There Is No Isolation So Weird In Its Feeling Of Cut-Offness As That Of A
Night Camp In The Heart Of The Bush.
The flickering camp-fires draw all
that is human and tangible into its charmed circle, and without, all is
undefinable darkness and uncertainty.
Yet it was in this night camp
among the dark pines, with even the stars shut out, that we learnt that
out-bush "Houselessness" need not mean "Homelessness" - a discovery that
destroyed all hope that "this would sicken her a bit."
As we were only to be out one night, and there was little chance of rain,
we had nothing with us but a little tucker, a bluey each, and a couple of
mosquito nets. The simplicity of our camp added intensely to the
isolation; and as I stood among the dry rustling leaves, looking up at
the dark broad-leaved canopy above us, with my "swag" at my feet, the
Maluka called me a "poor homeless little coon."
A woman with a swag sounds homeless enough to Australian ears, but Dan,
with his habit of looking deep into the heart of things, "didn't exactly
see where the homelessness came in."
We had finished supper, and the Maluka stretching himself luxuriously in
the firelight, made a nest in the warm leaves for me to settle down in.
"You're right, Dan," he said, after a short silence, "when I come to
think of it; I don't exactly see myself where the homelessness comes in.
A bite and a sup and a faithful dog, and a guidwife by a glowing hearth,
and what more is needed to make a home.
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