AN HONOUR TO AUSTRALIA.
"THE Imperial authorities have appealed to Australia for niece men," said a recent cable in the morning papers. One who knows Australia can easily picture the reception which that appeal will get in the South land. Out in the bush, men, riding into the little township from farm and station, will gather round the store-post-office, lean up against the veranda posts, and in the slow drawl of the bush- land discuss the war news and this latest message. There will be no wild excitement, no heated debate, for the men in the bush are never lavish with their words. There will be long gaps of silence between each remark, and when some tall, clean-limbed man mounts his horse with a "So long. I'll be gettin' off next week," there will be no show of enthusiasm, but just a laconic " So long, Bill. See you before you go." And Bill will go riding off down the long white road where the tall gum-trees make leafy patterns of the bright winter sunshine, and long-tailed parrots rise up before his horse in a green flutter. And Jim and Tom and Dick and the others will go riding off too, along the roads and across the paddocks, all taking back to the homesteads the news that more men are wanted from Australia, and that they are going to join. And in the little farmhouses, and on the bigger stations, wives and mothers will receive the news with the same quiet acceptance of the inevitable. The sudden sharp pang at the heart will not be shown to the men. The bright, clear eyes of the countrywomen may grow a little dimmer from tears shed in the long night watches, and the sun-dried faces may take on a few fresh lines, lines etched in by pain; but not one will think of urging Bill or Jim or Toni or Dick to stay behind. Quietly and simply plans will be made for some one to help on the farm, and for some one to take the place of the men on the station. And, by and by, there will be a " send-off " in the village, a gather- ing at the little railway-siding to "see them off." There will be tall, bronzed men in soft felt hats standing awkwardly about, too shy to say the words that fill their hearts. The women and children, all dressed in their best, will be laden with parcels of good things for " the boys " to take with them. The train will come crawling in, the little platform will buzz with life as silent handgrips are given between tall men, and wives and mothers wrap their loved ones in a last fond embrace, while the children cluster round to say good-bye to "Dad" or the big brother. As the train draws slowly out of the platform there will be much waving of handkerchiefs, and the silent men will find courage for a parting word—" So long, Bill." " Good luck, old man." " Give 'em one for me!" Then, when at last the train has quite vanished from sight beyond the bend of the hill or out across the wide plain, and there is no more use in waving, the little crowd will go out to its buggies and sulkies and horses and ride off along the empty, sunlit roads to the silent homesteads to take up the work of living again, and to wait and wait and wait. And no one who has not lived a lifetime in Australia will guess at the boiling heat of enthusiasm which has all the time been surging in the hearts of these men and women of the bush, so utterly and completely do they hide their deepest feelings. In the cities the news will be received in a different manner. There will be more expression of feeling. In trams and trains from the suburbs, and on the ferry-boats that carry the workers across the sparkling waters of the har- bour, men will be talking it over amongst themselves. "See they want more of our men? " somebody will say, and the
others will nod " That's fine." And there will be discussion of ways and means—of which men can best be spared from offices and from the land; of what the Government should do and of what they will do. And by degrees the talk will turn to the men already at the front, the men who are covering their country with glory in the Dardanelles. And the younger men's voices will glow with enthusiasm as they declare their intention to be in the next lot, and the older men's tones will be tinged with envy that there is "no such luck" for them. There will he women, too, in the trams and boats talking over the situation. Teachers and typists, clerks and professional women will all be wondering what more they can do to free a man to go. In the women's clubs at luncheon there will be a buzz as plans are eagerly discussed for taking fresh burdens on their shoulders, and for fitting out the new contingent. And in many a suburban home the stay-at-home women, the simple wives and mothers, will be gathering all their powers of endurance to meet with calm approval the news that is bound to come in the evening, when the men return, of some fresh dear one who has decided to go.
And in bush and city, inland and seaward, every man and woman will glow with pride, and heads will be held higher, chests thrown forward, at the great compliment that has been paid their country in this appeal from the Imperial authorities for more men from Australia. For one and all will appreciate the honour that this means.
That Australia should offer her help to the Motherland is accepted as a matter of course by all Australians; but that England should "appeal for more assistance" is a compliment indeed, and one that fills them with deep gratitude and love and loyalty. For it tells them that the Motherland appreciates what they have done; it is a proof that they have been tried and found worthy ; it is a sign that they have attained their majority as a nation, that Australia can now stand by her
mother's side, not as a helpless little child, but as a strong
young daughter able and willing to help. The quality of that help has been proved in the Dardanelles, where Australians have so proudly died beside their kinsmen. And now the Turk knows, and the German knows, that our talk of the unity of the Empire is no empty boast, but that the man from overseas is as true and loyal a Briton as the man from York or Devon. And, best of all, the Australian himself knows it now beyond any doubt, and glories in the fact.
Australians have sometimes been accused of being boastful. No doubt they have deserved the accusation, for boastfulness is a youthful fault, and natural to young nations as to young people. Perhaps in the past they have been unduly proul of their achievements, just as children are. But there is no boasting now amongst them. One who visited the Australian wounded at Malta writes of the extraordinary modesty of the men there, of how amazed they were at the tributes they have received, and how they talk of nothing but the magnificent work of the English Regulars, to whom they look up almost with worship. And we who know them feel sure that the Australians at home are just as modest about their sons' achievements. Pleased they are, beyond words, at being able to " do their little hit," as they say out there; proud, too, to be fighting side by side with their kinsmen; but not boastful. No, never boastful any more. They have left that childishness behind them for ever with their lost childhood.
For Australia has had her baptism of blood, and can never be
young again. And when the news that England needs more Australian men to help her in the fight travels through the
big cities of the coast, to the little bush townships inland, and on to the far-off lonely farms and stations "out back," it will be received with a pleasure mixed with pain, and with a warm thrill of pride at this the greatest honour one nation can pay
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