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GOOD-BYE,

SUNNYSIDE!

A MEMORABLE HILL RESORT

By R. H. CROLL

Bright blaze the stars, the night is dark  

As down the roads of heaven they ride,   How could they our small planet mark

If 'twere not for its Sunny Side!    

It is a long, steady rise from Belgrave to Kallista, and 20 years ago the road was rough and stony. The two city artists who were with me had found the walk rather far. As we rose to the crest,

topped now by the Kallista school, the water-colourist sighed, drew his hands from his trouser pockets-he always strolled with his arms buried to the wrists-and looked at me reproachfully. "Someone has stolen the end of this road," he remarked with conviction. Five minutes later his back straightened, his eye brightened, he was a different man; we were facing that wonder- ful view which is framed by the soft green hills of Sassafras and Olinda. "Why didn't   I bring my paints?'" he asked. But he, as many another of equal skill, was to   "bring his paints" on plenty of other occa- sions, for the home we were about to visit was famous for its hospitality. Many of the choicest spirits of Melbourne's world of art and letters made the well named Sunnyside a meeting place at week-ends,       and, like Toby Belch and his merry com- pany, they frequently "roused the night-  

owl in a catch."  

The house stands on a hillside which slopes to the creek at Begley's bridge. The rich soil has a number of granite boulders scattered through it and from one of these, about 3ft high, swelling up near the front   verandah, each guest, if he stayed over- night, was expected to deliver an oration. They were memorable evenings. No motor- cars in those earlier days flashed along the uneven roadway far below to remind us of     city noise and city cares, our hilltop was a world apart, dedicated to us and to us only.

In every pause we would be aware of the solemn night all about us, of the scent of musk and mint bush and eucalypt, of the never pausing murmur of the little creek,   hurrying, always hurrying. But pauses were few in such company. Here it was that C .J. Dennis wrote much of his

"Sentimental Bloke," and it was to his host   and hostess, Mr. and Mrs. J. G. Roberts, that he dedicated that highly successful book. Mr. Roberts had been manager of the cable system of the Melbourne Tram- way Company. Several of the ancient 'buses withdrawn and sold by the company as trams superseded them, stood-they still stand-in favoured spots in the garden. They made capital bedrooms, as we found on occasion. In one of these "Den"   camped, and in it he composed much of

his verse of that period.

We made a rally, a sort of house-warming,   when he was installed. Each contributed     a small picture or a text to hang along the line where in the 'bus's live days advertise- ments used to be placed. The result was a truly remarkable collection of cards mainly figuring beautiful ladies, and of mottoes containing more advice, direct and oblique, than any man could take in a single lifetime. One of the cryptic utterances which I recall was the warning, worthy of a new Delphic oracle, that "a motor car is   not fit to be out of!" We sang at nights ancient songs like "Samuel Hall" and "O Landlord, have you any fine wine?" but   with verses made on the spot to supplant tho extremely frank statements of the original makers of those delectable ballads. Dennis was particularly good at improvisa-   sation. A lady visitor declared that she had milked the cow that morning. The usual scepticism was expressed. "Den" at   once summed up the matter in a set of neat verses. Here is the concluding one -  

"She milked the cow-at least she said she did.   There was the milk in proof, and God forbid

That I should doubt her statement in the least (I sympathised in private with the beast),

Who said-but still what does it matter now?

She milked the cow!"

A Web Gilbert Sculpture

That likeable genius the sculptor Web Gilbert was a frequent visitor and so were two of his art associates, John Shir- low, best known then as an etcher, and the late Alick McClintock, the water

colourist. Clad in a white sweater and wrapped closely in a snowy sheet ot linen, I was posed one day in the garden as a wood god, alleged to bo a creation of Web Gilbert's. The photograph shows him finishing off this marble statue, his im- plements being a garden hoe as a chisel and a wooden block used in rope quoits, grasped by its pin, as a mallet. It was McClintock

who thanked God he had brought his liver with him when, on one occasion, we drove down that stony road in a rattling cart

Most of the jokes originated in the fer- tile brain of our host, whose wit never flagged, whose invention was never at a loss. The late George Ellery, town clerk of the City of Melbourne, the editor of a Melbourne daily newspaper, and I were luxuriating in our beds one Sunday morning, having been forbidden to rise   early when Mr Roberts appeared attired

in an old tail-coat, with towel on arm as a   broken-down waiter. He served me respect-     fully and passed into the room of the editor Decorous murmurings ensued. Then sud- denly the psuedo-waiter reappeared in a   hurry accmpanied bv a burst of threat-     ening language from the newspaper man. With very un-waiter-like joy Mr. Roberts       explained that he had offered the editor a sausage wrapped up in a sheet of his   journal. "Well?" Said I. "Well," said our     host, "I told him I had found a good   thing in his paper at last!" There exists     somewhere a remarkable caricature of Mr. Roberts in that waiter costume. It was done by David Low, now one of the fore- most cartoonists of the English-speaking     world. He and Hal Gye, who illustrated   "The Sentimental Bloke", were often at    

Sunnyside.

Here too, J. McNally, artist in nar- rative as in pigment, told some of his finest stories; her on the friendliest of

footings, were men such as the late "Dave"

Wright, known to the frequenters of Fasoli's as "the man of memory," and the   late Tom Roberts - he did a fine portrait in oils of his namesakes . Harold Herbert, who has since recorded so many lovely scenes, has stood on the verandah to ad- mire the Sunnyside view; that great annalist, E Wilson Dobbs , contributed eru-   dition to the gathering; Hugh Wright, of the Mitchell Library, Sydney, never failed to include Kallista as a place of call when visiting Victoria; but it is not possible to chronicle all. One name, however, must not be omitted. Mrs Aeneas Gunn, author of those two classics of the inland, "A Little Black Princess" and "We of the Never Never," was often an honoured guest, coming up from Monbulk, the village of which, it is hoped, she will write the his- tory some day.

Old Boys ot Scarsdale

But Sunnyside was centre of a wider     circle. Its owner boasted that he was born   near Scarsdale, and as he was one of the prime   movers in that staunch body, tho Old Boys of Scarsdale, whose crest is a he-goat and     whose motto "Non extincti sumus." It   was fitting, that men born in a goldfield town should so honour their boyhood friend and enemy the goat. Roberts wrote his- tories of the early times of his birthplace   and its neighbourhood, and conducted a   wide correspondence which embraced the   late Fred Johns, of "Who's Who in Aus-     ralia", Adelaide, and many a London   friend, including Colonel Arthur Lynch,   soldier, author, parliamentarian. Friends, humble or famous, were all welcome to this house in the hills, and when the fame of Mr. Roberts's collections of books on many  

subjects, notably on tho foundation of the

Australian Commonwealth, was noised   abroad, visitors came even from overseas       to Sunnyside to inspect and be charmed.    

Bur to-day Sunnyside is empty.      

"Garry" Roberts - to how many was he "Garry" - is dead, and Mrs. Roberts has

left the old place. The shell of the hos- pitable home stands waiting a new spirit to quicken it to life again. Farewell,  

Sunnyside!  

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