I wonder who it was who first encouraged Edith to write. Perhaps it was the editor of the Victorian Naturalist, Francis G. Barnard. Or maybe other emerging and established nature writers, like Donald Macdonald, Alec Chisholm or Philip Crosbie Morrison. It could have been Irene Frances Taylor, the editor and journalist at the Gum Tree and Woman’s World, or even Nettie Palmer (also a nature writer) with whom Edith was friends. Edith knew how valuable such encouragement was. She gave it freely to others, like Rica Erickson and Jean Galbraith. But her own mentor, if she had one, remains a mystery.
Some autumn orchids
By (Mrs.) E. Coleman
Autumn is here – like Spring returned to us,
Won from her girlishness. – Browning
Surely there is no more fascinating hobby than the study of orchids, and there are two delightful ways of pursuing it: where expense is no object one may tread the primrose path by means of glass houses; but to know the real charm of orchid-collecting one must be a lover of the open and walk the forest ways in search of them.
With me the love of these shy blooms is not an isolated attachment. It is closely associated with the songs of birds, the scent of heath, blue hills, cool gullies, and the whip-bird’s call, and the many other delights which each season brings.
To the true lover of orchids there is no ‘orchid season.’ To him it is ever ‘the time of tender opening things’ and, though his prizes now are small and insignificant in comparison with ones to be found later,
When the fields catch flower,
And the underwood is green, they are not less beautiful in his eyes. He smiles when he hears the ‘off season’ mentioned, for that is the time when his hope is highest. He continues his rambles through autumn and winter, climbing hills and searching gullies in the sure expectation that he will one day find an orchid new to him – perhaps new to science! This is the one thing he would add to Hazlitt’s sum of a perfect day. Who would grudge him his moment of exultation? And is there any finer time for walking than the autumn, when Nature speaks to us of so many rememberable things? We may walk the forest ways for many days without capturing our blue bird: but we shall surely garner a little of Nature’s gold by the wayside.
It is surprising how soon one acquires the ‘orchid eye,’ and one needs it now, for many of our autumn forms are so small as to escape the notice of all but ardent seekers. In colouring, too, they are very subdued, in strong contrast with the ‘flaunting flowers our gardens yield’ at this time of the year; but, seen under the magnifying glass, their beauty would convert the most indifferent observer into an enthusiast. Let us, then, set out on our autumn rambles, hugging a great ‘Perhaps.’
Chapter 8
A PERFECT PARTNERSHIP
‘The haunts of the long-tongued greenhood are among the tangled vegetation that clothes the banks of little creeks, in dank mountain gullies, or on cool, well-clad hill slopes: and the setting is a fitting one, for the plants are so well hidden, often so cunningly camouflaged, that one rarely discovers more than a single flower at a time, rising out of its tangled cover in a queenly isolation that calls for individual admiration.’
January 1927
Edith has almost forgotten how much the view from Goongarrie had changed since the ‘Black Sunday’ fires. The fires burnt for several weeks over last summer, through the south-eastern forests from Healesville, on the outskirts of Melbourne, right to the furthest corner of the state. All the great forests destroyed, the fern gullies charred and eroded, and sixty lives lost. The memory of burnt-out cars and motorcycles on the side of the road still makes Edith ill to think of; the homeless sifting through the wreckage of their lives with only a chimney left standing. Such a tragedy.
Standing on the verandah, Edith can see the tall poles on distant hills where fires stripped the tree canopies bare. But it hasn’t taken long for the vegetation to regrow. Within weeks, it seemed, the blackened earth was covered with patches of vivid English green, and spring promised to be richer than ever before. The tree trunks covered themselves with shaggy coats of new leaves. Nature spends no time in crying over mistakes, Edith thinks, whether ours or hers. She just sets to work with added vigour to repair the damage.
They had been lucky that the fires had missed Goongarrie, sweeping up the valley and across the ranges beyond. She did not like to think what would have happened if the fire had swept up their hill, through the box stringybarks, to the little weatherboard cottage they loved so much. Everyone loved it here in the hills – their friends and relatives and visitors – they all liked to come and stay, enjoying the cooler air of the forests and the spectacular scenery. And her kindred spirits, the orchid lovers, particularly liked to visit, slipping away into untamed timber country, in pursuit of rare treasures. Just ten minutes’ walk from the picture-theatre hoardings and you were in the middle of the silent forest, with no sound but the whisper of gum trees, the occasional rustle of dry leaves and the songs of the birds.
Edith turns back into the house, closing the verandah door behind her. An insect buzzes in protest as it slips through the closing crack. Not a fly, observes Edith, watching the elegant creature hover as if determining its next move. Orange legs and body, with black wings and a spotted abdomen. The insect tacks purposefully back and forth across the room, following a scent, pulled by an irresistible lure, towards the posy of native flowers on the table. It’s a wasp, in search of an orchid.
GOONGARRIE STILL STANDS
