off, and made her sneeze. In another minute he was sitting
in the best parlour, telling in his broadest style all the interesting news he
could think of about her son Sam, his devoted wife, and their boys, Dick,
Tom, and Harry. Oh, what a happy afternoon that was for Widow Blunt!
she will never forget it. How she sat and laughed and cried alternately, as
her loquacious visitor poured out his budget of news from the far-off
land, and told her all the pleasing things he knew concerning the loved
ones who were as dear to her as her life. All her late troubles about her
shrivelled ducks and waxy pudding were forgotten in the joy she felt at
the good tidings which Goliah had brought her, and which his fertile
fancy assisted to make highly amusing, while his occasional outbursts of
laughter made the cuckoos in the adjacent woods wag their tails.
Oh, ye restless seekers after new sensations, did you ever try the
refreshing excitement of raising up a down-crushed spirit? or ever sit and
see a poor old widowed mother cry for joy over some little bit of good