The Brandon Homestead

There was another home on Brandon also. From pit-sawn timber, the original Williamson family home was built at the foot of the hill whereon the homestead is now, using pumice for the chimneys and shingles on the roof. There is a kind of sanctity about these old places, steeped as they are in historic associations. And yet, coming to the entrance gates of Brandon, you would probably be disappointed—at first. There are no impressive pillars, and the gate is not wrought iron. A hill which, when we arrived, was clothed in yellow wattles, hides at first the greater part of Brandon, but the long drive passes by its slope and presently the panorama opens out.

Green fields sweep away from you, mounting gradually higher, with here and there flecks of white which are the drowsy sheep. The spot on the hilltop is where your eyes will rest. Nestling snugly in a group of trees and hedges is the homestead. From the distance you saw only the red roof and the chimney pots. The only signs of life were those silent sheep, a horse or two, and perhaps a little nearer to the home, the animated caperings of a dog. But the very dignity of the picture makes you feel that behind those hedges and those walls there is a kind of peace and quiet that comes only from these old places.

You will not be disappointed. When you reach the house, it is all you expected. You can never see much of it at once—it reveals itself in wings and corners and gables from among the shrubs and creepers. A cool green lawn is spread before it, mounded here and there at the feet of giant trees whose roots have almost broken through. And the roses are there. The old-fashioned cream Banksia rose was in full bloom, in utter confusion all along and over the back fence.

That strange, sweet scent that may be flowers—but which is so mysterious that perhaps it is really the more subtle effect on your brain by this place so richly sanctified by human striving. The heart of this house is now 110 years old. The years have added wings and rooms, and then electric light and telephone, but the windows of the centre portion have watched these old trees grow and have been onlookers at the pageant of ensuing generations.

The house before this one was built of clay and slabs, and halfway up the drive you can still see the outline of the turf moulded up in oblong form. There is a great pile of rambler roses there now, and a little to the left, at the foot of a magnolia tree, is the old spring that was its water supply.

Below the drive there is another, bigger grove of trees. They are mostly poplars—great majestic Aspen poplars that jostle one another and raise their leafy limbs higher and even higher, till the white clouds scudding overhead seem in danger of being caught up. Down in the cathedral below, you stand upon a wondrous carpet of verdant greenery—blue periwinkles and green cool grass and masses of daffodils in springtime. There are stately, tall Lombardy poplars too, that stand like giant soldiers at attention—but always shivering and quivering with perpetual mirth.

Down in the leafy hollow you hear none of the raucous sounds of outer life. You are even loath to speak, because the human voice seems harsh beside the music of the trees. Mingling with the poplars there are others—mulberries, pears, plums, and apples—and occasionally a great honey-sweet magnolia or the long waving branches of a blue gum. Probably you will see a contented flock of sheep and the flash of the snowy white and jet black wings of the host of magpies that live down there. But we must not linger. This is but one of a past order that stands to remind us of people and days gone by.