The Book Of The Bush, George Dunderdale [thriller novels to read .txt] 📗

Story 6 ( The Two Shepherds.) Pg 139

       The Rooms Devoted To The Kindergarten Section Of The Exhibition.

       In October This Section Was Closed By A Conference Of

       Kindergarten Teachers From All England,  Held In The Lecture

       Theatre Of The Albert Hall.

 

       Autumn.--Dr. Wichard Lange,  The Biographer Of Froebel,  And

       Collector Of Froebel's Works (From Whose Collection The Present

       Translation Has Been Made),  And By His Numerous Articles One Of

       The Best Friends To The Advocacy Of Froebel's Educational

       Principles,  Died,  Under Somewhat Painful Circumstances.

 

 

 

 

 

Story 7 ( Bibliography Of Froebel.) Pg 140

 

 

Walter,  L. Die Froebel-Literatur. 8vo,  Pp. 198. Dresden.           $1.00

 

 

Gesammelte Paedagogische Schriften,  Hrsg. W. Lange. 8vo,  3 Vols.

[I. Autobiographie; Ii. Menschenerziehung; Iii. Pädagogik Des

Kindergartens]. Berlin,  1862.

 

Paedagogische Schriften,  Hrsg. Friedrich Seidel. 12mo,  3 Vols. [I.

Menschen-Erziehung,  Pp. 330; Ii. Kindergarten-Wesen,  Pp. 463; Iii.

Mutter- Und Kose-Lieder,  Pp. 228]. Wien,  1883.                      6.50

 

Menschen-Erziehung. Erziehungs-,  Unterrichts-,  Und Lehrkunst.

12mo,  Pp. 330. Wien,  1883.                                          2.00

 

The Education Of Man. Translated By Josephine Jarvis. 12mo,  Pp.

273. New York,  1885.                                                1.30

 

---- The Same, Obtaining A Reward Exceedingly Great In The Life To Come.  And

Even If There Were No Life To Come,  His Present Life Is Happier Far

Than That Of The Man Who Grabs At All The Wealth He Can Get Until He

Drops Into The Grave.  The Man Who Works "All For Love And Nothing

For Reward" Is A Being Incomprehensible To Us Ordinary Mortals; He Is

An Angel,  And If Ever He Was A Candidate For A Seat In Parliament He

Was Not Elected.  Even Love--"Which Rules The Court,  The Camp,  The

Grove"--Is Given Only With The Hope Of A Return Of Love; For

Hopeless Love Is Nothing But Hopeless Misery.

 

I Once Hired An Old Convict As Gardener At Five Shillings A Day.  He

Began To Work In The Morning With A Great Show Of Diligence While I

Story 7 ( Bibliography Of Froebel.) Pg 141

Was Looking On.  But On My Return Home In The Evening It Was

Wonderful To Find How Little Work He Had Contrived To Get Through

During The Day; So I Began To Watch Him.  His Systematic Way Of Doing

Nothing Would Have Been Very Amusing If It Cost Nothing.  He Pressed

His Spade Into The Ground With His Boot As Slowly As Possible,  Lifted

The Sod Very Gently,  And Turned It Over.  Then He Straightened His

Back,  Looked At The Ground To The Right,  Then To The Left,  Then In

Front Of Him,  And Then Cast His Eyes Along The Garden Fence.  Having

Satisfied Himself That Nothing Particular Was Happening Anywhere

Within View,  He Gazed Awhile At The Sod He Had Turned Over,  And Then

Shaved The Top Off With His Spade.  Having Straightened His Back Once

More,  He Began A Survey Of The Superficial Area Of The Next Sod,  And

At Length Proceeded To Cut It In The Same Deliberate Manner,

Performing The Same Succeeding Ceremonies.  If He Saw Me,  Or Heard Me

Approaching,  He Became At Once Very Alert And Diligent Until I Spoke

To Him,  Then He Stopped Work At Once.  It Was Quite Impossible For

Him Both To Labour And To Listen; Nobody Can Do Two Things Well At

The Same Time.  But His Greatest Relief Was In Talking;  He Would

Talk With Anybody All Day Long If Possible,  And Do Nothing Else; His

Wages,  Of Course,  Still Running On.  There Is Very Little Talk Worth

Paying For.  I Would Rather Give Some Of My Best Friends A Fee To Be

Silent,  Than Pay For Anything They Have To Tell Me.  My Gardener Was

A Most Unprofitable Servant; The Only Good I Got Out Of Him Was A

Clear Knowledge Of What The Government Stroke Meant,  And The

Knowledge Was Not Worth The Expense.  He Was In Other Respects

Harmless And Useless,  And,  Although He Had Been Transported For

Stealing,  I Could Never Find That He Stole Anything From Me.  The

Disease Of Larceny Seemed Somehow To Have Been Worked Out Of His

System; Though He Used To Describe With Great Pleasure How His

Misfortunes Began By Stealing Wall-Fruit When He Was A Boy; And

Although It Was To Him Like The Fruit

 

"Of That Forbidden Tree,  Whose Mortal Taste

Brought Death Into The World,  And All Our Woe."

 

It Was So Sweet That,  While Telling Me About It Sixty Years

Afterwards,  He Smiled And Smacked His Lips,  Renewing As It Were The

Delight Of Its Delicious Taste.

 

He Always Avoided,  As Much As Possible,  The Danger Of Dying Of Hard

Work,  So He Is Living Yet,  And Is Eighty-Six Years Old.  Whenever I

See Him He Gives Me His Blessing,  And Says He Never Worked For Any

Man He Liked So Well.  A Great Philosopher Says,  In Order To Be Happy

It Is Necessary To Be Beloved,  But In Order To Be Beloved We Must

Know How To Please,  And We Can Only Please By Ministering To The

Happiness Of Others.  I Ministered To The Old Convict's Happiness By

Letting Him Work So Lazily,  And So I Was Beloved And Happy.

 

He Had Formerly Been An Assigned Servant To Mr. Gellibrand,

Attorney-General Of Tasmania,  Before That Gentleman Went With Mr.

Hesse On That Voyage To Australia Felix From Which He Never Returned.

Some Portions Of A Skeleton Were Found On The Banks Of A River,  Which

Were Supposed To Belong To The Lost Explorer,  And That River,  And

Mount Gellibrand,  On Which He And Hesse Parted Company,  Were Named

Story 7 ( Bibliography Of Froebel.) Pg 142

After Him.

 

There Was A Blackfellow Living For Many Years Afterwards In The Colac

District Who Was Said To Have Killed And Eaten The Lost White Man;

The First Settlers Therefore Call Him Gellibrand,  As They Considered

He Had Made Out A Good Claim To The Name By Devouring The Flesh.

This Blackfellow's Face Was Made Up Of Hollows And Protuberances Ugly

Beyond All Aboriginal Ugliness.  I Was Present At An Interview

Between Him And Senior-Constable Hooley,  Who Nearly Rivalled The

Savage In Lack Of Beauty.  Hooley Had Been A Soldier In The Fifth

Fusiliers,  And Had Been Convicted Of The Crime Of Manslaughter,

Having Killed A Coloured Man Near Port Louis,  In The Mauritius.  He

Was Sentenced To Penal Servitude For The Offence,  And Had Passed Two

Years Of His Time In Tasmania.  This Incident Had Produced In His

Mind An Interest In Blackfellows Generally,  And On Seeing Gellibrand

Outside The Colac Courthouse,  He Walked Up To Him,  And Looked Him

Steadily In The Face,  Without Saying A Word Or Moving A Muscle Of His

Countenance.  I Never Saw A More Lovely Pair.  The Black Fellow

Returned The Gaze Unflinchingly,  His Deep-Set Eyes Fixed Fiercely On

Those Of The Irishman,  His Nostrils Dilated,  And His Frowning

Forehead Wrinkled And Hard,  As If Cast In Iron.  The Two Men Looked

Like Two Wild Beasts Preparing For A Deadly Fight.  At Length,  Hooley

Moved His Face Nearer To That Of The Savage,  Until Their Noses Almost

Met,  And Between His Teeth He Slowly Ejaculated:  "You Eat White Man?

You Eat Me?  Eh?"  Then The Deep Frown On Gellibrand's Face Began

Slowly To Relax,  His Thick Lips Parted By Degrees,  And Displayed,

Ready For Business,  His Sharp And Shining Teeth,  White As Snow And

Hard As Steel.  A Smile,  Which Might Be Likened To That Of A Humorous

Tiger,  Spread Over His Spacious Features,  And So The Interview Ended

Without A Fight.  I Was Very Much Disappointed,  As I Hoped The Two

Man-Slayers Were Going To Eat Each Other For The Public Good,  And I

Was Ready To Back Both Of Them Without Fear,  Favour,  Or Affection.

 

There Is No Doubt That The Blacks Ate Human Flesh,  Not As An Article

Of Regular Diet,  But Occasionally,  When The Fortune Of War,  Or

Accident,  Favoured Them With A Supply.  When Mr. Hugh Murray Set Out

From Geelong To Look For Country To The Westward,  He Took With Him

Several Natives Belonging To The Barrabool Tribe.  When They Arrived

Near Lake Colac They Found The Banks Of The Barongarook Creek Covered

With Scrub,  And On Approaching The Spot Where The Bridge Now Spans

The Watercourse,  They Saw A Blackfellow With His Lubra And A Little

Boy,  Running Towards The Scrub.  The Barrabool Blacks Gave Chase,  And

The Little Boy Was Caught By One Of Them Before He Could Find

Shelter,  And Was Instantly Killed With A Club.  That Night The

Picaninny Was Roasted At The Camp Fire,  And Eaten.

 

And Yet These Blacks Had Human Feelings And Affections.  I Once Saw A

Tribe Travelling From One Part Of The District To Another In Search

Of Food,  As Was Their Custom.  One Of The Men Was Dying Of

Consumption,  And Was Too Weak To Follow The Rest.  He Looked Like A

Living Skeleton,  But He Was Not Left Behind To Die.  He Was Sitting

On The Shoulders Of His Brother,  His Hands Grasping For Support The

Hair On The Head,  And His Wasted Legs Dangling In Front Of The

Other's Ribs.  These People Were Sometimes Hunted As If They Were

Story 7 ( Bibliography Of Froebel.) Pg 143

Wolves,  But Two Brother Wolves Would Not Have Been So Kind To Each

Other.

 

Before The White Men Came The Blacks Never Buried Their Dead; They

Had No Spades And Could Not Dig Graves.  Sometimes Their Dead Were

Dropped Into The Hollow Trunks Of Trees,  And Sometimes They Were

Burned.  There Was Once A Knoll On The Banks Of The Barongarook

Creek,  Below The Court-House,  The Soil