Remember she is not strong, and spare her everything except very
innocent adventures. Besides, snakes are such loathsome beasts."
"How would it do, then, to give a big Christmas feast to the blacks?" he
hazarded.
"Do you think she would like that?" I asked doubtfully. "Remember how
awfully dirty and savage-looking they are."
"Oh, we would try and get them to clean up a bit, and come somewhat
presentable," he cheerfully replied. "And, Dora," he continued, "I think
the idea is a good one. Sister Maggie is the Hon. Secretary or something
of the Missionary Society connected with her Church, and in the thick of
all the 'soup and blanket clubs' of the district. She will just revel at
the chance of administering to the needs of genuine savages."
"If you think so, you had better try and get the feast up," I resignedly
replied; "but I do wish our savages were a little less filthy."
Such was the origin of our Christmas feast to the blacks last year, of
which I am about to tell you.
My husband, John MacKenzie, was the manager and part proprietor of a
large sheep-station in the Murchison district of Western Australia, and
sister Maggie was his favourite sister. A severe attack of pneumonia had
left her so weak that the doctors advised a sea voyage to Australia, to
recuperate her strength--a proposition which she hailed with delight, as
it would give her the opportunity of seeing her brother in his West
Australian home.
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