Chapter XXVIII: Act V (8)

But surely we are impinging on the domain of the giant Blunderbore, falsely alleged to have been slain by the irreverent Jack, prototype of the modern 'larrikin' in his turbulent denial of authority. Yea, and yonder plain is his poultry-yard. Hither come his cochins and dark brahmas to be fed on corn as large as bullets, with tenpenny nails by way of tonic. They walk softly along, lowering their lofty heads to the earth, running too, occasionally, like dame Partlet, after a grasshopper, and diversifying their attitudes like Chanticleer. We count them, twenty-six in all, gigantic fowls able to pick the hat from your head. They are emus! See the quarry, and neither hound nor hunter! When, lo! from out the further belt of timber rides forth a band of horsemen. They are shearers, bound on a holiday excursion. The preceding day has been wet, and the supply of sheep consequently short. All are well mounted, and look picturesque as they burst into a sudden gallop, and every horse does its best to overtake the (figuratively) flying troop, now setting to for real work. The pace is too good for the majority; but one light weight, mounted on a long-striding chestnut, that probably has ere now carried off provincial prizes, is closing on the apteryx contingent. Another quarter of a mile—yes—no—by George!—yes. He has collared the leader; he crosses and recrosses the troop. Had he but a stockwhip or lasso he could wind either round one of the long necks so invitingly stretched. But he has proved the superior speed of his horse. Such a trial was said in old days to have sent to the training-stable one of Sydney's still quoted race-horses. There is no need to kill aimlessly one of the inoffensive creatures; and he pays an unconscious tribute to the modern doctrine of mercy by drawing off and rejoining his comrades.

Further still our roving commission has carried us; we have halted at the homestead of a great pastoral estate. A cattle-station in the days when small outlay in huts and yards was fitting and fashionable, now it has been 'turned into sheep,' as the phrase goes. A proprietor of advanced views has purchased the place, less for the stock than for the broad acres, and the improvement Genie has worked his will upon the erstwhile somnolent wilderness.

The change has been sweeping and comprehensive. The vast area of nearly half a million of acres has been enclosed and subdivided by the all-pervading wire-fencing. A couple of hundred thousand merinos, with a trifle of forty thousand half-grown lambs, now graze at large, without a shepherd nearer than Queensland. A handsome, well-finished house stands by the artificial sheet of water, formed by the big dam which spans the once meagre 'cowall' or anabranch of the main stream.

A windmill-pump irrigates the well-kept garden, where oranges are in blossom and ripening their golden globes at the same time. Green peas and cauliflowers, maturing early, appeal to a lower æstheticism. The stables, the smithy, the store, the men's huts, the carpenter's shop, form a village of themselves; not a small one either.

A quarter of a mile northward, backed up by a dense clump of pines, stands the woolshed, an immense building with apparently acres of roofing and miles of battened floors, £5000 to £6000 representing the cost. It is now in full blast. We walk over with the centurion to whom that particularly delicate commission, the captaincy of 'the shed,' has been entrusted. It is by no means an ordinary sight. We ascend a few steps at the 'top' of the shed, and look down the centre aisle, where sixty men are working best pace, as men will only do when the pay is high, and each man receives all he can earn by superior skill or strength.

They are chiefly young men, though some are verging on middle age, and an old man here and there is to be seen. Scarcely any but born Australians are on the 'board,' as the section devoted to the actual shearing operation is termed. Though an occasional Briton or foreigner enters the lists, the son of the soil has long since demonstrated his superior adaptation to this task, wherein skill and strength are so curiously blended.

Watch that tall shearer half-way down the line. A native-born Australian, probably of the second or third generation, he stands six feet and half an inch, good measurement, in his stockings. His brawny fore-arm is bare to the elbow. Broad-shouldered, deep-chested, light-flanked, he would have delighted the eye of Guy Livingstone. You cannot find any man out of Australia who can shear a hundred and fifty full-grown sheep in a day—as he can—closely, evenly, with wonderful seeming ease and rapidity. Like his horsemanship—a marvel in its way—it has been practised from boyhood, and, as with arts learned early in life, a perfection almost instinctive has resulted.

The shearers proper are all white men. The pickers-up and sorters of the fleece are a trifle mixed, the former being chiefly aboriginal blacks, some of the latter Chinamen. In the pressing demand for labour which obtains when a thousand sheds are at work, or preparing to shear, in the early spring months, over the length and breadth of the land, the inferior races find their opportunity.

A pound a week, lodging, and a liberal diet-scale, render the shearing season a kind of carnival for the proletariat, from the first fierce gleam of the desert sun in July, till the mountain snow-plains are cleared in January and February.

There are eight men at the wool-table—a broad, battened platform—on which the fleeces are spread, skirted, rolled up, and self-tied by an ingenious infolding knack, thrown into the wool-sorter's narrow pathway, and by him transferred to the separate bins of first and second combing, clothing, super, etc. The next stage carries them to the wool-presses, which somewhat complicated machinery, aided by skilled and experienced labourers, turns out daily fifty to sixty neatest, compactest bales. Thence on trucks propelled to the dumping-press, an hydraulic ram-driven monster, which reduces them to less than half their former size, and hoops them with iron bands.

Waggon teams are in attendance at the dumping-sheds, and before sundown much of the wool that was on the sheep's backs at sunrise will be loaded up, or on the road to the railway terminus.

Even that bourne of the weary wayfarer by coach, and the dusty, bearded teamster, is shifting its position nearer and nearer annually to the great central wilderness. As I ride homeward, the tents of navvy gangs appear suddenly through the darkening twilight, in the midst of pine-wood and wilgah brakes. The muffled thunder of blasts is borne ever and anon through the rarely-vexed atmosphere, as the sandstone hills are riven. But the central plain once reached, no work but the shallow trench and the low embankment will be required for hundreds of miles.

In a few years the great pastoral estates will have their own railway platforms, within easy distance of the 'shed,' when possibly a tramway thence to the dumping-room will be a recognised and necessary 'improvement.' When that day comes, shearers and washers will arrive by train from the coast-range, or the 'Never Never' country; King Cobb will be deposed or exiled; 'Sundowners' will be abolished; and much of the romance and adventure of pastoral life will have fled for ever.

NEW YEAR'S DAY 1886

In the list of rambles, possible in the event of certain undefined conditions coming to pass, one fairly-original project has always commended itself to me. An overland tramp from Sydney to Melbourne in the garb and character of a swagman seemed to offer special inducements. Inexpensive as to wearing apparel and including a position not difficult to keep up, the idea suggested health, variety, and adventure. From such a standpoint all grades of society might be observed in new and striking lights.

Circumstances prevented me, during the present holiday season, from carrying out this plan in its entirety. Nevertheless I found myself, in company with the usual midsummer contingent of strangers and pilgrims, in the metropolis of the southern colony; like them in quest of the rare anodyne which deadens care and allays regret. And what a blessed and salutary change is this from the inner wastes, the sun-scorched deserts, whence some of us have emerged but recently! I am not going to cry down the Bush, the good land of spur and saddle, of manly endeavour and steadfast endurance, which has done so much for many of us; but after a long cruise it is conceded that every sailor-man, from foremost Jack to the Captain bold, needs a 'run ashore.' His health demands it; his morale is, in the long run, not deteriorated thereby. For analogous reasons those of us who dwell afar from the green coast-fringe, having perhaps more than our share of sunshine, require a sea change. Every bushman, gentle or simple, should compass an annual holiday, which I recommend him to pass, if possible, in the colony where he does _not_ habitually reside.

'Home-keeping youth have ever homely wit' is an aphorism which has been variously garbed. I endorse the dictum, with limitations. For the removal of that insidious mental fungus, provincial prejudice, there is no remedy like a moderate dose of travel.

Chief among the luxuries in the nature of Christmas gifts with which the wayfarer is presented on arrival in Melbourne may be reckoned an almost total immunity from the heat tyranny. The thermometer registers a scale usually associated with personal discomfort, but oppressiveness is neutralised by certain adjuncts of civilisation—lofty houses, cool halls, and shady trees. The ever-sighing sea-breeze—fair Calypso of the desert-worn Ulysses—invites to soft repose; while the prevalence of ice, as applied to the manufacture of comforting beverages, transforms thirst into a disguised blessing. The glare of the noonday sun, so harmful to the precious gift of sight, even to reason's throne, is here 'blocked,' to use the prevailing idiom of the week, by a hundred cunning devices. The marvels of capitalised industry, the results of science, the miracles of art, are daily displayed. Old friends, new books, freshly-coined ideas, strange sights, wonder-signs of all shades and hues, press closely the flying hours. The tired reveller sinks into dreamless rest each night, only to enter upon a fresh course of enjoyment and adventure with the opening morn.

I find myself following a multitude on one of the first days after arrival, not 'to do evil,' it may be humbly asserted, but to behold the Inter-Colonial Cricket Match. We step out past the Treasury and enter a side alley of Eden. The broad, asphalted walk leads through an avenue of over-arching elms—a close, embowered shade over which our enemy, the sun, has scant power. Anon we cross a winding streamlet, rippling through a gloom of fern-trees and a miniature tropical forest. There the thrush and blackbird flit unharmed, the moss velvet carpets the dark mould, and but a slanting sun-ray flecks the shadows from the close-ranked lofty exotics—'a place for pleading swain and whispering lovers made.' But the order of the day for all sorts and conditions of men and maids is plainly Richmond Park. Only a few deserters are seen from the ranks of the holiday-seeking army as we thread the leafy defiles. Presently we emerge upon the unshaded road which, through the Jolimont estate—erstwhile a Viceregal residence—conducts us to the Melbourne cricket-ground.

Here, truly, is a sight for unaccustomed eyes. The great enclosure encircled by ornamental iron railings, larrikin proof, as I am informed, its level, close-shaved green a turf triumph and species of enlarged billiard-table as applied to cricket purposes. It is girdled by a ring of well-grown oaks and elms, through which the glossy-leaved Norfolk Island fig-trees, pushing their more lavish and intense foliage, communicate a southern tone.

I stand invested with the privileges of the pavilion, an imposing three-storeyed edifice, containing all necessary conveniences for the comfort of the athletes of the contest, as well as of their friends and well-wishers, who are in the proud position of members. The arrangements are liberal and comprehensive. Refreshment bars and luncheon tables, lavatories, dressing-rooms, billiards, and other palliatives are here provided, while on the western side are asphalted grounds, defended by wire netting, where the votaries of the racquet and tennis-ball display their skill. From the graduated tiers of seats in the lower or upper rooms, as well as from the roof itself, a perfect view of the game may be obtained; while on either side of the lawn, under cover or otherwise, full provision is made for the comfort of the gentler sex, always liberal in patronage of these popular contests. Around the remaining portions of the enclosure, and protected from the _profanum vulgus_ by a high iron fence, accommodation is provided for the rank and file of the spectators, who, at a small cost, are admitted.

The hour is come and the man. Twelve o'clock has struck. New South Wales has won the toss. From the pavilion gate the manly form of Murdoch is seen to issue, cricket-armoured, with trusty bat in hand. He enters the arena amid general plaudits, followed by Alec Bannerman. Then forth file the eleven champions of Victoria, who spread themselves variously over the field. Palmer gives the ball a preliminary spin; Blackham stretches his limbs and stands ready and remorseless—a cricketer's fate—behind the wicket. The first ball is catapulted—swift speeding, with dangerous break. Murdoch 'pokes it to the off' or 'puts it to leg,' and the great encounter has commenced.

Wonderful and chiefly comprehensible must it be to the uninitiated or the foreigner to mark the rapt attention with which the performance is viewed by the thousands of all classes and ages who are now gathered around. Ten thousand people watch every flight of ball or stroke of bat with eager interest, with prompt, instructed criticism. Wonderful order, indeed a curious silence, for the most part, prevails. It is too serious a matter for light converse. The interchange of opinion is conveyed with bated breath; a narrow escape, to be sure, is noted with a sigh of relief; a hit with cheers and clapping of hands. When the fatal ball scatters the stumps, or drops into the hands of the watchful adversary, one unanimous burst of applause breaks from the vast assemblage. His Lordship the Bishop of Melbourne, who sits in one of the front seats watching the scene with an air compounded of interest and toleration, doubtless wishes that he could secure a congregation on great occasions so large, so deeply observant, so closely critical, so sincerely aroused. Doubtless his Lordship, conceding, with the kindly wisdom that distinguishes him, that the people must have their recreations, would admit that from no other spectacle could so many persons of all ranks and ages, and both sexes, derive so large an amount of innocent gratification.

The 'cricket is so good' that several days elapse before the perhaps somewhat too-protracted match is over. Heavy scoring on both sides in the first innings. An exciting finish on the fifth day wrests the chaplet temporarily from New South Wales. Victoria wins with three wickets to go down. But those who are willow-wise aver that if—ah me! those ifs—Spofforth and Massie had been there, the latter with the advantage of the matchless wicket, another tale might have been told—

From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn,
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne.

* * * * *

The bells have chimed on that fateful midnight when died the old year; the radiant stranger is a crowned king. In the forenoon we turn our steps westwards, and enter another of the parks with which this city has been generously endowed. A holiday-loving race, certes, are we Australians. Had Victoria been a Roman province, her populace would have been regally furnished with _panem et circenses_, or known the reason why. With the eight hours' system, high wages, and frequent holidays, the working-man of the period, compared with his European brother, is an aristocrat. But here we are once more on the Flemington race-course, and of it, as of the Melbourne cricket-ground, we feel inclined to assert (_pace_ Trollope) that it must be, in its way, the best in the world.

Much thoughtful care has been bestowed upon the grounds, the buildings, the adjuncts; much money spent since the old days, when it differed little from an ordinary cattle-paddock. And the results are bewildering. Whence this lovely lawn 'with verdure clad,' where, amid flowers and fountains, crowds of well-dressed people stroll and linger, protected as in their own gardens from inconvenient sound or sight? this broad, smooth terrace-promenade below the Stand? this immense edifice, where in sheltered comfort every stride of the race can be seen? these perfect arrangements for the protagonists—brute and human—in the Olympian games we have come to witness? Is this the place where often amid heat and dust, not infrequently under soaking showers, the same sports have been witnessed by the much-enduring crowd? or has the Eastern enchanter of our boyhood carried off the ancient race-course bodily, and replaced it with this garden of Armida?

If the surroundings are complete, and the concomitants exhilarating, the weather is delicious. All things have combined to make this first-born of the opening year a day of days. The unobtrusive sun is merely warm; the bright, blue sky softly toned by fleeting clouds; the sea-breeze whispers of the wave's cool marge and ocean caves.

'On such a day it were a joy to die,' and as in the first race—the 'Hurdle'—one beholds Sparke's rider pulling desperately at the chain-bit in his horse's mouth, as he fights madly for the lead, it appears but too probable that he is destined for the sacrifice. The violent chestnut, however, contrary to an established theory, does not run himself out, or smash his jockey. He retains the lead gallantly, and, with the exception of a perilous bang over the last hurdle, touches nothing. He wins the race from end to end, confounding the backers of Lady Hampden and Vanguard, the latter horse having carried a hurdle on his hocks for some distance, and so lost his very good show in the race.

Archie wins the Bagot Plate, confirming his friends in their previous good opinion. Those, however, who backed him for 'the Standish' on the strength of it, are doomed to furnish another example of the 'you never can tell' theory, as he is therein beaten by Mr. Charles Lloyd's Chuckster. The remaining races are well contested, and many a good horse extends himself ere the Criterion Stakes, the last race on the programme, are won; but, curious to relate, one feels more interested in the people nowadays than in the horses. The pleasant walks and talks, which are possible in this equine paradise, detract from the keen interest with which formerly the possible winners were regarded. Even the luncheon at a friend's table (one of a series provided by the Management), with its accompaniments of smiles, champagne, and lightsome converse, takes its place as a principal event. Afternoon tea, not less pleasant in its way, succeeds; after which function the mass of handsomely-appointed equipages in the carriage enclosure begins to disintegrate, driving up singly to the side entrance. Whether the beer, presumably imbibed by the coachman, has got into the horses' heads, I am unable to state; but the latter prefer the use of their hind-legs temporarily. This effervescence, however, soon subsides. The four-in-hands depart. Carriage after carriage rolls away; their daintily-attired occupants are whirled off safely. _Nous autres_ take the Flemington road, or fight for a railway seat; and a day of pleasure, marked with a white stone for some of us, comes cheerily to an end.

A DRY TIME

As I ride, as I ride,
With a full heart for my guide.

BROWNING.

The moon has waxed and waned, yet one may not, in 1883, recall with the poet

The lonesome October
Of a most immemorial year,

inasmuch as that month in these Southern wilds is for the most part a gleesome, companionable time, rich in flower-birth and fruit-promise. None the less, if the windows of heaven be not the sooner opened, the present year of our Lord will be aught but immemorial in the chronicles of the land.

Surely the blessed dews of heaven, the rain for which in these arid wastes all Nature cries aloud, will not long be denied. How clearly can we realise the force of the strong Saxon of the Vulgate, 'And the famine was sore in the land.'

Here now exists the same hopeless, long-protracted absence of all moisture which drove the Patriarch to 'travel' with his flocks and herds, viz. camels and she-asses, his sons and their families, from dried-out Canaan to the rich 'frontage' of the Nile. Here, as then, in that far historic dawn, is dust where grass grew and water ran. Strange birds crowd the scanty pools, while among the great hordes of live stock, reared in plenteous seasons, the strong are lean and sad-eyed, the weak are perishing daily with increasing rapidity.

The hand of man, which has done so much to reclaim these wondrous wastes, is powerless against Nature's cruel fiat. None can do more than wait and pray; for the end must come, when the days shorten and the nights grow cold, even in this summer land; and utter, unredeemed ruin is the goal towards which many of the proprietors have perforce turned their eyes these many weary months past.

The fair but fleeting promise of the bygone month has been unredeemed. Only a few days of the threatening sun have sufficed to wither the tender herbage, the springing plantlets which essayed to cover the baked soil. The broad road seems that veritable way to Avernus, so bare, sun-scorched, adust is it, for hundreds of leagues. Far away one may note its swaying deflections, and hold a parallel course, guided solely by the well-nigh continuous dust-line of the waggon-trains.

Yet, maugre the terrors of the time, certain feathered inhabitants have their provision secured to them. How else trip and flit from myall twig to pine bough, bright-eyed and fearless, this pair of delicious tiny doves? The most exquisitely formed and delicately lovely of all the Columba family, they are, perhaps, the smallest—not larger than the brown bush-quail. Not half the size of the crested pigeon, there is a family resemblance in the fairy pink legs, the pointed tail, the bronze bars of the wing-feathers, the tones of the soft, azure breast. By no means a shy bird, as if conscious that few fowlers could be cruel to the hurt of so delicate a thing of beauty, so rare a feathered gem, in these stern solitudes.

Not that all the tribes of the air can be described as beautiful and harmless. Riding slowly through a belt of timber, musing, it may be, on the undeserved sorrows of the lower animals, I am suddenly and violently assaulted—'bonneted,' as the humorous youth of the period has it. I clutch my hat just in time to save it from being knocked off. There are two round holes near the brim, which I had not previously observed, and a cock magpie is flying back to his station on a tree hard by, much satisfied in his mind. It is a well-known habit of this bold, aggressive bird in the breeding season. He keeps watch, apparently, the livelong day, hard by the nest, and, pledged to drive away intruders, is no respecter of persons. Long years since, the present writer was similarly attacked; when essaying to lift his hat some hours afterwards, and finding resistance, he discovered that the bird's beak had penetrated the felt and inflicted a smart cut. Blood had actually been shed, and, having dried, caused adhesion. The 'piping crow,' as ornithologically the magpie of the colonies is designated, is not truly a magpie at all. He is carnivorous and insectivorous. Withal a handsome bird, with glossy raven breast and back, and most melodious, flute-like carol, at earliest morn and eve. He is easily tamed, and in captivity learns to talk, to whistle, and even to swear with clearness and accuracy—more particularly the last accomplishment. As a member of the household, he exhibits great powers of adaptation, has the strongest conviction as to his rank and position, despises children, whose undefended legs he pecks, and will engage in desperate combat with dog or cat, turkey or gamecock. An Australian naturalist of eminence gives his testimony to the courage with which a tame bird of the species relieved the tedium of a homeward-bound voyage by its constant duels with such gamecocks as the coops produced.

Feeding in the open plain, and in a leisurely way inspecting the sparse vegetation with an eye to grasshoppers, strolls a bustard with his mate. This noble game-bird, the wild turkey of the colonists, is fully equal, perhaps superior, in flavour to his tame congener. Longer in neck and limb, crane-like of head, the plumage presents several points of resemblance which justifies his title to the name. He has also the trick of strutting with drooped wings and outspread tail before the female. Shy and difficult of approach by the sportsman on foot, he is easily circumvented by riding or driving around in circles, gradually narrowing, when an easy shot is gained.

A reminiscence arises here of the regal sport of hawking enjoyed in connection with a bird of this species. Hard hit with double B, he found it difficult to rise above the tall grass of the marshy plain where he had been stalked, though gradually gaining strength. As he cleared the reed-tops, a wedge-tailed eagle (the eagle-hawk of the colonists) swooped down from airy heights and dashed at the huge bird like a merlin at a thrush. Very nearly did the 'lammergeier' make prize of him, but the long sweep of the bustard's wing kept him ahead. Presently he got 'way on,' assisted by a slight breeze. Down the wind went hawk and quarry, neck and neck, so to speak, while the sportsman put his horse to speed, going straight across country, with head up and eyes fixed on the pair, as they gradually rose higher in the sky. Ever and anon the eagle would make a dash at the wounded bird, but whether the temporary shock had only staggered him, or that it was nature's last effort, the edible one soared away far and fast, eventually disappearing from our gaze.

While on the subject of hawking, there is little doubt that the 'aguila' referred to might be trained to fly at the larger game—turkeys, geese, kangaroo, and emu—while the smaller falcons, which are sufficiently plentiful, might be equally effective in pursuit of the traditional heron. The beautiful blue crane of the colonists (_Ardea Australis_) is found in every streamlet and marsh, as also the spoonbill, the white crane (snowy of hue, and with curious fringing wing-feathers), not forgetting the bittern.

Young Australia, gentle or simple, might find worse employment than riding forth in the fresh morn of the early summer, with hawk on wrist, inhaling even this faintest flavour of the romance of the great days of chivalry.

On the broad, still reaches of the river, or the wide sheets of water artificially conserved, behold we the pelican, in no wise differing in appearance from the traditional dweller in the wilderness. Whether the Australian is unselfishly prodigal in the matter of heart's blood in favour of her young is difficult of proof, forasmuch as no living man, apparently, ever sets eyes on a youthful pelican. In the untrodden deserts which surround the heart of the continent is popularly deemed to lie the haunt of the brooding bird; and an Australian poetess has mourned the fate of the gallant brothers—bold and practised explorers—last seen on their way to the unknown, half-mystic region, 'where the pelican builds her nest.'

As the hot breath of the fast-coming summer proves yet more deadly to every green thing, the pelican flocks sail coastward in great numbers from their failing streams and marshes. With them comes the beautiful black swan—'rara avis in terra,' but here an everyday sight—graceful, with scarlet beak, wreathed neck, and 'pure cold webs'; the wild, musical note clanging from the soaring, swaying files cleaving the empyrean. Rarely-seen waders and swimmers are of the contingent if the 'weather holds dry'—a wayworn, far-travelled host, priceless to the naturalist could he but observe them.

Let but the stern drought continue unbroken, all-heedless of man and his great army of dependants, through the brief spring, the long summer—till the days shorten and (even here) the nights grow cold—unprecedented losses must occur in certain localities. Still, hope is not dead. The dry zone is restricted in area. Outside and around it, what the shepherds term 'fine storms' have refreshed the pastures. Even yet there is corn in Egypt.[4] There is grass and to spare beyond the Queensland border. Thither will many a sorely-oppressed proprietor send a section of flock or herd, availing himself of the time-honoured institution of 'travelling for feed.' Such, neither more nor less, was the last resort of those grand historic sheiks of the desert, even Abraham and Lot, when 'the land was not able to bear them'; and to such an alternative must the latter-day, salt-bush sheik turn in his need, or see his live stock perish before his eyes, in thousands and ten thousands.

Footnote 4:

There is no corn in Egypt now (as far as Queensland is referred to) it
must be admitted with deep regret. The famine in the land has reached
the biblical record of 'seven years of drouth.'

He will improvise a nomadic establishment with dray and tent, shepherds and cooks, stock-riders and bullock-drivers, horses and cattle, everything save camels, needed in a patriarchal migration. Even these last ungainly thirst-defiers are now bred in Australia. Hard by the tropic he will pass into a land of grass prairies and flooded streams—the promised land of the desert-worn hosts. He will here find himself—'most ingenious paradox'—in a region where live stock are high-priced, but where 'country' is cheap. He will rent, perhaps purchase another run. The drought which drove him forth may so and in such manner make his fortune yet. Let us hope so, in all sympathy and good fellowship. There he will reach his haven of rest. He may sell out again, or decide to cast in his fortunes with the newer colony, but in any case he will remain there until, as far as King Sol is concerned, 'this tyranny be over-past.'

AUSTRALIAN COLLIES

In the stage of the early history of New South Wales, when her increasing herds bid fair to overspread the waste, the dog, his ancient and faithful servant, came to the aid of man. The Scotch collie, friend of the lonely hill-shepherd in North Britain from time immemorial, was unanimously elected to fill the responsible position—not, however, as being the only available canine connected with stock management, for the Smithfield drover's dog had also emigrated, that wonderful stump-tailed animal, which managed to keep his master's cattle separate at the great London mart, though thousands of beeves be around, unfenced and unyarded. Matchless in his own department, he was gradually superseded by the collie, which came to the front as a better all-round dog, more intelligent, faithful, and companionable; when trained, equally suitable for the 'working' of sheep or cattle.

The breed, at first pure as imported, became crossed with other varieties of the multiform genus _Canis_, and so suffered partial deterioration. Still, such was the original potency of the collie proper, that many of the mongrels, even the product of the ovicidal 'dingo,' were excellent workers, in some instances even superior to their pure-bred comrades. The climate, too, appeared to be favourable to the breed. The Australian offspring of the imported collies were handsome, vigorous animals, with correct 'flag and feather,' yet reproducing the traits of fidelity and human attachment concerning which so many a tale was told, poem written, and picture painted in the old land. The 'harder' or fiercer animals were chosen for cattle work, and being bred for the qualities of 'heeling,' and even doing a mild imitation of bull-baiting on occasions, became almost a distinct breed. In the old-fashioned cattle districts, like Monaro and the Abercrombie River, where in early days a sheep was never seen, the cattle dogs—true collies in appearance and extraction—were very different in their manners and customs from their sheep-guiding relatives of the settled districts, whose 'bark was (so much) worse than their bite.'

It was quite the other way with the cattle dogs. They were encouraged to 'heel' or bite the fetlocks of the stubborn, half-wild cattle, in a way which bustled them along as crack or cut of stockwhip could never effect. In the case of a breaking beast they would hang on to his tail, and perhaps, when bringing back a wild yearling to the yard, assault tail, heels, nose, and ears impartially, with dire results. They ran their chance of being kicked or horned at this rough-and-tumble game, but from practice became exceeding wary of these and other dangers. A cattle dog has been seen to 'work' (or help drive) a drove of horses, heeling when desired to do so most impartially, and yet managing to keep clear of the dangerous kicks which the half-wild colts aimed at him. Every man of experience with stock will bear testimony to the admirable service which a good cattle dog will perform. Wearied and low-conditioned droves they will 'move' in a way which no amount of whip and shouting will effect. On the other hand, where caution and diplomacy are required, their sagacity is astonishing.

I once had occasion, 'in the forties,' to drive a small lot of fat cattle some days' journey to a coast town in Western Victoria. They had come to me in a deal, and I wished to turn them into cash. It was a good way from home. The vendors simply 'cut them out' from the camp, accompanied me to the Run boundary, and gave me their blessing. I had no mate but an ancient cattle dog. It may be surmised by the experienced how many times the home-bred cattle tried to break back. Again and again I thought they would have beaten me. I kept one side, the dog Peter the other, necessarily. Had either rashly caused a separation the game was up. It was beautiful to see the old dog's generalship. If a beast diverged on his side, he would walk solemnly out, keep wide and dodge him in with the smallest expenditure of voice or emotion. By this time some of the others would be looking back, preparatory to a dash homeward. These he would hustle up promptly, just sufficiently and no more. That I was watchful on my side needs no telling; an occasional tap or whipcrack kept them going. Even fat cattle know when the stockwhip is absent. We—I say it advisedly—yarded them safely that night, when a well-managed hostelry consoled me for the frightful anxiety I had undergone. Next day they travelled more resignedly, and the third night saw them delivered to 'the man of flesh and blood' in Portland, and, what was better still, paid for.

In the Port Fairy district, then chiefly devoted to cattle, were many famous cattle collies. Old Mr. Teviot at Dunmore had three I remember, their peculiarity being that they understood nothing but Lowland Scotch, in which dialect they had, though Australian by birth, been trained. 'Far yaud' (as Dandie Dinmont says), and other mysterious commands, wholly unintelligible to us youngsters, they understood and obeyed promptly. But it was amusing to watch the air of surprise or indifference with which they regarded the stock-riders, who sometimes in time of need suggested 'Fetch 'em along, boy!' or 'Go on outside.' Like most people to whom dogs are wildly attached, Mr. Teviot was austere of manner towards them, feeding regularly, but permitting no familiarity. How they loved him in consequence! If returning from a trip to the township after dark, they would listen for the footfall of his horse, and long before human ear caught the far, faint sound, would rise up solemnly and walk half a mile or more along the road to greet him. These dogs were popularly credited with being able to do anything but talk, and were renowned throughout the country-side for their obedience and thorough comprehension of their owner's wishes.

I once owned a cattle collie of great intelligence, by name Clara, the daughter of a one-eyed female of the species, celebrated for her 'heeling' propensities. The mother was uncertain as to temper, and was often soundly chastised by her owner for erratic work or short-comings. After a good flogging she jumped up and fawned upon him with the fondest affection, thus verifying the ancient adage. But Clara was a gentle and kindly creature though a good driver, and in all respects strangely intelligent, a handsome black and tan as to colour. In yard work she showed out to the greatest advantage. Always keenly observant at such times, and curiously eager to assist—leaving a very young family on one occasion. One day in particular a panel of the stock-yard was broken; there was no time for repairs. But Clara was on guard, and there she stayed, never letting a beast through till the drafting was over.

Poor Clara! she met with an early death. Coming back from a muster, she was forgotten in the hurry and bustle. The weather was hot; the distance greater than usual. It was supposed that she died of thirst, or was killed by the dingoes, for she was never seen alive afterwards.

Peter, a Sydney-side dog, brought down by his owner before 1840 or thereabouts, with some of the early herds, was probably one of the cleverest animals in his way that ever followed a beast. His owner was a Sydney native of the 'flash gully-raking sort,' from whom probably Peter had received his education in indifferent company. We judged this from the cautious and unobtrusive way in which he went about his work. He was a medium-sized, dark-coloured dog, wiry and active. He was not fond of working for any one but his master, who could make him do all sorts of queer things. When he came into the kitchen and the maidservants chaffed him, he had only to whisper 'Heel 'em, Peter!' and the next minute the girls would be screaming and scampering, with Peter's teeth very close to their ankles. When tired—and they often travelled far and fast—he would come to the horse's fore-leg and beg to be taken up. Pulled up to the pommel of the saddle, he would sit upright, quite gravely, leaning against his master until he was sufficiently rested; then, when dropped to earth, he would go to work with amazing vigour. If any particular beast kicked him, he would wait till there was a crush at a gate, and 'heel' that very animal to a certainty at a time when it was impossible to retaliate.

The collie, on the other hand, whom fate had destined to a less romantic association with sheep, was trained and exercised differently. He was expected to guide and intimidate his timorous, delicate, though often frantic and obstinate charge chiefly by the sound of his voice and a threatening manner. Biting was forbidden under severe penalties. 'Working wide'—that is, continually running beyond, ahead, outside of the flock, which was therefore turned, stopped, or directed—was inculcated in every possible way. It is to be noted that the fashion is chiefly inherited, the untrained puppy of pure blood doing most of it as naturally as the pointer puppy lifts his fore-leg. A slight nip now and then in driving weary or obstinate sheep is permitted, but nothing approaching injury to the easily-hurt flock. It is an interesting sight to mark a trained collie walking back and forward in the rear of a large flock, intimating to them as plainly as possible without speech that they are to move along steadily in a given path, and, though permitted to nibble as they go, by no means to straggle unduly.

Then observe that shepherd with his flock of, say, two or three thousand. If strong and in good order, the 'head' will string out fully half a mile in advance of the 'body' and 'tail.' If left alone they will soon be out of sight at the rear-guard. Then a division would follow, and once away, after nightfall, wild dogs and dangers are on every side of them. Nor could the shepherd on foot, as he is always, run round ahead and turn them. By the time he reached the head, the tail would be marching in a different direction. When he turned them, the head would be gone again, etc. etc.

But mark the dog! Despatched by a wave of the hand, he races off at full speed. He flies round the scattered sheep, keeping wide, however, and so consolidating them, until he reaches the leaders, which, directly they see him, scurry back to the centre of the flock. Returning, he walks dutifully behind, with the air of one who has fulfilled his mission. In half an hour perhaps the same performance is repeated. In the middle of the day, if warm, the flock indulges in a 'camp' by a water-hole or other suitable locality. As it feeds home to the yard, very little of the morning activity is observed. Our collie, while watchful and ready for a lightning dash at a moment's notice, walks soberly behind, evidently contented with the day's work.

As the New Zealand shepherd, a man in his best years of strength and activity, is a different man from the elderly and often feeble shepherd of Australia, so the collie of Maoriland, having to climb rock-strewn defiles, and search amid glacier plateaux and savage solitudes, for the scattered, half-wild flocks, has an air of seriousness and responsibility. There is but little frolic and gamesomeness about _him_. The dogs of Ettrick and Yarrow, accustomed to snow and the blasts of an iron winter, claim kinship with him. Compelled to act on his own discretion, he tracks outliers, finds and collects his flock in all weathers.

'Sirrah, ma mon, they're awa!' says James Hogg to his wonderful collie, the 'dark-grey puppy' that he bought for a pound, if I mistake not. The dog, in the drear darkness of a snowstorm, goes forth, and hours afterwards is found guarding the four hundred lost lambs, not one being missing.

So when muster-day comes, the New Zealand collie makes for the mountain peaks: on the lonely plain far above the snow-line, where in severe seasons a hundred sheep may be found dead and frozen, he beats and quarters his country, till he finds and brings down to the appointed place all the straggling lots that may have summered there.

Independently of the qualities necessary for the successful mobilisation of sheep, the collie is, perhaps, of all the sub-varieties of the canine race, the most faithful and sympathetic. Time after time has one observed the tramping shepherd or swagman and his dog. Poor and despised, 'remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,' the forlorn wayfarer had one staunch friend—one faithful ally—that regarded not his poverty, his lowly condition, his lack of self-denial. Who has not marked the tramp asleep _sub Jove_ at daylight, with scant shelter or covering, his watchful dog sitting near, prepared to show his teeth, or indeed do something more, at the nearer approach of the stranger? The dog of the imprisoned shepherd, immured by Sir Hugo de Pentonville for inebriety, lies stretched disconsolately before the prison gate, howling at intervals, apparently in deepest despair, betraying on the other hand the most frantic joy at his release. The railway favourite goes heavily, mourning as unmistakably as a Christian—more sincerely than some—in abstracted gloom, melancholy gait, and aimless daily search for his master, untimely slain by the remorseless Juggernaut. A hundred times has one caught the watchful eye of affection with which the collie regards his ragged owner, as if fearing to lose the least word or gesture.

And though the recipients of this unstinted devotion rarely appear to appreciate the gift so lavishly bestowed, it must be recorded, for the honour of human nature, that instances of the contrary _do_ occur. But the other day, a lonely pilgrim, who had been ailing few weeks past, was found by the good Samaritan, cold in death, with his arm _round his dog's neck_. A shepherd will carry the young family of his (female) collie, born during a journey, tied in a handkerchief, at much expenditure of toil and trouble. In many an instance blood feuds, savage conflicts ending in manslaughter—suicides even—have occurred, connected with injustice, real or fancied, to the 'dawg.' 'Love me, love my dog,' is an ancient adage by no means without force in Australia. But recently a farmer deliberately shot a neighbour whom he accused, wrongfully or otherwise, of killing his dog. Prior to that occurrence a shepherd, noticed to be despondent for days past, telling one inquirer that some one had poisoned his dog, _hanged himself_.

Touching the price of a really good dog, it may range from two pounds to twenty—an owner often declaring that he would not part with his dog for the last-named sum. Within the present month, indeed, two legal processes, to the writer's knowledge, have been put in force in the collie interest. In one case £10 was sued for as being the value of a cattle dog, alleged to have been illegally poisoned. The other was nothing less than a 'Search-warrant for stolen goods and chattels,' commanding the Sergeant of Police and all constables of Bundabah to make diligent search, in the daytime, at the residence of the man referred to, whose name is not known, but who can be identified, for the said black collie slut, named in the information as 'feloniously stolen, taken, and carried away as aforesaid, and if you find the same, that you secure the said black collie slut, and bring the person in whose custody you find the same before me, or some other justice of the peace.—(Signed) JOHN JONES, J.P.'

At the annual pastoral and agricultural shows, the trial of sheep dogs has never-failing interest for the spectators. Most curious is it to note the gravity with which each competing collie essays to drive three wildish paddocked sheep into a very small fold of hurdles.

The free exhibition of strychnine, rendered necessary by the incursions of the dingo, and, 'sorrow it were and shame to tell,' by the increase of foxes, has led to the death of many a valued collie. But good animals are now carefully looked after. Greater attention is paid to breeding. Dogs of the best strains are annually imported. And as the ranks of Australian collies are thus recruited with pure blood and high-class animals, it is not too much to assert, that as a stock dog, our Australian collie is not inferior to his British ancestors, while he may claim even a wider range of accomplishments and experience.

IN THE BLOOM OF THE YEAR

The first week of December! And seeing that we are in the realm of Australia, in the district of Riverina, where the season has been wet, which is 'dry country' English for triumphantly prosperous, also that vegetable growth is at its acme, we regard our title as fully justified.

All plant-life is now profusely, riotously luxuriant. A drenching winter, following a wet autumn, preceded a late, showery spring; thus, and because of which, the pastures and cornfields, the orchards and gardens, are rich with verdure and promise to a degree unknown since the proverbial year of 1870.

Some few sultry days have we had, but the true Australian summer has not, so far, appeared in its lurid, wasting splendour. Hardly a ripening tinge is yet visible on the wide-waving prairies, the bespangled meadows, the shaded forest lawns. Wild flowers of every shape and hue—blue and scarlet, pink and orange, white and yellow, perfumed or scentless—glorify the landscape.

As we drive along, this balmy, breezy, sun-bright day, through the champaign, which lies anear and around an inland country town, let us (if haply it may tend to dispel some small portion of the ignorance of our British friends as to the 'bush of Australia') put on record the 'scenes and sounds of a far clime' in this season of the year.

The wheat crops, standing strong and level for leagues around, as high, generally, as the rail fence which protects them, have not as yet been assailed; but the reaper and binder has made many a foray into the hayfields. Here we notice one of the results of machinery. In the majority of instances the oats, though green of hue, are in sheaves and stooks. The time-honoured spring romance of fragrant haycocks is hastening to its doom, inasmuch as the greater portion of the oat-crop saved is intended to be reduced into chaff, as being more portable or saleable in that form. It is obviously better economy, by using the reaper and string-binder, to have it arranged mechanically in sheaves and hand-placed in stooks. It is then more convenient for loading, stacking, and the final operation of the chaff-cutter. Most of these sheaves are six feet and over in height. Heavy-headed, too, withal. We were informed that four tons of chaff to the acre is not an uncommon yield this year. The lambs, which are running with their mothers in the great enclosures, wire-fenced and ring-barked as to timber, through which the high road passes, are wonderfully well-grown and healthy-looking. The percentage, averaging from eighty to ninety, is exceptionally high, when it is considered that the expense of tendance is nominal. From five to seven thousand ewes—even more sometimes—are running in each paddock, unwatched and untended till marking-time, thence to the shearing, which is also the weaning period. This year the shepherd-kings have a right royal time of it, though not more than sufficient to compensate them for the losses and crosses of the last decade. Apropos of this woolly people, here approaches an aged shepherd. He is mounted, so that he has received his cheque. Solvent and resolved, he is journeying to the town, on pleasure bent, of a rational nature let us hope. The flies of mid-day are troublesome, but he has a net-veil round his weather-beaten face; so has the steady veteran steed. The collie, following dutifully, is unprotected from flies, but accoutred with a wire muzzle—not, as the young lady from the city supposed, to prevent his biting the sheep, but lest he should swallow the innocent-seeming morsel of meat by the wayside, intended for vagrom canines, and containing the deadly crystals of strychnine. Certes, with plenteousness the land runs o'er, this gracious year of our Lord 1887. The cattle lounging about the roads—the roads, like the fields, knee-deep in thick green grass—with their shining coats and plump bodies, testify to the bounty of the season. The birds call and twitter. The skylark, faint reflex as he is of his English compeer, yet mounts skyward and sings his shorter lay rejoicingly. The wild-duck, gladsome and unharmed, swims in the meres which here and there divide the river meadows. The fat beeves in the paddock ruminate contemplatively, or recline around some patriarchal tree. All nature is joyous; the animated portion 'rich in spirits and health,' the vegetable contingent spreading forth and burgeoning in unchecked development. As we pass Bungāwannāh, one of the large estates, formerly squattages, which alternate with the farms and smaller pastoral holdings, a fallow doe with her fawn starts up from the long grass, gazing at us with startled but mildly-timid eye. They are outliers from a herd of nearly a hundred, which have increased from a few head placed there by a former proprietor.

In this our Centennial year it must be conceded that Australia is a land of varied products. We pass orchards where the apples are reddening fast, where apricots are turning pink, and the green fig slowly filling its luscious sphere. We note the vivid green of the many-acred vineyards, now in long rows, giving an air of formal regularity to the cultivated portion of the foreground. Then we descry the dark green and gold of an orangery, hard by the river-bank—in this year a most profitable possession to the proprietor.

Amid this abundance we miss one figure sufficiently familiar to the traveller in other lands, or the European resident, viz. 'the poor man.' He may be somewhere about, but we do not encounter him. He does not solicit alms, at any rate. His nearest counterpart is the swagman or pedestrian labourer. He is differentiated from the shearer and the 'rouseabout' (the shearing-shed casual labourer), who travel, the former invariably, the latter occasionally, on horseback. But the humble dependant upon the aristocratic squatter or prosperous farmer is a well-fed, fairly well-dressed personage, who affords himself an unlimited allowance of tobacco. Say that he elects to journey afoot in an equestrian country, he needs pity or charity from no man.