‘How Father will stand the parting after so many years of her companionship,’ worried Harry to his Aunt Lizzie. ‘It will be a great blow to him. They had both just completed their 72nd year and 51st of married life.’
Harry clearly adored his mother: ‘The memory of her pure unselfish life is a holy possession.’
Edith recalled her as ‘the sweetest, most unsophisticated person I have ever met, not simple, but natural, frank and free’.
As for their father, Henry was not lonely for long. He moved back to the city and remarried twice in later life, first to Mary, who died suddenly three years later, and then to the wealthy Jenny Relph. In his eighties, he developed dementia and moved to Western Australia to be cared for by Harry.
Edith’s parents, Henry and Charlotte, at Walsham in Healesville
But Goongarrie remained a favourite retreat of Edith’s, and of the rest of the family. Blackburn might have been falling under the sway of topiary gardens and ticky-tacky houses, but Healesville stayed far from the madding crowds amid the ironbarks and blackwoods, the stringybarks and cedar woods, with a treasure trove of orchids beneath their feet just waiting to be discovered.
Not all of the articles in Edith’s scrapbook are her own. Inside the front cover there is one written about her work by a journalist at The Argus.
‘Mrs. Coleman was first attracted towards the study of Australian orchids by Mr. Donald Macdonald’s Bush Notes in “The Argus” a good many years ago, and since then she has read much and observed more.’
I suppose it’s a plausible source of inspiration. Donald Macdonald was a well-known nature writer, who rose to fame for his dispatches from the Boer War, and settled down to work in 1904 at The Argus, writing the weekly ‘Nature Notes and Queries’, followed by ‘Notes for Boys’ from 1909.
Macdonald’s newspaper nature writing is perhaps more picturesque than educational. He facilitates the input of information from his readers, more than providing the expertise himself. I can see how his articles would have caught Edith’s attention. Many of his early articles wax lyrical about the beauty of the English landscape and gardens. And his columns are full of strange and quirky phenomena, in need of investigation.
His mentions of orchids are slim and passing – an article on tropical varieties and a query about the identity of a greenhood. Perhaps the article on tropical orchids inspired Edith’s interest in pollination? Perhaps the greenhood enquiry sent her to a plant guide, seeking to identify her own greenhoods, which, in September, would just have started flowering? I try to connect the articles with Edith’s writing but the link is not strong.
I’m just not convinced this is the real source of Edith’s inspiration.
If anyone was inspired by Donald Macdonald’s columns, it was Edith’s daughters. Dorothy is so often mentioned as Edith’s collaborator and co-naturalist that at first I only noticed Dorothy’s contributions to his column from the age of thirteen to sixteen. She wrote about spiders, wattle scale, rabbits, fishing and sea elephants. It was Dorothy who wrote to Macdonald about the orchids of Blackburn – noting that they had found a bird orchid, then known as Chiloglottis gunnii, as well as specimens of pink, blue and purple Thelymitras.
‘A few days ago we found the curious tree-orchid growing high up on the truck of a musk tree,’ she wrote in 1916, ‘and we are puzzled to find a way of planting it, for its tuberous looking roots seemed scarcely attached to the tree on which it grew.’
By reply, Macdonald referred Dorothy to Mr Pescott for advice. Dorothy would already have known Edward Pescott, president of the Field Naturalists Club of Victoria. She had joined the club, as an associate member, two years before, at the age of fourteen.
But Dorothy was not the only daughter with an interest in science, natural history or art. Gladys was also a talented student of botany, an artist, observer and writer. It was Gladys who first wrote to Donald Macdonald, in September 1913 – telling him about their new pet possum, and the problems of belling the cat. And even when Dorothy wrote she often did so on behalf of them both. In 1913 ‘Mallee Bird’ bushman and ornithologist C. H. McLennan congratulated both girls on their contributions to the paper.
In the early 1920s both of Edith’s daughters were studying at the University of Melbourne. Dorothy was enrolled in a Bachelor of Arts, studying English, French, Latin, history and, later, botany. She studied for her Diploma of Education and in later years returned to university to study more botany subjects.
‘I am doing Plant Pathology at the ’Varsity this year,’ she wrote, ‘and am overjoyed to find mould blackening our poor pumpkins or rust on the hollyhocks.’
Gladys graduated later, after her marriage, with a Bachelor of Science. She majored in botany, but also took zoology, parasitology and bacteriology.
The girls must have brought a wealth of new botanical knowledge home with them in the evenings. I can only imagine Edith’s interest in their studies, this new source of information opening up to her. I wonder if it made Edith realise how much information was out there – or if it confirmed how much she already knew. Or even how much more she knew, from her own self-taught education, than these experts. She could read, and probably had read, all the books and papers she needed. She could write to any expert in the world to seek clarification for their explanations or ask for advice on her own findings. But most importantly of all, Edith had the time, patience and persistence to watch and learn from nature itself. And the instinct to ask the right questions.
Some social insects: A caterpillar company – defensive tactics
By E.C.
The sawfly’s story is one which every young Australian should read for himself or herself, not from books, but from nature. It makes a special appeal to Girl Guides because it tells, if not exactly of team work and community unselfishness, of ‘companies’ of little creatures which find some benefit in dwelling together in a kind of little brotherhood. Perhaps the most interesting stage of the sawfly’s life is the larval, or caterpillar stage, but that is only, I think, because it is so much more easily followed than the adult, or winged stage.
When the eggs which the mother sawfly has so cleverly deposited on a nice green gum leaf hatch into tiny larvae, or caterpillars, they soon form into their first ‘company’. Most young people have seen them, perhaps as many as 25 or more, clinging together in a massed cluster, which suggests a great affection for each other. This affection is not altogether disinterested, as you may see if you gently tap the twig to which they cling. Though each larva is unpleasant enough to look at, and to smell, a bird or a parasiting insect might not hesitate to attack a single one. But a mass of the ugly, squirming creatures, with waving tails and ejections of an unpleasant greenish, odorous liquid might well bluff any bird into the belief that they should be labelled dangerous.
Everyone knows, at times, how useful a weapon bluff can be. Birds, beasts and fishes, as well as girls, occasionally resort to its use. And so, by presenting this formidable front to the enemy, the caterpillar company enjoys a certain measure of security. The life of the larvae is rather a monotonous one, consisting chiefly of feeding, fattening and changing its skin; for like other caterpillars, each time a nice loose skin has become uncomfortably tight from unlimited feeding and rapid growth, the sawfly larva is able to split and cast it aside.
When we find a company of fully-grown larvae looking rather disorganised and restless, they are about to enter upon an interesting stage of their story. Do not lose sight of them when you see the company disband and crawl sluggishly in a tail-tapping procession of twos and threes down the trunk of a tree, but follow their trail in true girl-guide fashion, when, if you are lucky, you may chance to see what may be termed a ‘company burial’ – a funeral where each unit buries itself, and in a remarkably short space of time, too.
If one carefully digs up the whole ‘squad’ you will find that even underground the little brotherhood idea is still in evidence, for though each larva has woven itself a tough, silken cocoon, it
is so carefully built on to the side of that of his brother, that we have a massed formation of perhaps 25 cocoons. Occasionally one or two may not have managed to ‘fall in’, and one may find an odd cocoon or two on the outskirts of the company.
It would be easy to carry the next part of the story right into the realms of romance. One must actually ‘see’ it to believe it, and then it isn’t always easy to credit the evidence of our eyes. When each larva has walled itself in by building a prison around its body, it lies and waits for its great day, when from a vegetable-eating caterpillar it will change to winged creature, and after perhaps six months as an earth-dweller, will seek the sunshine above.
The cocoons are at first soft, but tough, like a thin skin, but the larva has within its body the varnish with which to harden and make waterproof its cocoon. Before long every larva has become a pupa, a folded mummy-like creature, more like an inanimate doll with unmovable arms and legs than a living ‘animal’. All through the long summer days it lies in the cool earth waiting for the early autumn to sound the saw-fly’s ‘reveille’.
This time it is not a ‘company’ call, but a clear, insistent whisper to each one; for the rest of the saw-fly’s life is lived not in a squad, but as a separate individual. From each gloomy cell in which a larva had imprisoned itself is born a beautiful fly with bright brown body, shiny as glass, or highly polished wood. The transparent wings are amber color, with just a touch of brown. It finds its way up through the dark earth into the sunshine, to begin the story over again from egg to perfect insect . . .
Chapter 7
DOWN TO BUSYNESS
‘Folded and crumpled as were the wings it looked a large creature to have occupied so small a cocoon. Astonishment grew as the crumpled wings were gently lifted up and down, inflating and spreading, until they were dry and firm enough for flight.’
September 1926
After breakfast Edith walks down the corridor to her office and closes the door firmly behind her. Her desk looks out of the window over the last of the blue climbing peas, Lathyrus pubescens, which scramble over the early buds of hydrangeas. Morning light streams in from the large front windows, blue from the flowers and the sky reflecting inside, as if she was swimming underwater. Those blooms would look marvellous in the little yellow vase, set against the rich cream of the hallway. But she resists the temptation to go outside. Once in the garden, hours can pass without even noticing and she would never get her work done.
What was once a formal sitting room is now her ‘Busyness Room’ and it is busyness that is needed. She sits at her desk and looks at the neat piles of paper in front of her. It was wonderful to go away camping for the week, but work had piled up in her absence. A stack of letters sits to the left, all opened, read and organised in order of priority. There are at least twenty to answer or write today. Then there is the article for the newspaper, which must be posted tomorrow, although who knows when they might print it. Sometimes it is months, even a year, before it appears. And then there is the article for the Victorian Naturalist. They were always most enthusiastic for her papers, not just on orchids but on any topic – birds in the garden, nature walks in the national park or even the interesting habits of a water scorpion that she had observed in a jar. And quick to publish too. The editor was always kind and encouraging.
‘Just the thing, Mrs Coleman,’ he enthused at the monthly meetings. ‘We need more work like this.’
She must write to Dr and Mrs Rogers from Adelaide, thanking them for their company on the trip to Wilsons Promontory. She and Dorothy had such a lovely time with their guests. James had been too busy at work and would not, in any case, have enjoyed quite so much conversation about orchids. Gladys had her husband to look after, and her studies to complete. Despite being so early in the season they managed to collect thirty-three orchid species – eleven of the Pterostylis greenhoods, an abundance of gnat orchids (Cyrtostylis reniformis) and some fine mosquito orchids (Acianthus caudatus) – even some rare green ones. Two of the pterostyles were probably hybrids and another Dr Rogers believed to be a new species entirely. She will have to look for more when they go up to Healesville. If it is to be confirmed as a new species, he will need more specimens. A shame it was a little early for the more striking orchids – the Diuris donkey orchids, the Caladenia spider orchids and Thelymitra sun orchids. Most were visible only from leaves or buds. But Dr Rogers was a true orchid lover – he did not mind whether they were pretty or not. How nice to finally meet him, and his wife, and be able to put a face to the name she had written to so often.
Edith looks around at the walls of her office, lined with homemade bookshelves, wedged between wooden kerosene boxes stacked sideways. A pile of books sits on the floor. She must speak to James about more shelving. There are reprints to paste in her exercise books too, along with a pile of clippings from magazines and newspapers, all grouped by topic and squashed flat between bulging pages. A specialist library of which she is the only librarian. Edith frowns, looking at her incomplete sequence of the Victorian Naturalist and Southern Science Record. Several early editions are still missing. How she would love her own copy of Comstock’s Spider Book, so beautifully illustrated by his talented wife, Anna. Perhaps this afternoon she would have time to visit the bookseller, to see if anything new has come in for her. After visiting the Public Library, where all the latest publications might be found.
Edith picks up her pen, and starts to write.
ON THE EVENING of Monday, 11 September 1922, in the grand hall of the Royal Society, Edith Coleman was elected to the Field Naturalists Club of Victoria. After some anxious discussion of the live bird trade, Edith rose to read her first paper to the gathered members. ‘Some autumn orchids’ is a detailed description of the orchids around Healesville. The work is obviously based on many years of observation, at the very least since 1920. I am reminded of Richard Jefferies’ comment about Gilbert White.
‘He gathered his facts very slowly,’ wrote Jefferies. ‘They were like experience, which takes a lifetime to grow. You cannot sit down and make up experience, and write it as a thesis; it must come, and this is what he did – he waited until things came. His book, for this reason, reads as if it had been compiled in the evening.’
Edith presented at her first official meeting as a fully-fledged naturalist – already an expert on her subject matter.
This was not Edith’s first involvement with the club. She had been supporting the annual Wildflower Exhibition for several years, providing ‘a tastefully arranged display of orchids’ at the Athenaeum in Collins Street. At these vast and popular public gatherings she met and mixed with many Melbournites, sharing her interest in nature, wilderness and flowers. One of those visitors would have been a shy young Jean Galbraith, who travelled from Gippsland at the age of sixteen to visit the Wildflower Show.
A meeting of the Field Naturalists Club of Victoria in the Royal Society Hall, 1920
Edith regularly exhibited at the monthly club meetings too – or provided Mr Tadgell with fresh blooms of the fringed red helmet orchid (Corysanthes fimbriata) and the twin-leaf bird orchid (Chiloglottis diphylla) from Healesville to exhibit at the meeting. The previous spring she had even hosted an excursion to Healesville for club members, providing afternoon tea and a tour of her garden, where she was cultivating a number of native orchids.
It’s quite possible that she had attended many other talks, meetings, excursions and events over the years with Dorothy, who had been a junior member for the last eight years. She might have taken Dorothy to the meetings in the city or on excursions to the country. But Dorothy was now in her second year of university, and Gladys in her first – both girls busy pursuing their own interests. Perhaps Edith realised that she could no longer participate merely in her supporting mother role, but would need to take her own place on the stage?
Edith’s paper was well received.
‘The author, in a chatty paper, dealt with the various species of terrestrial orchids found during t
he autumn months,’ the meeting report notes. ‘Altogether the paper proved most interesting, and considerably enlarged members’ ideas as to the variety of orchids to be found during April and May. Some little discussion ensued, in which Mrs. Coleman was congratulated on her paper.’
The ‘little discussion’ led to a lateness in the hour, which required the next speaker to considerably curtail his own presentation. Edith’s paper was subsequently published in the December issue of the Victorian Naturalist. She opens, as her articles often do, with a quote, this time from Browning, and ends with an authoritative account of the unobtrusive pleasures of autumn orchids.
Edith started her publishing career as she continued: as articulate, knowledgeable, confident and well read. Her tone and voice are well developed. I can see little in the way of maturation in her writing from her first paper to her last. She emerges fully formed, mysteriously metamorphosed from caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly: from child to mother to nature writer.
As I revise my own work I am suddenly anxious, afraid that I’ve missed something – an earlier mention of her in the Victorian Naturalist, before her first paper. I review the back issues again. And I find something I missed last time. On 21 February 1921 there is a little note, filling in the space at the end of an article on the geological history of Australian plants.
‘The Gum Tree for December contains a chatty article by Miss Edith Coleman, of Blackburn, entitled “Forest Orchids”, in which a number of our orchids are briefly described.’
The chrysalis is not, after all, as opaque as I had thought. Perhaps there is a glimpse of metamorphosis here, a chance to see the writer in development. If I can find the paper, if someone has kept copies of a little newsletter of the Australian Forest League, published almost a century ago.
The Wasp and the Orchid Page 11
