Читать книгу Here's Another - Lennie Lower - Страница 11

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Lost in the wilds of the Botanic Gardens! Heavens, shall we ever forget it! The last human face we saw was that of Matthew Flinders, the great explorer.

We got in with a few Anzacs last night, and we forget how we got into the Gardens, but, believe us, it's terrible. Instructive, but terrible.

Nothing to drink but goldfish.

Bottle-trees dotted about the place, and we had no opener. Naked men and women standing on square white-washed rocks. All dumb!

We wandered up to a signboard, thinking to read, "Ten miles to..." and saw there, "Please do not walk on the grass borders."

Starving, practically, we climbed a coconut tree for food and found it was a date tree without any dates on it.

We came to a tree marked "Dysoxolum." We thought—we KNEW—how sox were dyed—but what shall it profit a man if he lose himself in the Gardens?

We came to where the tortoise slept, and knocked on his shell. Like all the rest of our friends, he was in, but he didn't answer.

Dawn found us clawing at the front of the Herbarium, shrieking hysterically for just a little thyme.

The keeper who found us said that everything was all right and this was the way out. We don't know what became of the others.

Probably their bodies will be found in the bandstand and identified by their pawn tickets.

The Anzacs certainly were, and still are, a tough crowd.

We will never go into the Gardens again without wearing all our medals and two identification discs.

It's always best to carry a spare on Anzac night.