TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE- Madeleine Board (Ethel’s Step-niece).

Welcome back for another Cup of Tea With Ethel Turner, which once again, isn’t anything to do with Ethel Turner. I just wanted to share another one of Madeleine Board’s short stories. Two Birds With One Stone was published in 1924, the year she got married (which is perhaps rather fitting).

For those of you who have never stepped foot in Australia, this story is set in Western New South Wales. Settlers lived on smaller blocks of land they called selections. I’m not sure whether I’d go so far as to say they were “farms”. It seems many of them were more of a wish and a prayer, especially during times of drought. They were often very isolated, and struggled for the basics. There was also conflict with the indigenous Australians, which doesn’t always rate a mention. This is grinding hardship without a lot of hope. They’re waiting for the rain. Although it doesn’t actually state where it is set, the uncle’s gone droving cattle to Gilgi, which is near Coonamble in the State’s far North-West and Goorong is near Wellington. To me, the story reminds me very much of Henry Lawson’s stories of families struggling on their selections: “The Drover’s Wife”, “Water Them Geraniums” and a poem: “Past Carin'”

So, without further ado, here’s:

Two Birds With One Stone

“What’s to stop you coming away with me to-night, Annie?” Bill Preston asked, persuasively. “Your uncle’s gone with the cattle to Gilgi, and won’t be back for a week. Now’s your chance. She couldn’t stop you.”

“I’m not afraid of her,” Annie answered with scorn. She clenched her fists involuntarily, and Bill was quick to catch the inference.

“You’d flatten her if she tried!” He exclaimed admiringly.

His eyes wandered over the girl’s tall figure appraisingly. The badly cut dress of coarse material could not hide its perfection, though the beautifully formed arms were burnt and freckled, due to the rough outdoor life Annie led on her uncle’s selection.

‘You don’t love me,” he said, watching her face.

The girl made a nervous gesture with her strong hands.

“It’s not that,” she said miserably, with a sharp intake of breath.

“What is it, then?”

Annie’s eyes wandered over the burnt-up paddock to the weatherboard homestead in the distance, built on a gentle rise. It had the same parched look as everything around.

“I hate that place,” she said passionately. “Its burning tin roof, its creaking timbers. The miserable rooms stifle me! I hate the flies, and mosquitoes. I hate Aunt Hannah and her crowd of wretched kids! What’s she ever done to make me like her? She’s told me pretty well every day since I’ve been old enough to understand, what my mother done, and what I am because of her.”

She turned to Bill, eyes burning.”You know, as well as everyone else in the district! Uncle’s knocked her down more than once for saying it in front him. I’ve slaved, for them ever since I was a little thing, and the last few years I’ve saved uncle a man’s wages.”

Her passion stirred Bill to fever heat.

“That’s just it. Why continue to be a slave when there’s a chance of something better offering with me?” he demanded.

Annie Marden’s troubled gaze rested on his face, but she disregarded the question.

“They wouldn’t have given me any schooling, only I made them. When I was 10 I walked 20 miles one day to put the teacher at Goorong wise about me not learning, and then aunt and uncle had to let me be taught.”

She paused. Bill’s gaze was upon her lips anxiously.

“All the same, I can’t go with you—yet,” she said. “They’d be ruined sure then. Wait until the rain comes, and uncle can afford to pay for help. He could never do all the work of this place himself. The boys are no use: they’re not old enough, and they’re as lazy as pigs,”

“Let your aunt work like they’ve made you—her and her six ugly sons.”

“Bill,” Annie pleaded, putting her hand gently across the bitter mouth. “She can’t. All the strength and energy’s gone out of her. The bush is cruel most always, it seems to me, but when there’s a drought, to those who never had much, it’s just hell, the struggle to go on living.”

Her big eyes were sombre, and her bosom rose and fell quickly with tremulous breathing.

“You don’t want me,” cried Bill. “That’s what it is!”

Annie caught his hand fiercely, crushing it against her heaving breast.

“Bill, don’t say that! You’re the only one I have ever cared for, that has ever bothered about me. Be patient, dear, for a little while. When the rain comes I’ll go with you, and we’ll be married. Can’t you wait?”

‘”No,” he said roughly, pushing her aside.

“It’s now or never.”

He shaded his face with his hand in an attitude expressing the deepest dejection, and when he spoke his voice trembled.

‘When I went to the war you were a long-legged, wild girl, with plaits of wonderful hair. You didn’t seem to mind when I said good-bye, but I remembered you all the five years I was away. I swear you weren’t ever out of my thoughts,” he lied convincingly. “When I came back, it was only to you. But evidently you wouldn’t have cared if I’d been killed.”

“Bill!” she protested, in piteous accents.

With a quick movement he put his arms round her, holding her closely, His black eyes gleamed feverishly.

“Come with me, Annie, to Sydney, where we’ll be married. I swear it. We’ll take a flat near the sea—you’ve never seen it. I’ll buy you pretty dresses and hats, and you’ll look lovely. Life there’ll be wonderful after the heat and drought of this, cursed place.”

The sullen mouth trembled into a wondering smile, a pink flush stained the freckled cheeks. Her heart hungered for love, for kindness, which she had never known. She pressed her face against his: “I’ll go with you tonight,” she whispered.

“At 8 o’clock I’ll wait for you with a couple of riding horses on the track by the old sliprails,” he told her exultantly.”Don’t bother to bring anything, except what you’ve got on now. I can buy whatever you want.”

She caught him by the shoulders, the light in her eyes giving place to a searching, anxious expression.

“Where’ll you get the money from? You’re not thinkin’ of your father’s plant you told me of? You’d never stoop to steal, Bill?”‘she questioned.

He forced a laugh that rang out among the trees.

“What a silly girl you are! Why I got my war bond cashed.”

His glance flitted furtively from post to post of the fence. What awkward questions she put.’ She would soon be cured of that, however, when she was his.

At 10 minutes to 8 o’clock that night, in the small, stifling living-room of Marden’s homestead. Annie faced her aunt. Her dress was the coarse galatea of the afternoon, with a black, straight-brimmed hat above her reddish hair. The small parcel in her hands contained a change of under clothing and a nightgown. Unbeautiful garments they were, of calico, washed the previous week in stagnant, muddy water (but how precious!) from the almost empty well.

“I’m going with Bill Preston to-night to Sydney to be married,” she said jerkily.

Her aunt was seated at a rickety table, adding another patch to an already heavily burdened pair of knickers belonging to one of her boys. The one meagre window was wide open, but the air that came in from outside only added to the heat of the room.

“You are, are yer?” returned Aunt Hannah, her voice full of acidity, as she took another stitch.

The little Mardens, playing a noisy game of “jacks” on the floor, left off for a few seconds to listen.

“Yes, I don’t owe you anything. I’ve paid for the food I’ve had over and over again with these hands, and the bedding, an’ clothing, such as it’s been.”

The girl spoke coolly, but her legs were trembling.

“Tommy, shut up yer noise, or I’ll knock yer ‘ed off!”

The little woman, so thin that there seemed no flesh on her limbs, only skin drawn over the bones, put her work on the table, raising her lifeless eyes to her niece’s flushed face.

“So yer goin’ to marry that waster, Bill Preston,” she remarked.

Her niece gave a curt nod, and she drew her bloodless lips into a tight line.

“Don’t gull yerself that he’ll marry you! He’s only runnin’ yer, to get yer like yer mother was got.”

“Were’s she goin’ to, mum?” the eldest little Marden cut in, bobbing his wizened face up at his mother’s side.

He subsided instantly with a red mark on his forehead, evidence of the impress of his mother’s knuckles.

“Bill Preston is going to marry me, and, what’s more, buy me pretty things to wear, and I’m going this instant to meet him. He’s waiting with the horses,” Annie cried resentfully, all nervousness disappearing under the sting of her aunt’s words.

“You are, are yer?”

“If you don’t leave off pinchin’ Jackie I’ll break every bone in yer body,” she threatened her second son in exactly the same tone of voice.

Then she jerked herself up from the hard wooden chair, and, arms akimbo, faced her niece. Her prematurely grey head wagged from side to 6ide as she craned her neck upward, talking fast and violently.

“You don’t go out of this ‘ome till yer married proper—if any man is ever mad enough to want yer for ‘is wife. Yer mother mussed ‘erself up. an’ you ain’t goin’ to do the same, if I have a say, an’ don’t for one moment imagine that you ire! If yer uncle was ‘ere you’d be crawlin’ round doin’ as you was told. You think because I’m small that I ain’t no match for yer, and yer can cut off, but you won’t, Annie Marden!” _

As the shrill voice ceased, silence descended upon the miserable room. Such excitement was unknown in the lives of the six little Mardens. Even the youngest, aged two and eight months, sat perfectly still and mute on the floor, his pale blue eyes open their widest.

Annie took a couple of quick steps— threatening steps—in the direction of her aunt.

“Good-bye. P’rhaps you’d like to give me a kiss, as it’s the last time you’ll ever have the pleasure of seeing me! No! I didn’t think so! I won’t try the kids. They’re too dirty to go within yards of.”

She made for the door, but her aunt was there first. Banging it to, so that the timber of the whole place shook, she stood with her back pressed against the boards. Annie, tall and fine, stooped over her, scorn in her face.

“I could bundle you out of that with one little twist of my wrist,” she said. “You know that, but I won’t; I might hurt you in my present mood. The window’ll do me.’!

“On to ‘er! ‘Old ‘er! Don’t let ‘er go or “I’ll murder yer!” the mother shrieked across the room to her brood.

Before the girl had a chance to make her exit through the window the six had fastened to her, the older boys with the grip and tenacity of bull pups.

“I’ll do for the lot of you if you don’t leave go,” she cried violently, and commenced to use her fists.

But the youngsters were used to blows. It was not because of their mother’s shrill command, or because they bore their tall cousin any grudge, that they held on. It was just for the excitement of the thing— to break the deadly sameness of their existence.

Without a murmur they took the unmerciful cracks and blows delivered in the wild tumble round the tiny room. The table was upset, and the dilapidated chairs sent sprawling.

“Let ‘er go! Come ‘ere behind me! Quick!” their mother’s voice rose shrilly from the doorway. ….

Panting and bleeding they obeyed the order.

Annie Harden leaned against the wooden wall, struggling for breath. Her dress was torn in many places, and her arms were scratched and bruised. She bled profusely from a wound on the neck, where one of her young cousins had fastened his sharp teeth. Her hat was a mangled thing on the floor, and her bright hair hung in a dishevelled mass about her shoulders and down her back. In the smoky light of the kerosene lamp, suspended above the fire-‘ place by the aid of a nail, her eyes glared across the room to where the frail figure of her aunt was barely discernible in the darkness of the doorway.

“You’ll pay for this one day, you and those brats. of yours!” she cried. The passionate. voice could have been heard outside yards distant.

“I’ve said it before, an’ I’ll say it again. You don’t go, Annie. You don’t leave yer ‘ome!”

There was a loud report, and the girl crumbled into a heap on the floor.

Aunt Hannah ran forward, a smoking gun in her hands.

Twelve little Marden eyes bulged, as six small bodies followed in a bunch.

Their mother stood the old gun in a corner, and hurried across to the limp form of her niece.

“Tommy, a drop or two of water, quick! Use the pannikin, an’ be sure not to spilt any or I’ll knock yer ‘ed off. She’s only fainted.”

After a minute or so the girl’s eyes opened. She gazed wildly into the face above. The sullen mouth quivered, and Annie burst into a passion of weeping, hiding her face in her bruised hands.

Aunt Hannah touched the bowed head awkwardly, as it she had long forgotten how to caress.

“There, there, you’ll be all right, Annie girl. It’s only yer leg that’s ‘urt.”

Afterwards, as she returned the gun to its place in an outhouse, her dirty sons leaping and screaming, unheeded about her, she mumbled to herself: “I ‘ad to do it. Who’d ‘aye done the ploughin’ and sowin’ and reapin’ when the rain comes, an’ lookin’ after the sheep, now? Better to ‘ave her useless for a week or two. And,  any ow, Annie Marden, yer Bill Preston’s own sister!” 1.


So, what did you think of Two Birds With One Stone? I’ll leave you all to formulate your own thoughts, and I’ll join you in the comments. Meanwhile, I’d like to encourage you to check out some of Henry Lawson’s works which could well be an influence behind this story. I’ve listed a few below, and if you struggle with any the cultural references, I’m only too happy to help.

I hope you feel the photograph somewhat suits the story. I spent hours tonight scouring old Australian paintings trying to find something suitable, and there was nothing. The photo was taken at a vintage shop at Wollombi about an hour’s drive North of here. At least she looked like she was going somewhere.

Considering this story is set out in the Australian bush, I probably should be boiling the billy instead of the kettle tonight.

Goodnight and best wishes,

Rowena Curtin


  1. Australasian (Melbourne, Vic. : 1864 – 1946), Saturday 8 November 1924, page 61

Further Reading

Henry Lawson

The Drover’s Wife:

Water Them Geraniums:

Past Carin’

“An Artist’s Picture”- Story By Madeleine Board (Ethel’s Step-Niece).

I promise! I really promise we’re going to back onto Ethel Turner soon. However, I am a passionate advocate of Australian literature and culture and I didn’t want to leave it hiding away in the pages of aged newspaper print. I don’t know whether you’d describe it as a fantastic story, but it moved a long at a good pace to me and had some great ideas. As a crappy violinist and frustrated artist, I might also be biased. I thought it was rather good and really loved it.


Keith Durant was an artist, just a struggling one — poor and unknown to fame, but he had his dreams and fancies— dreams of a wonderful picture he would paint and become famous; but when he tried to depict the delicate fancies of his mind his hand would fail in its cunning, and he would toss aside the unfinished canvas, on which, perhaps, a pale, sweet face gazed with sad, wonderful eyes from an incongruous mass of floating forms, and waving trees and flowers. His friend— the only friend he possessed— would urge him on, telling him that he save up too easily, that the face was wonderful in its beauty, but Keith would only sigh impatiently. Ah! If he could but depict the fancies his brain conceived!

His was a very solitary life. He was quite alone in the world, and nothing had ever brought the light of love into it— only his art. He was very fond of music, but was too poor to gratify that passion often.

Early one morning, whilst at breakfast, Keith read about a child violinist who had suddenly electrified the world— she was playing every night at the concert hall in the great city. She was a mystery. Nobody knew anything at all about her, who she was, or where she came from, except that she was under the care of an old grim-visaged German professor ; but her playing ! — all the people went mad over it. The greatest critics acknowledged it was wonderful — superb. She was so tiny, too, only ten years old, they said, and Keith wondered if her playing was really so wonderful as stated.

A knock sounded at the door. ‘Come in,’ he called out, lazily. The door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered youth, with a merry, laughing face appeared. ‘How’s the world using you, old fellow?’ he asked. ‘Any fresh pictures?’ ‘No,’ answered the other, gloomily; ‘but Harry, old chap, have you heard this child — this violinist everyone is crazy about ?’ ‘Yes, she’s simply wonderful. You ought to hear her, Keith, though the seats are an exorbitant price. Even I was amazed at her performance, and I care nothing at all for music. You’d go simply crazy over her.’ ‘I can’t afford it,’ slowly, ‘but I’d like to go.’ ‘I’ll lend it to you. I’m pretty well in funds. Sold one of my pictures yesterday.’ ‘Thanks, I’ll accept,’ he answered. ‘You’re a lucky chap, though. I can’t dispose of any of mine. Look ! What do you think of this?’ and he led his friend into the studio, where they stayed talking for the ensuing two or three hours.

The following night found Keith well to the fore in the crowded concert hall. Everywhere it was the same. Even in the gallery there wasn’t standing room. A glittering, excited throng sat waiting, breathlessly, expectant, their eyes fixed upon the stage. It immediately struck Keith Durant how exquisitely artistic was the stage arrangement. Great rich curtains of ruby velvet formed the background, while others of a paler shade were looped at the sides, and fell in studied carelessness over the piano, which was almost hidden in their folds. It was a beautifully conceived idea — ‘A ruby stage.’ Keith wondered whose thought it was, and thoroughly appreciated the effect. Presently the curtains were parted, and an old man with long white hair appeared, leading a tiny, shrinking child in white. A thrill ran through the excited throng. Keith understood now why the stage had been so draped — the rich ruby curtains made a superb background for the little child in her gleaming silk frock with snowdrops nestling among the billowy folds. The hair, long, rich, and heavy, of a light gold color, was combed back from the pure colorless face, and fell about her shoulders perfectly waveless. The eyes seemed to be unnaturally large and dark, and gazed with a wide-open, frightened glance at the glittering throng.

She even gave a little shuddering sigh, and shrank back from the curious eyes, but the old professor murmured something in German. She cast a terrified glance in his direction, and, airing her violin, began to play. The old man accompanied her at first, but soon only the exquisite notes of the violin rang out. She was no longer a timid, shrinking child, but a beautiful goddess of music. The pale cheeks became slightly flushed, the soft red lips parted in a tender happy smile, the eyes were shining orbs of light, though wonderfully soft.

As the great throng listened the violin told of another land— a fairer heavenly land— and of a song, the joyous song of angels, till the actual flutter of angelic wings was wafted through the air.

The music changed. Children, everywhere the children, played and sang in the shade of a green forest, where the flowers grew in profusion along the wayside, nodding their heads gaily. Mothers smiled as they thought of their laughing-eyed darlings.

Again it changed. Pain rent the hearts of the listeners. Strong men closed their lips firmly that they might not cry aloud in their heartache, and women’s tears fell softly, silently, sadly, as they listened while it told its tale of a breaking heart. It was like the wailing of a spirit in sore distress. They could see the red-seared heart pierced through and through, could hear the bitter wailing almost— then the long, long silence, and the child, tottering, caught the violin almost fiercely to her breast, the little lingers closing lovingly over the strings, as she sank to the carpeted stage. The people sat as if stunned.

Then a wild cry which was half a prayer broke from them. The old professor knelt at her side. Suddenly he stood up, his face deathly white. The Father hath called her. Her spirit hath fled,’ he said, in a voice which penetrated to the utmost part of the hall.

Then silently, slowly, softly they, with one glance at that tiny waxen face — smiling so happily in death— disappeared through the portals of the hall ; but before they went, those who were wearing flowers, laid them tenderly upon the quiet figure, so still and cold, until at last she lay asleep with a coverlet of flowers over her ; and the little child fingers still grasped the treasure she had so loved— the changeless violin.


Keith Durant’s dreams had become realities. At last, he was famous. His name was on everyone’s lips. And his picture! In all the world never had there been one painted before like it. The title was ‘God’s Call.’ Flowers, vivid, many colored flowers, mingling with the green of the tall, waving grasses and the trees, grew luxuriously beautiful beneath sunny skies. Amidst the mass of color a young child stood, in a clinging robe fashioned as of some old-world dress, of snowy whiteness, the dimpled arms and neck half revealed, with one little hand raised, in a listening attitude. The pale gold of her hair and the startling pallor of the face— save where the half-parted lips formed a crimson curve— made a striking contrast to the deep darkness of the eyes, which seemed to be gazing far away with a tender softness in their wistful depths— you could almost fancy you heard the rustling of angels’ wings, coming to bear that soul away. Against the dazzling color of the back ground the little child stood out with wonderful vividness. It was the dead child musician and was truly a masterpiece.

The originator, Keith Durant had been offered large sums of money for it, but he refused every offer. He couldn’t bear to part with that picture, the only remembrance of the child violinist, whose identity had never been solved. Had it not first brought him fame? Why should he part with his little pictured child? Standing in a corner of his studio, hidden away behind rich ruby curtains, it was only when visitors came to worship at the shrine of its beauty that it was ever unveiled. Then the sunbeams flittered playfully over the little form in white, and seemed to brighten into life the dark pathetic eyes, with their strangely tender lights. Three years had passed since Keith Durant had made his name, and he had painted many beautiful pictures since, but none to equal ‘God’s Call’. It still stood hidden away from the light of the world.

While busily engaged painting in his studio one day a maid appeared in the doorway. ‘There’s a lady downstairs to see you, sir,’ she said ‘She says it’s very important, but that if you are busy she’ll wait until your are disengaged.’ ‘Who is she — anyone of my acquaintance’?’ ‘No, I don’t think so, sir ; but her face is hidden behind a thick veil.’ ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ he said, shortly. As he entered the room a lady in deep black rose from her seat near the window, and he noted with an artist’s appreciation the extreme grace of the figure. Suddenly she flung back the thick veil, revealing a dreamily beautiful face. The eyes were large, dark, and soft, but with an intense weary sadness in their depths that reminded the artist of something, somebody. He bowed courteously, and waited. ‘You must excuse me,’ said his visitor, in a low sweet voice, ‘but — but — you have a picture, ‘God’s Call,’ which I would like to see.’ Then, entreatingly, ‘I must see it. I shall be so grateful.’ ‘Certainly, madam,’ he answered. He saw she was in sore distress. ‘I shall be pleased to show it to you. Come this way.’ He led the way to his studio, and drew back the heavy curtains which concealed the picture. As she stood before it her large eyes upraised, he saw in a flash of whom she reminded him. The eyes were like the pictured child’s- the little dead musician. A choking sigh escaped her, a sigh which was half a sob- “My Weenie.” Then, turning to the artist, she said, ‘How much will you take for it? Ah! Don’t refuse me”, as he made a gesture of dissent. “She was my only child- my baby. I can not tell you anything more, for I am bound to secrecy. “He looked at her. ‘You can have it on condition that you take it as a gift,” he said, slowly. He couldn’t refuse her request. Thank you,” she said. That was all, but there was a world of feeling in the tone.

Next day the picture was packed and dispatched to the address the fair stranger had given-a fashionable hotel, and with it Keith’s heart seemed to have gone. The ruby curtains still were draped across the corner of the room where it had stood, only in the heart of the artist grew up a great loneliness, for something seemed to go out of his life. Another four years had gone by and people had forgotten that there was such a picture as `God’s Call’, all except the artist, and he remembered.

Then, one day the canvas was brought back to him, and with it a note unsigned in a man’s heavy writing: “Sir,” it began, “I thank you in the name of one who has left us, one who has at last been given rest, for the fleeting brightness you shed over a tragic life. I thank you again in her name.” And Keith placed the picture once more with tender and loving care beneath the heavy curtains.

MADELEINE BOARD (age 17) 30 Regent-street, Paddington. Sunday Times (Sydney, NSW : 1895 – 1930), Sunday 30 July 1905, page 7

So, how did you find it? I’d love to hear your thoughts about Madeleine’s story. I’m going to print it out and drop if round to our neighbour’s who are the first people I know who have been exposed to covid and are forced quarantine. They were young children during the London Blitz, and were sent off to the country. However, they’re philosophical about their plight. She said it was better than being dead, and he said it was better than incarceration, which was referring to their stay in a nursing home after a nasty fall last year.

Best wisns,

Rowena Curtin

Ethel Turner’s Worldview.

Have you ever noticed when you read the bio of a high achiever, that it is crammed full of facts and all their achievements but says absolutely nothing about them as a person, their character, their beliefs and so little about what makes them tick?

This is an obvious challenge I face here at Tea With Ethel Turner. However, if I’d sought to write a concise biography, I would’ve chosen a different medium. I’d have reduced 40 novels, her numerous contributions to children’s pages throughout her life to a few hundred well-selected words. Indeed, I’m seeking to expand Ethel Turner, not constrict her.

So, instead of launching straight into an analysis of Seven Little Australians, or quoting Mark Twain or what some other famous soul has said about Ethel Turner, I wanted to share an extraordinary letter Ethel Turner wrote in her role as “Chief Sunbeamer” and editor in chief of the Sunbeams children’s pages in the Sun newspaper.

To provide a brief background, Ethel Turner ran numerous writing competitions in Sunbeams, and had put a call out for contributions about what they wanted to be when grew up. Or, simplified into the heading: “When I grow Up”.

On the 23rd May, 1922 Ethel Turner shared what she wanted to be when she grew up, and it captivated me. I am such a visionary, an idealist, someone who wants to change the world, and there she was flying the flag right alongside me:

“Dear Young People,— When I, personally, grow up, I should like to become an archangel, able to stride royally about the evening skies plucking at the laughing stars, and tossing them down to earth into the laps of all the children upon whom the sun during the day, had forgotten to smile. And I notice that three parts of you, in your “When I’m Grown Up” papers, have very Similar desires. You are evidently not satisfied with the state of things in the world that the present “Grown Ups” are content to allow. When you grow up you are going to make things brighter and better in all directions — are going to simply spill the stars about in the dark spaces.[1]

How beautiful was that?

Moreover, it had me asking more about Ethel Turner.

Who was she?

Of course, when you consider the date, you soon realize that Ethel Turner and most of these idealistic children, had gone through the horrors of WWI and the Spanish Flu Pandemic. They had seen and lost so much. Of course, they wanted a better world and to try to make a difference to the suffering of others.

In my next post, I’ll be sharing a poem which also touched the very depths of my heart. Ethel Turner really had an extraordinary soul.

Best wishes,


[1] Sun (Sydney, NSW : 1910 – 1954), Sunday 28 May 1922, page 2