A novel that tells the story of the early settlers of Australia. There is great sense of reality in this novel. Donald Cameron, the stern pioneer who shouts the gathering song of Clan Donald over his ploughed acres; Mary Cameron, his wife; the two convicts who came to Donald's cabin in his absence; the pretty heroine Deirdre, and old McNab, who is too ready with his gun, all are as real as the '49ers who thrust civilization into our own West. The story has an excellent plot; it is moving and beautiful in the telling. But behind the incidents of the book lies the larger story of the construction of a new commonwealth from materials in many cases none too promising to begin with. One feels the regeneration of character moving along with the cultivation of the land. And the book ends on the right note--that no blood strain can overpower the "adventurous, toiling strain of the men and women who came over the sea and conquered the wilderness."
days spun off in lengths of sunshine from the looms of Time, with the sleepy warmth of the end of the summer and the musky odours of the forest in them. Mary worked less out of doors when she was about again; her hands were full, cooking, washing and sewing, and looking after the animals and the baby. She sang to him as she worked. All her joy and tenderness were centred in him now.
Donald did not understand the love songs she sang to little Davey. They were always in her own Welsh tongue.
"It's queer talk to make to a bairn," he said one day, smiling grimly, as he listened to her.
"He understands it, I'm sure," she said, smiling too.
Cameron sang himself sometimes when he was at the far end of the clearing. It was always the same thing--the gathering song of the Clan of Donald the Black. While he was ploughing one morning, Mary first heard him singing:
Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu, Pibroch o' Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil.
The words of the grand old s