 Section 17 of the Book of the Bush. Next day every man from the neighboring stations, and some from Nylon, joined in the search. The chief constable was there, and as he became a professional detector of crime, he examined everything minutely, inside and outside the two huts, but he could not find anything suspicious about either of them. He entered into conversation with Julia, but the eye of her husband was on her and she had little to say. Rosie, on the contrary, was full of suggestions as to what might have happened to Baldi, and he helped to look for him eagerly and actively in every direction but the right one. For many days the rises were peopled with prospectors, but one by one they dropped away. The chief constable was loath to leave the riddle unsolved. He had the instinct of the sleuth hound on the scent of blood. He had been a pursuer of bad works amongst the convicts for a long time, both in Vandamians land and in Victoria, and had helped to bring many men to the gallows or the chain-gang. He had once been shot in the back by a horse-stief who lay concealed behind the door of a shepherd's hut, but he secured the horse-stief. He was a man without nerves, of medium height, strongly built, had a broad face, with ears, wide, firm mouth, and strong jaws. One night after the searchers had departed to their various homes, the chief remained alone in the rises, and, leaving his horse hobbled at a distance, cautiously approached Nosy's hut. He placed his ear to the outside of the weather-boards and listened, for some time, to the conversation of Nosy and his wife, expecting to obtain by chance some information about the disappearance of the other shepherd. Nosy was in a bad temper, swearing and finding fault with everything. Julia was prudent and said little. It was best not to say too much to a man who was so handy with the family acts. But at last she made use of one expression which seemed to mean something. She said, oh Nosy, you murdering villain, you know you ought to be hanged. There was a prophetic ring in these words which delighted the chief constable, and he glued his great ear to the weather-boards, eagerly listening for more. But the wrangling pair were very disappointing. They would not keep to the point. At last he walked round the hut, suddenly opened the door and entered. Nosy was struck dumb at once. His first thought was that his plan had been sprung, and that the murder was out. The chief addressed Julia in a tone of authority, imitating the counsel for the crown when examining a prevaricating witness. Now, Mrs. Remember, you will be put on your oath. You said just now, oh Nosy, you murdering villain, you know you ought to be hanged. Those were your very words, now what did you mean? On your oath, mind out with it at once. But Julia was not to be caught so easily. She replied, oh bad luck to him, he is always angry. I don't know what to do with him, I did not mean anything. You did not mean anything about Baldy, I suppose, did you now, queried the constable, shamefully leading the witness, and looking hard at Nosy. Julia parried the question, by heaving a deep sigh, and saying, hi ho, Harry, if I were a maid I never would marry, and then she began singing a silly old song. The constable was disgusted and said, my good woman, you'll find there will be nothing to laugh at in this job when I see you again. As he left the hut, he turned at the door and gave one more look at Nosy, who had stood all the time riveted to the ground, expecting every moment that the constable would produce the handcuffs. Then afterwards Julia went outside, walked round the hut, and stayed awhile, listening and looking in every direction. When she returned, Nosy said in a hoarse whisper, is he gone yet? I think, replied Julia, he won't be coming again tonight. He has thrown away his trouble this time, anyhow, but he must hold your tongue, Nosy, if you want to save your neck. He means to have you if he can. Nosy stayed on the run some weeks longer following his sheep. It would not be advisable to go away suddenly, and moreover he recollected that what the eye could not see might sometime be discovered by another of the senses. So he waited patiently, standing guard as it were over the dead, until his curiosity induced him to pay a farewell visit by daylight to the place where Baldy was buried. There had been hot weather since the body had been deposited in the shallow grave, and the crevices among the piles of bluestone had been filled by the wind with the yellow stalks of decayed grass. Nosy walked round his own particular pile and inspected it closely. He was pleased to find that it showed no signs of having been touched since he raised it. It was just like any of the other heaps of rocks around it. He had, at any rate, given Baldy as good a funeral as circumstances would permit, better than that of many a man who had perished of hunger, heat, and thirst in the shelterless wastes of the Never Never land, beyond Money Grubb's farthest run. Nosy and the weather had done their work so well that for the next fifteen years no shepherd, stockman, or squatter ever gave a second look at that unknown grave. The black snake coiled itself beneath the decaying skeleton, and spent the winter in secure repose. The native cat tore away bits of Baldy's clothing, and with them, and the yellow grass, made year after year a nest for its young among the whitening bones. Everything so far had turned out quite as satisfactorily as any murderer could expect. Nosy had been game to do his man, and he had done him well. Julia was prudent enough to hold her tongue for her own sake. It was unlikely that any further search would be made for the lost shepherd. He had been safely put out of sight, and not even Julia knew where he was buried. Nosy began to have a better opinion of himself than ever. Neither the police nor the law could touch him. He would never be called to account for putting away his brother's shepherd. In this world at any rate, and as for the next, why, it was a long way off, and there was time enough to think about it. The day of reckoning was distance, but it came at last, as it always does, to every center of us all. Nosy resigned his billet, and went to Nialong. He lived in a hut in the eastern part of the township, not far from the lake, and near the corner of the road, coming down from the bald hill. There had been laid the foundation of a great inland city by a bush-publican, two storekeepers, a wheel-right, and a blacksmith. Another city had been started at the western side of Wangdong Creek, but its existence was ignored by the eastern pioneers. The shepherd soon began to forget or despise the advice of his wife, Julia. His tongue grew loose again, and at the bar of the inn of the crossroads, his voice was often heard loud and abusive. He felt that he had become a person of importance, as the possessor of a secret which nobody could discover. What he said and what he did was discussed about the township, and the chief constable listened to every report, expecting that some valuable information would accidentally leak out. One day a man wearing a blue jumper and an old hat came down the road, stepped on the veranda of the inn, and threw down his swag. Nosy was there, holding forth to Bill the Butcher, Dick Smalley, Frank Barton, Bob Atkins, Charlie Goodall, and George Brown, the liar. A dispute occurred in which the presumptuous stranger joined, and Nosy promptly knocked him off the veranda into the gutter. A valid claim to satisfaction was thus established, and the swagman showed a disposition to enforce it. He did not attempt to regain his position on the boards, but he took a stand on the broad stone of honor in the middle of the road. He threw his hat into the air, and began walking rapidly to and fro, clenched his fists, stiffened his sinews, and at every turn in his walk said, You'll find me as good a man as you ever met in your life. This man's action promised real sport. In true Britain's, as we all were, we were delighted to see him. Nosy stood on the veranda for a minute or two, watching the motions of the swagman. He did not seem to recollect all at once what the code of honor required. Until Bill the Butcher remarked, He wants you, Nosy. Then Nosy went. The two men met in the middle of the road, and put up their hands. They appeared well-mashed in size and weight. The swagman said, You'll find me as good a man as you ever met in your life. Nosy began the battle by striking out with his right and left, but his blows did not seem to reach home or to have much effect. The swagman dodged and parried, and soon put in a swinging blow on the left temple. Nosy fell to the ground, and the stranger resumed his walk as before, uttering his war cry, You'll find me as good a man as ever you met in your life. There were no seconds, but the rules of chivalry were strictly observed. The stranger was a true gentleman, and did not use his boots. In the second round, Nosy showed more caution, but the result was the same, and it was brought about by another hard blow on the temple. The third round finished the fight. Nosy lay on the ground so long that Bill the Butcher went over to look at him, and then threw up the sponge metaphorically, as there was no sponge nor any need of one. The defeated Nosy staggered towards his hut, and his temper was afterwards so bad that Julia declined to stay with him any longer. She loosed the marriage bonds without recourse to law, and disappeared. Her husband went away westward, but he did not stay long. He returned the night long, and lived a while alone in his hut there, but he was restless and dissatisfied. Everybody looked at him so curiously. Even the women and children stood still as he passed by them, and began whispering to one another, and he guessed well enough why they were looking at him and what they were saying. That's Nosy the murderer. He killed Baldi and hid him away somewhere. His wife said he ought to be hanged, and she has run away and left him. When the hungry hawk comes circling over the grove of crookedy gum, in which two magpies are feeding their callow young, the bush is soon filled with cries of alarm. The plump quail hides himself in the depths of a thick tussock. The bronze-wing pigeon dives into the shelter of the nearest scrub, while all the nosiest scolds of the air gather round the intruder. Every magpie, mina, and wattlebird, within a mile joins in the clamour. They dart at the hawk as he flies from tree to tree. When he alights on a limb, they give him no peace. They flap their wings in his face and call him the worst of names. Even the derwent jackass, the hypocrite with the shining black coat and piercing whistle, joins in the public outcry, and his character is worse than that of the hawk himself. For he has been caught in the act of kidnapping and devouring the unfledged young of his nearest neighbour. The distracted hawk has at length to retreat, dinnerless to the swampy margin of the river, where the tallest tea-leaves wave their feathery tops in the wind. In like manner, the human hawk was driven from the township. He descended in the scale of crime, stole a horse, and departed by night. All the butcher said next day, knows he has gone for good this time. He will ride that horse to death, and then steal another. At this time I rode through the rises and called at the two huts. I found them occupied by two shepherds, not unlike the former tenants, who knew little and cared less what had become of their predecessors. Time empties thrones and huts impartially, and the king feels no pride in his monument of marble, nor the shepherd any shame beneath the shapeless cairn which hides his bones. At this time the old races, both of men and animals, were dying out around Lake Nileong, and others were taking their places. The last black child ever seen in the township was brought by its mother to the hut of a white woman. It was naked and very dirty, and she laid it down on the clay floor. The white woman's heart was moved with pity at the sight of the miserable little barren. She took it up, washed it with warm water and soap, wrapped it in flannel, and gave it back to the mother. But the lubra was loath to receive it, she said. Black pick and any all die, no good. White pick and any live. The kangaroo Wombat and Dingo were fast dying out, as well as the black fellow. We could see all well enough how the change was brought about. Millions of years ago new species may have been evolved out of the old species, but nothing of the kind happens now. The white men of Australia were not evolved out of the black men. There are no family ties, and never will be, between the kangaroo, the Wombat, and the wallaby, and their successors, the cattle, the sheep, and the goats. We can kill species, but we can't create any. The rabbit, destined to bring nosy to the gallows, was a favourite animal on Austin Station, at the Barwon. It was a privilege to shoot him in small quantities. He was so precious. But he soon became, as the grammar says, a noun of multitude. He swarmed on the plains, hopped over the hills, burrowed among the rocks and the houses, and nursed his multitudinous progeny in every hollow log of the forest. Neither mountain, lake, or river ever barred his passage. He ate up all the grass and starved the pedigree cattle, the well-born dukes and duchesses, and on tens of thousands of fertile acres left no food to keep the nibbling sheep alive. Every hole in crevice of the rocks was full of him. An uninvited guest, he dropped down the funnel-shaped entrance to the den of the wombat, and made himself at home with the wildcat and snake. He clothed the hills with a creeping robe of fur, and turned the garden of the west into a wilderness. Science may find a theory to account for the beginning of all things, but among all her triumphs she has been unable to put an end to the rabbit. War has been made upon them by fire, dynamite, phosphorus, and all deadly poisons, by dogs, cats, weasels, foxes, and ferrets, but he still marches over the land triumphantly. For fifteen years nosy roamed from station to station under various names, between Queensland and the Murray, but wherever he went the memory of his crime never left him. He had been taught in his boyhood that murder was one of the four sins crying to heaven for vengeance, and he knew that sooner or later the cry would be heard. Sometimes he longed to unburden his mind to a priest, but he seldom saw or heard of one. The men with whom he worked and wondered were all like himself, lost souls who had taken the wrong turn in the beginning of their days, the failures of all trades and professions, thieves, drunkards, and gamblers, criminals who had fled from justice, men of pleasure and therefore of misery, youths of good family exported from England, Ireland, and Scotland to mend their morals, to study wool, and become rich squatters. All these men get colonial experience, but it does not make them saintly or rich. Here and there, all over the endless plains, they at last lie down and die. The dingos hold inquests over them, and literally they go to the dogs because they took the wrong turn in life and would not come back. In 1868, Nosy and his two mates were approaching a station on the Lackland. Since sunrise they had traveled ten miles without breakfast and were both hungry and weary. They put down their swags in the shade of a small grove of timber within sight of the station buildings. What castles said, I was shearing in them sheds in 52 when old Shantley owned the run. He was a rum old miser, he was, with skinned two devils for one hide. Believe he has gone the hell, hope so at any rate. He couldn't read nor write much, but he could make money better than any man I ever heard of, bought two runs on the Murray and paid a hundred and eighty thousand pounds for him in one check. He kept the lame schoolmaster to write his checks and teach his children, gave him forty pounds a year, the same as the shepherd. Lived mostly on mutton all year round, never killed no beef for the station. But now and then an old bullock passed work, salted him down in the round swamp for a change of grub. Never grew no cabbage or vegetables, only paddocks of potatoes. He wanted no visitors, because he was afraid they'd want to select some of his run. Wanted everything to look as poor and miserable as possible. He put on a clean shirt once a week, on Sabbath to keep it holy, and by way of being religious. Kept no fine furniture in the house, only a big hardwood table, some stools and candle boxes. After supper, old mother Shantley scraped the potato skins off the table into her apron. Always boiled the potatoes in their jackets. And then Shantley lay down on it and smoked his pipe till bedtime, thinking of the best ways to keep down expenses. The parson came along one day, lifting a subscription for a church or school or something. He didn't get anything out of old Shantley, only a panic in of tea and some damper and mutton. The old cove said, Church nor school never gave me nothing, nor do me no good, and I could buy up a heap of parson's and schoolmasters if I wanted to, and they were worth buying. Us squatters is the aristocracy out here. The lords at home sent out their good-for-nothing sons to us to get rich and be out of the way, and much good they does. Why don't you parson's make money by your education, if it's any good, instead of going round begging? You are all after the filthy lucre wanting to live on other folks. I was holding the parson's horse, and when he got into the saddle he turned the old Shantley and says, From rottenness you sprung, and to rottenness you'll go. Your money will drag you down the hell, but you'll want to throw it away, but it will burn into your soul for all eternity. I am mortal hungry, continued Bob, and they don't give no rations until about sundown, and will have to wait six hours. It's hard lines. I see there's an orchard there now, and most likely a vegetable garden and cabbages. I'd like some boiled beef and cabbage. It wouldn't be no harm to try and get something to eat anyhow. What do you say, Ned? He was a swell cove once, and knows how to talk to the quality. Go and try him. Ned went and talked to the quality so well that he brought back rations for three. End of Section 17. Section 18 of the Book of the Bush. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Richard Kilmer. The Book of the Bush by George Dunderdale. Section 18. The Two Shepherds. Part 3. Towards the end of the year, Nosy arrived at Piney Station, about 40 miles from the Murray, and obtained employment. Baldi's bones had been lying under the rocks for nearly 15 years. It was absurd to suppose that they could ever be discovered now, or if they were, that any evidence could be got out from them. Nosy felt sure that all danger for himself was past. But still the murder was frequently in his mind. The squatter was often lonely, and his new man was gullulous, and one day, Nosy, while at work, began to relate many particulars of life in the old country in Van Damansland and in the other colonies, and he could not refrain from mentioning the greatest of his exploits. I once done a man in Victoria, he said, when I was shepherding. He found me out taking his fat sheep, and was going to inform on me. So I done him with an axe, and put him away, so as nobody could ever find him. The squatter thought that Nosy's story was mostly blowing, especially that part of it referring to the murder. No man who had really done such a deed would be so foolish as to confess it to a stranger. Another man was engaged to work at the station. As soon as he saw Nosy, he exclaimed, Hello, Nosy, is that you? My name is not Nosy. All right, a name is nothing. We are old charms, anyway. That night the two men had a long talk about old times. They had both served their time in the island, and were moreover townies, natives of the same town at home. Nosy began the conversation by saying to his old friend, I've been a bad boy since I saw you last. I'd done a man in Victoria, and then he gave the full particulars of his crime as already related. But the old chum could not believe the narrative any more than did the squatter. Well Nosy said, you can tell that tale to the Marines. In the meantime, the runs around Lake Nileong had been surveyed by the government and sold. In the rises, the land was being subdivided and fenced with stone walls, and there was a chance that Baldy's grave might be discovered if one of the surveyed lines ran near it. For the stone wallers picked up the rocks as near as possible to the wall they were building, and usually to about the distance of one chain on each side of it. A man who had a contract for the erection of one of these walls took with him his stepson to assist in the work. In the month of August, 1869, they were on their way to their work, accompanied by a dog, which chased a rabbit into a pile of rocks. The boy began to remove the rocks in order to find the rabbit, and in doing so uncovered part of a human skeleton. He beckoned to his stepfather, who was rather death, to come and look at what he had found. The man came, took up the skull, and examined it. "'I'll be bound, this skull once belonged to Baldy,' he said. "'There is a hole here, behind, and yes, one jaw has been broken. That's nosy's work for sure. I wonder where he is now.' No work was done at the wall that day, but the information was given to the police. Mounted Constable Kerry came over to the rises. The skeleton was found to be nearly entire. One jaw bone was broken, and there was a hole in the back of the skull. The feet were still encased in a pair of boots, laced tie above the ankles. There were portions of a blue striped shirt, and of a black silk necktie with reddish stripes. There was also the brim of an oiled southwestern hat, a pipe, and a knife. The chin was very prominent, and the first molar teeth on the lower jaw were missing. The remains were carefully taken up and conveyed to Nialong. They were identified as those of Baldy. An inquest was held, and a verdict of willful murder was returned against Nosy and his wife. After the inquest, Mounted Constable Kerry packed up the skeleton in a parcel with every small article found with it, placed it in a sack, put it under his bed, and slept over it every night, and patiently waited for some tidings of the murderer. In those days news traveled slowly, and the Constable guarded his ghastly treasure for eighteen months. Nemesis was all the time on her way to Piney Station, but her steps were slow, and she did not arrive until the seventeenth anniversary of the disappearance of Baldy. On that day she came under the guise of Constable, who produced a warrant and said, Cornelius Nassau, Elias Nosy, Elias Pie, I arrest you under this warrant, charging you with having murdered a shepherd named Thomas Balbus, Elias Baldy, at Nialong in the colony of Victoria on the twenty-eighth day of February, eighteen-fifty-four. You need not say anything unless you like, but if you do say anything I shall take it down in writing, and it will be used as evidence against you at your trial. Nosy had nothing to say except I deny the charge. He had said too much already. He was handcuffed and taken to the police station at Albury. In one of his pockets a letter was found purporting to be written by Julia and disclosing her place of residence. Soon afterwards Nosy and his wife met in captivity after their long separation, but their meeting was not a happy one. They had no word of welcome for each other. The preliminary examination was held in the courthouse at Nialong, and there was a large gathering of spectators when the proceedings commenced. On a form below the witness-box there was something covered with a white sheet. Men craned their necks and looked at it over one another shoulders. The two prisoners eyed it intently. It was guarded by Constable Carey, who allowed no one to approach it, but with an authoritative wave of a hand kept back all impertinent intruders. That day was the proudest in all his professional career. He had prepared his evidence and his exhibits with the utmost care. At the proper moment he carefully removed the white sheet and the skeleton was exposed to view, with everything replaced in the position in which it had been found under the rocks and the rises. Nosey's face grew livid as he eyed the evidence of his handiwork. Julia threw up both hands and exclaimed, Oh, there's poor Baldy that you murdered. Nosey felt that this uncalled-for statement would damage his chance of escape. So, turning to the bench, he said, Don't mind what the woman says, your lordship. She is not in her right senses, and always was weak-minded. The Constable, being sworn, relayed it how, on information received, he had gone to the stony rises and had uncovered a skeleton which was lying on a broad, flat stone. The bones of the legs from the knees downward were covered with stones. The boots were attached to the feet and were pointing in such a direction as to show that the body must have rested on the right side. Large stones, but such as one man could lift, had been placed over the feet and the legs. The other bones were together, but had been disturbed. With them he found the brim of an oiled southwester hat, a clay tobacco pipe, a rusty class-knife with a hole bored through the handle, fragments of a blue shirt, also, pieces of a striped silk-neckerchief, marked D.S. over three. The marks had been sewn in with a needle. There was a hole in the back of the skull, and the left jaw was broken. Just at this time a funeral procession with few attendants passed the courthouse on its way to the cemetery. Julius' father was going to his grave. He had come over to sea lately to spend the rest of his days in peace and comfort in the home of his daughter, and he found her in jail under the charge of murder. There was nothing more to live for, so he went out and died. The two prisoners were committed, but they remained in jail for more than seven months longer, on account of the difficulty of securing the attendants of witnesses from New South Wales. But when the evidence was given it was overwhelming. Every man who had known Baldy seemed to have been kept alive on purpose to give evidence against the murderer. Every scrap of clothing, which the Wildcats had left, was identified, together with the knife, the pipe, the hat brim, and the boots, and the prisoner's own confession was repeated. Julia also took the side of the prosecution. When asked if she had any questions to put, she said, My husband killed the man, and forced me to help him put the body on his horse. The jury retired to consider their verdict, and spent two hours over it. In the meantime the two prisoners sat in the dock as far apart as possible. They had never spoken to each other during the trial, and Nosy now said in a low voice, You had no call, Julia, to turn on me the way you did. What good could it do you? Sure, you might have at least said nothing against me. The pent-up bitterness of 17 years burst forth. The constable, standing near, tried to stop the torrent, but he might as well have tried to turn back a southeast gale with a feather. I was to say nothing, indeed, was I? And what call had I to say nothing? Is that what you ask? Was I to stand here all day and say never a word for myself until they were ready to hang me? Tell me now, did I murder poor Baldi, or did you? Was it not you who struck him down with the axe, without saying as much as by your leave, either to me or to him? Did you say a word to me until you finished your bloody work? And then you threatened to cut me down, too, with the axe, if I didn't hold my tongue, and help you to lift the man onto your horse. It is this day you should have remembered, before you began that night's work. Sorrows the day I ever met you at all, with the miserable life you led me. And you know I was always to good wife to you, until you gave yourself entirely to the devil, with your wicked ways. Wasn't I always on the watch for you every evening, looking for you, and the chop on the fire, and the hot tea, and everything comfortable? And is it to hang me now, you want to pay me back for the trouble I took for you, and all the misery I suffered these long years, and the death of my poor father, who found me in jail, is at your door, too? For he would have been alive and well this day, but for the deed you'd done, which broke his poor old heart. The Lord have mercy on him. And who is to blame but your own self for being in this place at all? You not only done the ban to death, but you must go about the bush bragging of it to strangers, and twisting the halter for your own neck like a born idiot, and that's what you are, in spite of your roguery and cunning. And so on for two hours of hell, until the jury came back. They acquitted Julia, and found her husband guilty. She left the court without once looking back, and he faced the jury alone. Judge Pullman had never before sent a man to the gallows. He made the usual little moral speech, and bewailed his own misfortune in having to perform so disagreeable a duty. Then he put on the black cap and passed sentence. At the concluding words, may the Lord have mercy on your soul, the condemned man responded with a fervent amen, adding, and that's the last of poor nosy. He seemed greatly relieved when the ceremony was over, but it was not quite the last. There was another to follow. For ten days he remained in his cell, and no one visited him except the priest. His examination of conscience was not difficult, for he had often rehearsed it, and much of it had been done for him in public. He made his last journey between two priests, joining fervently in their prayers for the dying. His step was firm, and he showed neither fear nor bravado. The hangman quickly drew down the cap, but he seemed more flurried than his victim. The sheriff, without speaking, motioned him to place the knot in the correct position under the ear. Then the bolt was drawn, and the story of the two shepherds was finished. The man who Philip met at Bendigo had farms in the country thinly timbered. South, south, east and west, the land was held under squatting licenses. With the exception of the home paddocks, it was unfenced, and the stock was looked after by boundary riders and shepherds. To the south between Nileong and the sea, a distance of fifty or sixty miles, the country was not occupied by either the white or the black men. It consisted of ranges of hills heavily timbered, furrowed by deep valleys, through which flowed innumerable streams, winding their way to the river of the plains. Sometimes the solitary bushman or prospector, looking across the deep valley, saw, nestled amongst the opposite hills a beautiful meadow of grass. But when he had crossed the intervening creek and scrubby valley, and continued his journey to the upland, he found that deceitful meadow was only a barren plain, covered not with grass, but with a useless grass tree. There is a little saccharin matter in the roots of the grass tree, and a hopeful man from Corio once built a sugar mill near the stream, and took possession of the plain as a sugar plantation. There was much labour, but very little sugar. In the dense forest, cattle had run wild, and were sometimes seen feeding in the thinly timbered grassland outside. But whenever a horseman approached, they dashed headlong into the scrub where no horseman could follow them. While boars and their progeny also rooted among the tall tussocks in the marshes by the banks of the river, where it emerged from the ranges into the plains, blackfish and eels were plentiful in the river, but they were of a perverse disposition, and would not bite in the daytime. The bandit nearest Nileong was twelve miles distance, and Philip once spent a night there with Gleason and McCarthy. The fire was kindled, and some fish were caught, but Philip took none home. Gleason and McCarthy reserved their catches for their wives and families, and Philip's fish were all cooked on the fire at sunrise and eaten for breakfast. Fishing was sport, certainly, but it was not profitable, nor exciting except to the temper. Sometimes an eel took the bait, and then twisted himself around the limb of a tree at the bottom of the river. He then pulled all he was able until either the line or the hook was broken, or his jaw was torn into strips. After midnight Philip was drowsy, and leaned his back against a tree to woo sweet sleep. But there were mosquitoes and millions, bandicoots hopping close to the fire, and monkey bears, night hawks, owls, possums and dingos, holding a corabore hideous enough to break the sleep of the dead. After breakfast the horses were saddled for home. Philip carried his revolver in his belt, and Gleason had a shotgun. A kangaroo was seen feeding about a hundred yards distance, and Gleason dismounted and shot at it, but it hopped away unharmed. A few minutes afterwards, as the men were riding along at an easy walk, three other horsemen suddenly came past them at a gallop, wheeled about, and faced the fishermen. One was Burridge, a station manager. The other two were his stockmen. The six men looked at one another for a few moments without speaking. Both Gleason and McCarthy had the tipperary temper, and it did not remain idle long. Well, as Gleason, is anything the matter? I didn't a can yet, said Burridge. Did Nye hear a gunshot just now? Yes, I fired at a kangaroo. A kangaroo, huh? Are you sure it was a kangaroo? Yes, it was a kangaroo. What of that? Oh, I see. You think we are after shooting your cattle, is that it? Speak out like a man. Sometimes a beast is shot about here, and I'd like to find out who does it. Oh, indeed, you'd like to know who does it, would you? I can tell you, anyway. Who's the biggest cattle duffer around here, if you'd like to know? Gleason touched one flank of his horse with his heel, and rode close up to Burridge, with the gun in his right hand. His name is Burridge, and that's yourself. Everybody knows you, you old scotch hound. You have as many cattle on the run with your brand on them as your master has. There's no bigger cattle thief than old Burridge within a hundred miles, and you'll be taken off the run in Irons yet. Get out of my way, or I'll be tempted to send you to Blazes before your time. Burridge did not go off the run in Irons. He left it honorably for another run, which he took up and stalked with cattle, burying no brand but his own. Evil tongues might tattle, but no man could prove that Burridge ever broke the law. One fishing excursion to the Ben was enough for Phillips. But a pig hunt was organized, and he joined it. The party consisted of Gleason, McCarthy, Bill the Butcher, Bob Atkins, and George Brown, the liar, who brought a rope net and a cart in which all the game caught was to be carried home. Five dogs accompanied the party. These, lion and tiger, crossed bull and mastiffs, experienced pig fighters. Sam is reserve, and three mongrels as light skirmishers. The first animal met with was a huge old boar, the hero of 100 fights, the great grandfather of pigs. He stood at bay among the tusks, the dogs barking furiously around him. Bill the Butcher said, keep back, you men, or he'll rip the guts out of your horses. I know him well. He has only one tusk, but it's a boomer. Look out sharp till the dogs tackle him. He might make a rush at some of us. The boar was a frightful-looking beast, long, tall, and slabsighted, in perfect condition for fight, all bone, muscle, and bristle, with not an ounce of lard in his lean body. He stood still and stiff as a rock, watching the dogs, his one white tusk long, and keen, sticking out above his upper lip. The loss of the other tusk left him at a disadvantage, as he could only strike effectively on one side. Lion and tiger had fought him before, and he had earned their respect. They were wary and cautious, and with good reason. Their best hold was by the ears, and these had been chewed away in former wars, till nothing was left of them but the ragged roots. Bill the Butcher dismounted, dropped his bridle, and cheered on the dogs at a prudent distance. The dogs seek him, lion, hold him, tiger. The dogs went nearer and nearer, jumping away whenever the boar made an attack. At last they seized him by the roots of his ears, one on each side, and held on. Bob Atkins and Bill approached the combatants, carrying some strong cord of New Zealand flax. A running noose was secured around the hind legs of the boar. He was then thrown on his side, and his forelegs were tied together. Lion and tiger stood nearer panting, with blood dripping from their open jaws. Philip could not imagine why Bill did not butcher the beast at once. It seemed impossible that a leathery old savage like that could ever be transformed into tender pork. For the present he was left prone on the field of battle, and the pig-hunt proceeded. There was soon much squealing of pigs and barking of dogs among the tussocks. Leason's dog pinned a young boar. And after its legs were tied, Philip agreed to stand by and guard it, while Gleason fetched the cart. But the boar soon slipped the cord from his legs, and at once attacked his nearest enemy, rushing at Philip, and trying to rip open his boots. Philip's first impulse was to take out his revolver, and shoot. But he was always conscientious, and it occurred to him that he would be committing a breach of trust, as he had undertaken to guard the game alive until Gleason came back with the cart. So he tried to fight the pig with his boots, kicking him on the jaws right and left. But the pig proved the stubborn fighter, and kept coming up to the scratch again and again, until Philip felt he had got into a serious difficulty. He began to think as well as to kick quickly. If I could only throw the animal to the ground, I could hold him down. The dogs had shown him that the proper mode of seizing a hog was by the ears. So at the next round he seized both ears and held them. There was a pause in the fight, and Philip took advantage of it to address his enemy, after the manner of the Greeks and the Trojans. I have got you at last, my friend, and the curse of Cromwell on you. I'd like to murder you without mercy. And if Gleason doesn't come soon, he'll find here nothing but dead pig. I must try to throw you somehow. After examining the pig narrowly, he continued, it will be done by the hind legs. He let go one ear and seized a hind leg instead, taking the enemy, as it were, both in front and rear. For some time there was much kicking and squealing, until one scientific kick and a sudden twist of the hind quarter brought the quarry to earth. Philip knelt on the ribs of his foe, still holding one ear and one hind leg. Then he proceeded with his speech, gasping for breath. And this is what happens to a poor man in Australia. Here have I been fighting a wild beast of a pig for half an hour, just to keep him alive, and all to oblige a cockatoo farmer, and small thanks to me for that same. May all the curses, the Lord preserve us, and give us patience. I am forgetting the twelve virtues entirely. Gleason came at last with the cart and George Brown the liar. The pig's legs were again tied together. He was lifted into the cart and covered with a rope net. Four other pigs were caught. And then the hunters and dogs returned to the place in which the old boar had been left. But he had broken or slipped his bones and had gone away. He was tracked to the river, which was narrow but deep. So he had saved his bacon for another day. At the division of the game Philip declined to take any share. He said, thanks, I have had pig enough for the present. So there were exactly five pigs for the other five men. Having been satiated with the pleasures of fishing and pig-hunting, Philip was next invited to try the pursuit of the kangaroo. The first meat of men and hounds took place at Gleason's farm. McCarthy brought his dogs, and Philip brought Sam, his revolver, and a club. Barton was too proud to join in the sport. He despised inferior game. It might amuse new chums, but it was below the notice of the old trooper, whose business had been for many years to hunt and shoot bush-rangers and black-fellows, not to mention his regular duty as flagellator. Gleason that morning was cutting up his pumpkin-plants with an axe. Good morning, Mr. Gleason, said Philip. Is anything the matter? Is it a snake you are killing? Gleason began to laugh, a little ashamed of himself, and said, Look at these cursed pumpkins. I think they are bewitched. Every morning I come to see if the fruit is growing. But this is what they do. As soon as they get as big as a small potato, they begin to wither and turn yellow, and not a bit more will they grow. So I'm cutting the blessed things to pieces. Philip saw that about half the runners had already been destroyed. He said, Don't chop any more, Gleason, and I'll show you how to make pumpkins grow. He picked up a feather in the fowl-yard and went inside the garden. Now look at these flowers closely. They are not all alike. This flower will never turn into a pumpkin. But this one will if it gets a little of the dust from the first flower. The bees or other insects usually take dust from one flower to the other, but I suppose there are no bees about here just now. Philip then dusted every flower that was open and said, Now, my friend, put away the axe, and you will have fruit here yet. And the pumpkins grew and ripened. The two men then went towards the house, and Philip observed the fragments of a clock scattered about the ground in front of the veranda. What happened to the clock, said Philip. Why, replied Gleason, The thing wasn't going right at all. So I took at the pieces just to examine it, and to oil the wheels. And when I tried to put it together again, the fingers were all awry, and the pins wouldn't fit in their places, and the pendulum swung crooked. And the whole thing bothered me. So I just laid it out on the floor of the veranda and gave it one big kick that sent it to smithereens. But don't mind me or the clock at all, master. Just come inside, and we'll have a bit of dinner before we start. Gleason was the kindest man in the world. All he wanted was a little patience. The kangaroo gave better sport than either the fish or the pig, and Philip enjoyed it. His mayor proved swift, but sometimes shyed at the start when the kangaroos were in full view. She seemed to think that there was a kangaroo behind every tree, so she jumped aside from the trunks. That was to kill Philip at last. But he had not the least idea what was to happen, and was as happy as hermits usually are. And they had their troubles and accidents, just like other people. The kangaroos, when disturbed, made for the thick timber, and the half-grown ones, called flying joeys, always escaped. They were so swift, and they could jump to such a distance that I won't mention it, as some ignorant people might call me a liar. Those killed were mostly doze with young or old men. Any horse of good speed could round up a heavy old man. And then he made for the nearest gum-tree, and stood at bay with his back to it. It was dangerous for a man or dog to attack him in front, for with his long hind claws he could cut like a knife. Philip's family began to desert him. Bruin, as already stated, sneaked away and was killed by Hugh Boyle. Joey opened his cage door and flew up a gum-tree. When Philip came home from the school and saw the empty cage, he called aloud, Joey, Joey, sweet pretty Joey, and whistled. The bird descended as far as the light would, but would not be coaxed to come any nearer. He actually mocked his master and said, ha, ha, ha, who are you? Who are you? There is no luck about the hoose. Which soon proved true. For the next bird Pussy brought into the house was Joey himself. Pup led a miserable life and died early. The coroner suspected that he had been murdered by Maggie, but there was no absolute proof. Maggie had really no conscience. She began to gad about the bush. In her girlish days she wore short frocks, as it were. Queen had her wings clipped, but the next spring she went into society, was a debutante, wore a dress of black and white satin, which shone in the sun, and she grew so vain and flighty, and strutted about so, that it was really ridiculous to watch her. She began also to stay out late in the evening, which was very improper, and before going to bed Philip would go under the light-wood, with a lighted candle, and look for her amongst the leaves, saying, Maggie, are you there? She was generally fast asleep, and all she could do was blink her eyes and say, Pete, Pete, and fall asleep again. But one night she never answered at all. She was absent all the next day, and many days after that. October came, when all the scrub, the light-wood, and wattle were in full bloom, and the air everywhere was full of sweetness. Philip was digging his first boiling of new potatoes, when all at once Maggie swooped down into the garden, and began strutting about, picking up the worms and grubs from the soil newly turned up. Oh, you impudent, hussy, he said! Where have you been all this time? He stooped and tried the stroker head as usual with his forefinger. But Maggie struck her bill in the ground, turned to complete somersault, and caught the finger with both claws, which were very sharp. She held on for a short time, then dropped nimbly to her feet, and said, There now, that will teach you to behave yourself. Why Maggie, said Philip, what on earth is the matter with you? Oh, there's nothing the matter with me, I assure you. I suppose you didn't hear the news. You are such an old stick in the mud. It was in the papers, though. No cars, and all the best society ladies knew it, of course. Why Maggie, you don't mean to say you've got a mate? Of course I have, you horrid man. You are so vulgar. We were married ages ago. I didn't invite you, of course, because I knew you would make yourself disagreeable, forbid the bans or something, and scare away all the ladies and gentlemen. For you are a most awful fright with your red hair and freckles. Though I thought it best to say nothing about the engagement until the ceremony was over. It was performed by the reverent sinister Cornix. And it was a very selective fare, I assure you, and the dresses were so lovely. There were six bridesmaids, the Mrs. Mudlark. The Mudlarks, you know, have a good pedigree. They are come from the younger branch of our family. We were united in the bonds under a cherry tree. Though it was a lovely time, it was indeed, I assure you. And where are you living now, Maggie? Though I'm not going to tell you, you are too inquisitive. But our mansion is on the top of a gum-tree. It is among the leaves at the end of a slender branch. If you boil, try as to kidnap my babies, the branch will snap, and he will fall and break his neck the wretch. Oh, I assure you, we've thought of everything beforehand. For I know you keep a lot of boys bad enough to steal anything. And what sort of mate, husband I mean, have you got? Oh, he is a perfect gentleman, and so attentive to me. Laterally, he has been a little crusty, I must admit, but you must not say a word against him. If you do, I'll peck your eyes out. A family, you know, is so troublesome, and it takes all your time to feed them. There are two of them, the duckiest little fluffy darlings you ever saw. They were very hungry this morning, so when I saw you digging, I knew you wouldn't begrudge them a breakfast, and I just flew down here for it. But bless my soul, the little darlings will be screaming their hearts out with hunger while I am talking to you, and himself will be swearing like a dervener. So bye-bye. Philip found Maggie's mansion easily enough. For in spite of all her chatter, she had no depth of mind. The tallest gum-tree was on Barlow's farm, which had joined the forty-acre on the east. Barlow had been a stockman for several years on Calvert's run, and had saved money. He invested his money in the Bank of Love, and the bank broke. It happened in this way. A new shepherd from the other side was living with his wife and daughter near the Rises, and one day when Barlow was riding over the run, he heard some strange sounds and stopped his horse to listen. There was nobody in sight in any direction, and Barlow said, There's something the matter at the new shepherd's hut, and he rode swiftly towards it. As he approached the hut, he heard the screams of women and the voice of a black fellow, who was hammering on the door with his wadi. He was a tame black fellow who had been educated at the missionary station. He could write English, say prayers, sing hymns, read the Bible, and was therefore named, Parson Bedford, by the derveners, after the Tasmanian missionary. He could box and wrestle so well that few white men could throw him. He could also drink rum, so whenever he got any white money, he knew how to spend it. He was the best thief and worst bully of all the blacks about Nileong, because he had been so well educated. I knew him well and attended his funeral, walking in the procession with the doctor and twenty black fellows. He had a white man's funeral, but there was no live Parson present, so King Coco Quine made an oration, waving his hand over the coffin, all same as white fellow Parson. Then we all threw clods on the lid. So much noise was made by the women screaming and the Parson hammering that the Stockman was able to launch one crack of his stock whip on the Parson's back before his arrival was observed. The Parson sprang up into the air like a shot in deer, and then took to his heels. He did not run towards the open plains, but made a straight line for the nearest part of the Rises. As he ran, Frank followed at an easy canter, and over and over again he landed his lash with a crack like a pistol on the behind of the black, who sprang among the rough rocks, which the horse could not cross and where the lash could not reach him. Then there was a parley. The Parson was smarting and furious. He had learned the colonial art of blowing along with the language. He threw down his wadi and said, You Stockman Frank, come off that horse, drop your whip, and I'll fight you fair, same as white fellow, I am as good a man as you any day. Do you take me for a blooming full, Parson, no fear? If I ever see you at that hut again or anywhere on the run, I'll cut the shirt off your back. I shall tell Mr. Calvert what you have been after, and you'll soon find yourself in chokey with a rope around your neck. The Parson left Nileong, and when he returned, he was dying of rum and rheumatism. Frank rode back to the hut. The mother and daughter had stood at the door watching him flog the Parson. He was in their eyes a hero. He had scourged their savage enemy and had driven him to the rocks. They were weeping beauties. At least the daughter was a beauty in Frank's eyes. But now they wiped away their tears, smoothed their hair, and thanked their gallant knight over and over again. Two at a time they repeated their story, how they saw the black fellow coming, how they bolted the door, and how he battered it with his club, threatening to kill them if they did not open it. Frank had never before been so much praised and flattered, at least not since his mother weaned him. But he pretended not to care. He said, tut tut, it's not worth mentioning. Say no more about it. I would, of course, have done as much for anybody. Of course he could not leave the ladies again to the mercy of the parson. So he waited until the shepherd returned with his flock. Then Frank rode away with a new sensation, a something as near akin to love, as a rough stockman could be expected to feel. Nettie the shepherd asked Mr. Calvert for the loan of arms. And he taught his wife and daughter to use the old tower muskets. He said, if ever that parson comes to the hut again, put a couple of bullets through him. After that Frank called at the hut nearly every day, inquiring if the parson had been seen anywhere abroad. No, said Sicily. We haven't seen him any more. And she smiled so sweetly and lowered her eyes and spoke low with a bewitching Tasmanian accent. Frank was in the mud and sinking daily deeper and deeper. At last he resolved to turn farmer and leave the run. So he rented the land adjoining Philip's Garden and the Forty Acre. There was on it a four-roomed, weather-bored house and outbuildings, quite a bush-place. Farming was then profitable. Frank plowed a large paddock and sowed it with wheat and oats. Then while the grain was ripening, he resolved to ask Sicily a very important question. On Sunday he rode to the hut with a spare horse and side saddle. Both horses were well groomed. The side saddle was new. The bits, buckles, and stirrup irons were like burnished silver. Sicily could ride well, even without a saddle, but had never owned one. She yielded to temptation. But with becoming coiness and modesty, Frank put one hand on his knee, holding the bridle with the other. Then Sicily raised one of her little feet and was lifted lightly onto the saddle, and the happy pair cantered gaily over the plane to their future home. Frank showed as brightly leapt the land and the crops, the cows and the horses, the garden and the house. Sicily looked at everything but sat next to nothing. She is shy, Frank thought, and I must treat her gently. But the opportunity must not be thrown away, and on their way over the plains Frank told his tale of love. I don't know precisely what he said or how he said it, not having been present, but he did not hook his fish that day. And he took home with him the bait, the horse and the empty side saddle. But he persevered with his suit, and before the wheat was ripe, Sicily consented to be his bride. He was so overjoyed with his success that instead of waiting for the happy day, when he had to say, with this ring I thee wed, with all my worldly goods I thee endow, he gave Sicily the worldly goods beforehand, the horse with a beautiful new side saddle and bridle, and nearly all his cash, reserving only sufficient to purchase the magic ring and a few other necessaries. The evening before the happy day the pair were seen walking together before sundown on a vacant lot in the township, discussing it was supposed the arrangements for the morrow. It was the time of the harvest and Philip had been engaged to measure the work of reapers on a number of farms. I am aware that he asked and received one pound for each paddock, irrespective of area. On the bridle morn he walked over Frank's farm with his chain and began the measurement. The reapers, most of them broken down diggers, following him and watching him. Old Jimmy Gillan took one end of the chain. He said he had been a chainman when the railway mania first broke out in Scotland, so he knew all about land surveying. Frank was absent, but he returned while Philip was calculating the wages payable to each reaper. And he said, here's the money master, pay the men what's coming to him and send them away. Frank looked very sulky and Philip was puzzled. He knew the blissful ceremony was to take place that day, but there was no sign of it, nor of any bliss whatever, no wedding garments, no parson, no bride. The bare matter of fact was the bride had eloped during the night. For young Lockenvarr had come out of the west, and under bread, fine-spoken fellow was he. He was a bullet driver of superior manners and attractive personality, and was the only man in Australia who waxed and curled his mustaches. Cicely had for some time been listening to Lockenvarr, who was known to have been endeavoring to cut out Frank. She was staying in the township with her mother, preparing for matrimony, and her horse was in the stable at Howell's When Frank rode away to his farm on that fateful evening, Lockenvarr was watching him. He saw Cicely going home to her mother for the last night, and while he was looking after her wistfully, and the pangs of despairing love were in his heart, Bill the Butcher came up and said, Well, Lock, what are you going to do? Why, what can I do? She is going to marry Frank in the morning. I don't believe it. What if you were half the man you ought to be? But how can I help it? Help it. Just go and take her, saddle your horse, and her own. Take him up to the cottage, and ask her just to come outside for a minute. And if you don't persuade her, in five minutes, to ride away with you to Ballarat, I'll eat my head off. I know she don't want to marry Frank. All she wants is an excuse not to, and it will be excuse enough when she has married you. These two worthy men went to the hotel and talked the matter over with Howell. The jolly landlord slapped his knee and laughed. He said, You are right, Bill. She'll go. I'll bet a fiver. And here it is, Lock. You take it to help you along. This base conspiracy was successful, and that was the reason Frank was so sulky on the harvest morning. He was meditating vengeance. Love and hate, matrimony, and murder are sometimes not far as thunder. But Frank was not by nature vengeful. He had that foolish hanging of the netherlip which shows a lack of decision. I would not advise any man to seek in law court a sovereign remedy for the wounds inflicted by the shafts of Cupid. But Frank tried it. During his examination in chief, his mane was gloomy and his answer is brief. Then Mr. Aspinol rose and said, I appear for the defendant, Your Honor. But from press of other engagements I have been unable to give that attention to the legal aspects of this case which its importance demands, and I have to request that Your Honor will be good enough to adjourn the court for a quarter of an hour. The court was adjourned for half an hour, and Mr. Aspinol and his solicitor retired to a room for legal consultation. It began thus. I say, Lane, fetch me a nabber of brandy, a sniffer mind. Lane fetched the sniffer in a soda-water bottle, and it cleared the legal atmosphere. When the court resumed business, Frank took his stand in the witness-box, and a voice said, Now, Mr. Barlow, look at me. Frank had been called many names in his time, but never Mr. Barlow before now. He looked and saw the figure of a little man with a large head, whose voice came through a full-grown nose, like the blast of a trumpet. You say you gave Sicily some money, a horse, saddle, and bridle. I did. And you bought a wedding-ring. I got it in my pocket. I see Your Honor will be glad to hear that the ring at any rate is not lost. It will be ready for another Sicily, won't it, Mr. Barlow? Barlow looking down on the floor of the court and shaking his head slowly from side to side said, No, it won't. No fear. There will be no more Sicilies for me. There was laughter in the court, and when Frank raised his eyes and saw a broad grin on every face, he too burst into a fit of laughter. End of Section 19, Recording by Richard Kilmer, Rio Medina, Texas. Section 20 of the Book of the Bush. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Richard Kilmer. The Book of the Bush by George Dundardale, Section 20. The Two Shepherds, Part 5. I saw Mr. Aspinol and Dr. McAdam walking together arm in arm from the court. The long doctor and the little lawyer were a strange pair. Everybody knew that they were sliding down the easy slope to their tragic end, but they seemed never to think of it. Frank returned to Nileong happier than either. He related the particulars of the trial to his friends with the utmost cheerfulness. Whether he recovered all the worldly goods, which he had endowed Sicily is doubtful, but he faithfully kept his promise that they all be no more Sicilies for me. There was a demon of mischief at work on Phillips Hill, at both sides of the dividing fence. Sam was poisoned by a villainous butcher. Bruin had been killed by Hugh Boyle. Maggie had eloped with a wild native to a gum-tree. Joey had been eaten by Pussy. Barlow had been crossed in love. And then the crowning misfortune befell the hermit. Mrs. Chisholm was a lady who gave early tokens of her vocation. At the age of seven she began to form benevolent plans for the colonies of Great Britain. She built ships of broad beans, filled them with poor families of couchwood, and sent them to sea in a wash basin, landed them in a bed quilt, and started them growing wheat. Then she loaded her fleet with a return cargo for the British copper, one grain of wheat in each ship, and navigated it safely to old England. She made many prosperous voyages, but once a storm arose which sent all her ships to the bottom of the sea. She sent a Wesleyan minister and a Catholic priest to Botany Bay in the same cabin, strictly enjoining them not to quarrel during the voyage. At the age of twenty she married Captain Chisholm and went with him to Madras. There she established a school of industry for girls, and her husband seconded her in all her good works. Mr. Chalmer, the secretary, took a great interest in her school. Sir Frederick Adams subscribed twenty pounds, and the officers and gentlemen in Madras contributed in five days two thousand rupees. The school became an extensive orphanage. Mrs. and Captain Chisholm came to Australia in 1838 for the benefit of his health, and they landed at Sydney. They saw Highland immigrants who could not speak English, and they gave them tools and wheel-barrels, wherewith to cut and sell firewood. Captain Chisholm returned to India in 1840, but the health of her young family required Mrs. Chisholm to remain in Sydney. Female immigrants arriving in Sydney were regularly hired on board ship, and lured into a vicious course of life. Mrs. Chisholm went on board each ship, and made it her business to protect and advise them, and begged the captain and agent to act with humanity. Some place of residence was required in which the new arrivals could be sheltered until respectable situations could be found for them, and in January 1841 she applied to Lady Gipps for help. A committee of ladies was formed, and Mrs. Chisholm at length obtained a personal audience from the Governor, Sir George Gipps. He believed she was laboring under an amiable delusion. He wrote to a friend, I expected to have seen an old lady in a white cap and spectacles who would have talked to me about my soul. I was amazed when my aide introduced a handsome, stately young woman, who proceeded the reason the question, as if she thought her reason, and experience too, worth as much as mine. Sir George at last consented to allow her the use of a government building. A low wooden one. Her room was seven feet by seven feet. Mrs. Gipps ran about it in all directions, and then alighted on her shoulders. But she out-generaled the rats. She gave them bread and water the first night, lit two candles, and sat up in bed reading Abercrombie. There came never less than seven, nor more than thirteen rats, eating at the same time. The next night she gave them another feast, seasoned with arsenic. The home for immigrants, given her by Sir George, had four rooms, and in it, at one time, she kept ninety girls who had no other shelter. About six hundred females were then wandering about Sydney, unprovided for. Some slept in the recesses of the rocks on the government domain. She received from the ships in the harbor sixty-four girls, and all the money they had was fourteen shillings and three half-pence. She took them to the country, travelling with a covered cart to sleep in. She left married families at different stations, and then sent out decent lasses who should be married. In those days the dead bodies of the poor were taken to the cemetery in a common rubbish cart. By speeches and letters, both public and private, and by interviews with influential men, Mrs. Chisholm sought help for the immigrants both in Sydney and England, where she opened an office in eighteen forty-six. In the year eighteen fifty-six, Major Chisholm took a house at Nileong, near Philip's school. Two of the best scholars were John and David. When David lost his place in the class, he burst into tears, and the blakes and the boils laughed. The Major spoke to the boys and girls whenever he met them. He asked John to tell him how many weather boards he would have to buy to cover the walls of his house, which contained six rooms and a lean-to, and was built of slabs. John measured the walls and solved the problem promptly. The Major then sent his three young children to the school, and made the acquaintance of the master. Mrs. Chisholm never went to Nileong, but the Major must have given her much information about it. For one day he read a portion of one of her letters which completely destroyed Philip's peace of mind. It was to the effect that he was to open a school for borders at Nileong, and as a preliminary, marry a wife. The Major said that if Philip had no suitable young lady in view, Mrs. Chisholm, he was sure, would undertake to produce one at a very short notice. She had the whole matter already planned, and was actually canvassing for pupils among the wealthiest families in the colony. The Major smiled benevolently, and said it was of no use for Philips to think of resisting Mrs. Chisholm. When she had once made up her mind, everybody had to give way, and the thing was settled. Philip too smiled faintly, and tried to look pleased, dissembling his outraged feelings. But he went away in a state of indignation. He actually made an attack on the twelve virtues, which seemed all at once to have conspired against his happiness. He said, if I had not kept school so conscientiously, this thing would never have happened. I don't want borders, and I don't want anybody to send me a wife to Nileong. I am not, thank God, one of the royal family, and not even Queen Victoria shall order me a wife. In that way the lonely hermit put his foot down, and began a counter-mind, working as silently as possible. During the Christmas holidays, after his neighbor Frank had been jilted by Sicily, he rode away, and returned after a week's absence. The Major informed him that Mrs. Chisholm had met with an accident, and would be unable to visit Nileong for some time. Philip was secretly pleased to hear the news. Outwardly, he expressed sorrow and sympathy, and nobody but himself suspected how mean and deceitful he was. At Easter he rode away again, and returned in less than a week. Next day he called at McCarthy's farm, and dined with the family. He said he had been married the previous morning, before he started for Nileong, and had left his wife at the water-holes. McCarthy began to suspect that Philip was a little wrong in his head. It was a kind of action that contradicted all previous experience. He could remember various lovers running away together before marriage. But he could not call to mind a single instance in which they ran away from one another immediately after marriage. But he said to himself, it will all be explained by and by, and he refrained from asking any impertinent questions, merely to gratify curiosity. After dinner, Gleeson, Philip, and McCarthy rode into the bush with the hounds. A large and heavy old man was sighted, and the dogs struck him up with his back to a tree. While they were growling and barking around the tree, Gleeson dismounted, and, going behind the tree, seized the old man by the tail. The kangaroo kept springing upwards, and at the dogs, dragging Gleeson after him. He was jerking the tail this way and that to bring his game to ground, for the old man was so tall that the dogs could not reach his throat while he stood upright. Philip gave his horse to McCarthy, and approached the old man with his club. Shoot him with your revolver, said Gleeson. If I let go his tail, he'll be ripping you with his toe. I might shoot you instead, said Philip. Better to club him. Hold on another moment. Philip's first blow was dodged by the kangaroo, but the second fell fairly on the skull. He fell down, and Ossian, a big and powerful hound, seized him instantly by the throat and held on. The three men mounted their horses and rode away. But Philip's mare was, as usual, shying at every tree. As he came near one which had a large branch growing horizontally from the trunk, his mare sprang aside, carried him under the limb, which struck his head and threw him to the ground. He never spoke again. After the funeral, McCarthy rode over to rocky water-holes to make some inquiries. He called at Mrs. Martin's residence, and he said Mr. Philip told us he was married the day before the accident, but it seems so strange we could not believe it. So I thought I would just ride over and inquire about it, for of course if he had a wife she will be entitled to whatever little property he left behind. Yes, it's quite true, said Mrs. Martin. They were married sure enough. He called here at Christmas, and said he would like to see Miss Edgeworth. But she was away on a visit to some friends. I asked him if he had any message to leave for her, but he said, Oh no. Only I thought I should like to see how she is getting along. That's all, thank you. I might call again at Easter. So he went away. On last Easter Monday he came again. Of course I had told Miss Edgeworth about us calling at Christmas and inquiring about her, and it made me rather suspicious when he came again. As you may suppose I could not help taking notice. But for two days, nor, in fact, the whole week, was there the slightest sign of anything like love-making between them. No private conversation, no walking out together, nothing but commonplace talk and solemn looks. I said to myself, if there is anything between them, they keep it mighty close to be sure. On the Tuesday evening, however, he spoke to me. He said, I hope you won't mention it, Mrs. Martin, but I would like to have a little advice from you. If you would be so kind as to give it, Miss Edgeworth has been living with you for some time, and you must be well acquainted with her. I am thinking of making a proposal, but our intercourse has been so slight that I should be pleased first to have your opinion on the matter. Mr. Philip, I said, you really must not ask me to say anything one way or the other, for or against. I have my own sentiments, of course, but nobody shall ever say that I either made a match or marred one. Nothing happened until the next day. In the afternoon Miss Edgeworth was alone in this room, when I heard Mr. Philip walking down the passage and stopping at the door which was half-open. I peeped out and then put off my slippers and stepped a little nearer until through the little opening between the door and the door-post I could see and hear them. He was sitting on the table, dangling his boots to and fro, just above the floor, and she was sitting on a low rocking chair about six feet distant. He did not beat about the bush, as the saying is. He did not say, my dear, or buy your leave, Miss, or excuse me, or anything nice, as one would expect from a gentleman on a delicate occasion of the kind. But he said quite abruptly, how would you like to live at Dialong, Miss Edgeworth? She was looking on the floor and her fingers were playing with a bit of ribbon, and she was so nice and whine-some and well-dressed you couldn't have helped giving her a kiss. She never raised her eyes to his face, but I think she just looked as high as his boots, which were stained and dusty. The silly man was waiting for her to say something, but she hung down her head and said nothing. At last he said, I suppose you know what I mean, Miss Edgeworth. Yes, she said in a low voice. I know what you mean, thank you. Then there was silence, for I don't know how long. It was really dreadful, and I couldn't think of how it was going to end. At last he heaved a big sigh and said, Well, Miss Edgeworth, there is no need to hurry. Take time to think about it. I am going to ride out, and perhaps you will be good enough to let me know your mind when I come back. Then he just shook her hand, and I hurried away from the door. It was rather mean of me to be listening to them, but I took as much interest in Miss Edgeworth as if she were my own daughter. There is no need to hurry, he had said, but in my opinion there was too much hurry, for they were married on the Saturday, and he rode away the same morning, having to open school again on Monday. Of course Miss Edgeworth was a good deal put about, when we heard what had happened through the papers, but I comforted her as much as possible. I said, as for myself, I had never liked the look of the poor man with his red hair and freckles. I am sure he had a bad temper at bottom. The red-haired men are always hasty, and then he had a high, thin nose, and men of that kind are always close and stingy. And the stingiest man I ever knew was a Dublin man. Then his manners. You must remember were anything but nice. He didn't waste any compliments on you, before you married him. So you may just fancy what kind of compliments you would have had to put up with afterwards. And perhaps you have forgotten what you said yourself about him, at Bendigo. You were sure he was a severe master. You could see sternness on his brow. And however you could have consented to go to the altar with such a man, I cannot understand to this day. I am sure it was a very bad match, and by and by, you will thank your stars that you are well out of it. I must acknowledge that Miss Edgeworth did not take what I said to comfort her very kindly. And she gave me fits, as the saying is. But bless your soul. She'll soon get over it, and we'll do better next time. Soon after the death of Philip, Major Chisholm and his family left Nileong, and I was appointed clerk to the Justices at Coloc. I sat under them for 12 years, and during that time I wrote a great quantity of criminal literature. When a convict of good conduct in Pentridge was entitled to a ticket of leave, he usually chose the Western districts as the scene of his future labours, so that the country was peopled with old Jack Bartons and young ones. Some of the young ones had been Philip's scholars, these, the Boyles, and the Blakes. They were friends of the Bartons, and old John, the ex- flogger, trained them in the art of cattle-lifting. His teaching was far more successful than that of Philip's, and, when in the course of time Hugh Boyle appeared in the dock on the charge of horse-stealing, I was pained but not surprised. Barton, to whose farm the stolen horse had been brought by Hugh, was summoned as a witness for the crown, but he organised the evidence for the defence so well that the prisoner was discharged. On the next occasion both Hugh and his brother James were charged with stealing a team of bullocks, but this time the assistance of Barton was not available. The evidence against the young men was overwhelming, and we committed them for trial. I could not help pitying them for having gone astray so early in life. They were both tall and strong, intelligent and alert, good stopmen, and quite able to earn an honest living in the bush. They had been taught their duty well by Philip, but bad example and bad company out of school had led them astray. The owner of the bullocks, an honest young boar named Cowderoy, was sworn and gave his evidence clearly. Hugh and James knew him well. They had no lawyer to defend them, and when the crown prosecutor sat down, there seemed no loophole left for the escape of the accused, and I mentally sentenced them to seven years on the roads, the invariable penalty for their offence. But now the advantages of a good moral education were brilliantly exemplified. Have you any questions to put to this witness? Asked the judge of the prisoners. Yes, Your Honor, said Hugh. Turning to Cowderoy, he said, Do you know the nature of an oath? The witness looked helplessly at Hugh, then at the judge and crown prosecutor, stood first on one leg, then the other, leaned down with his elbows on the edge of the witness's box, apparently staggering under the weight of his own ignorance. Why don't you answer the question, asked the judge sharply. Do you know the nature of an oath? Silence. Mr. Armstrong saw his case was in danger of collapse, so he said, I beg to submit, Your Honor, that this question comes too late and should have been put to the witness before he was sworn. He has already taken the oath and given his evidence. The question is a perfectly fair one, Mr. Armstrong, said the judge, and, turning to the witness, he repeated, Do you know the nature of an oath? No, said Cowderoy. The prisoners were discharged thanks to their good education. End of Section 20, Recording by Richard Kilmer, Real Medina, Texas. Section 21 of the Book of the Bush. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Book of the Bush by George Dunderdale. Section 21 of Valiant Police Sergeant. Sergeant Hyde came to my office and asked me to accompany him as far as Murray Street. He said there was a most extraordinary dispute between a white woman and a black lubra about the ownership of a girl, and he had some doubts whether it was a case within the jurisdiction of a police court that thought we might issue a summons for illegal detention of property. He wanted me to advise him and give my opinion on the matter, and as by this time my vast experience of justice's law entitled me to give an opinion on any imaginable subject, I very naturally complied with his request. He was, moreover, a man so remarkable that a request by him for advice was of itself an honour. In his youth he had been complimented on the possession of a nose exactly resembling that of the great Duke of Wellington, and ever since that time he had made the great man the guiding star of his voyage over the ocean of life, the only saint in his calendar, and he had, as far as human infirmity would permit, modelled his conduct and demeanour in imitation of those of the immortal hero. He spoke briefly and in a tone of decision. The expression of his face was fierce and defiant, his bearing erect, his stride measured with soldierly regularity. He was not a large man, weighing probably about nine stone, but that only enhanced his dignity, as it is a great historical fact that the most famous generals have been nearly all small men. When he came into my office he always brought with him an order of peppermint, which experience had taught me to associate with the proximity of brandy or whiskey. I have never heard or read that the Iron Duke took peppermint losenges in the morning, but still it might have been his custom to do so. The sergeant was a lunder, and knew more about the private habits of his greats than I did. If he had been honoured with the command of a numerous army he would no doubt have led it onward or sent it forward to victory. His forces unfortunately consisted of only one trooper, but the way in which he ordered and manoeuvred that single horseman proved what glory he would have won if he had been placed over many squadrons. By a general order he made him parade outside the gate of the station every morning at ten o'clock. He then marched from the front door with a majestic man, and inspected the horse, the rider and acrimon. He walked slowly around, examining with eagle eyes the saddle, the bridle, the bits, the girth, the sword, pistols, spurs and buckles. If he could find no fault with anything he gave in brief the word of command, patrol the forest road, or any other road in which an enemy might be likely to appear. I never saw the sergeant himself on horseback. He might have been a gay cavalier in the days of his fiery youth, but he was not one now. As we passed the cook and played hotel on, I returned to the courthouse. After investigating the dispute in Murray Street, I observed a stranger standing near the door who said, Hello, Hyde, is that you? He was evidently addressing the sergeant, but the latter merely gave him a slight glance and went away with his noble nose in the air. The stranger looked after him and laughed. He said, That policeman was once a shepherd of mine up in River Rena, but I see he don't know me now, has grown too big for his boots. Couch me dead, don't he? Ha ha ha, well I never. The stranger's name was Robinson. He had been selling some cattle to a naming swatter and was now on his way home. He explained how he had just before the discovery of gold hired Hyde as a shepherd and had given him charge or a flock of sheep. There were still a few native blacks about the run, but by this time there were harmless enough, never killed shepherds or took mutton without leave. They were somewhat addicted to petty larceny, but felony had been frightened out of their souls longer. They knew all the station hands and the station hands knew them. They soon spotted a new chum and found out the soft side of him and were generally able to coax or frighten him to give them tobacco, some piece of clothing or white money. When the new shepherd had been following his flock for a few days, Mr. Robinson, while looking out from the veranda of his house over the plains, observed a strange object approaching at some distance. He said to himself, that is not a horseman, nor an emu, nor a native companion, nor a swagman, nor a kangaroo. He could not make it out, so he fetched his binocular and then perceived that it was a human being stark naked. His first impression was that some unfortunate traveller had lost his way in the wild wilderness, or a station hand had gone mad with drink, or that a sundowner had become insane with hunger, thirst, and despair. He took a blanket and went to meet the man in order that he might cover him decently before he arrived too near the house. It was Hyde, the new shepherd, who said he had been stripped by the blacks. From information afterward elicited by Robinson, it appeared that the blacks had approached Hyde in silence while his back was turned to them. The sight of them gave a sudden shock to his system. He was totally unprepared for such an emergency. If he had had time to recall to memory some historical examples, he might have summoned up his sinking courage, and have done indeed worthy a record. There was David, the youthful shepherd of Israel, who slew a lion and a bear, and killed Goliath, a gigantic champion of the Thorestines. There were the shepherd kings who ruled the land of Egypt. There was one eyed polyphemus. Moving among his flocks on the mountaintops of Sicily, a monster dreadful, vast, and hideous, able to roast and eat those three backfellows at one meal. A nearer at our own time was the youth whose immortal speech begins. My name is Norval on the grandpin hills, my father fed his flocks. Our shepherd had a stick in his hand and a collie-dog at his command. Now was the time for him to display London assurance to some purpose. And now was the time for the example of the ever-Victorious Duke to work a miracle of valor. But the crisis had come on too quickly, and there was no time to pump up bravery from the deep will of history. The unearthly ugliness of the savages, the thick lips, prominent cheekbones, scowling and overhanging brows, broad stud nose, matted black hair, and above all the clean, steady and ferocious scrutiny of their deep-set eyes, extinguished the last spark of courage in the heart of Hyde. He did not look fierce and defiant any more. He felt inclined to be very civil, so he smiled a sickly smile and tried to say something. But his chin wobbled and his tongue would not move. The blacks came nearer, and one of them said, Give a fig tobacco, mate. He was a gleam of hope, a chance of postponing his final doom. And a foe cannot be comforted as lawful to pay him to be merciful, to give him an indemnity for his troubles in not kicking you. The shepherd instantly pulled out his tobacco, his pipe, his tobacco knife and matches, and handed them over. A second blackfellow, seeing him so ready to give, took the loan of his tin billy with some tea and sugar in it and some boiled mutton and damper. These children of the plains now saw that they had come upon a mine of wealth, and they worked it down to the bedrock. One after another, and with their willing help of the owner, they took possession of his hat, coat, shirt, boots, socks, trousers and drawers, till the hide was completely bare, as naked and as is to be hoped as innocent as a newborn babe. His vanity, which was the major part of his personality, had finished with his garments, and the remnant lift of body and soul was very insignificant. Having now delivered up everything but his life, he had some hope that his enemies might at least spare him that. They were jabbering to one another at a great rate, trying on, pulling off and exchanging first one article and then another of the spoils they had won. It did not appear to think that the new chum was worth looking after any longer. So he began slinking away slowly towards his flock of sheep, trying to look as if nothing fit in particular was the matter. But he soon turned in the direction of the home station. He tried to run, and for a short time fear winged his feet. But the ground was hard and rough, and his feet were tender. And though he believed that death and three devils were behind him, he could go but slowly. A solitary eagle hawk sat on the top branch of a dead country, watching him with evil eyes. A chorus of laughing jackasses cackled after him in derision for a grove of young timber. A magpie, the joy of the morning and most mirthful of birds, whistled for him sweet notes of hope and good cheer. Then a number of carrying crows beheld him, and approached with their long drawn, ill omen croak croak. The most dismal note ever uttered by any living thing. They murdered six sheep and picked out the eyes of stray lambs. They made short, straggling flights, alighting on the ground in front of the miserable man, inspecting his condition and calculating how soon he would be ready to be eaten. They were impatient gluttons, and often began tearing their prey before it is dead. Mr. Robinson clothed the naked, and then mounted his horse and went for the blacks. In a short time he returned with them to the station, and made them disgorge the stolen property, all but the tea, sugar, mutton and damper, which were not returnable. He gave them some stirring advice with his stock whip, and ordered them to start for a warmer climate. He then directed Hyde to return to his sheep, and not let those blank blacks humbug him out of his clothes any more. But nothing would induce the shepherd to remain another day, if a swore pastoral pursuits for the rest of his life. His courage had been tried and found wanting. He had been covered, or rather uncovered, with disgrace, and his dignity, at least in the River Inna, was gone forever. In other scenes, and under happier auspices, he might recover it, but on Robinson's station he would be subjected to the erosion of the station hands as long as he stayed. How he lived for some time afterwards is unknown, but in 1853 he was a policeman Bendigo Diggings. At that time any man able to carry a carbine was admitted into the force without questioning. It was then the refuge of the penniless of broken-down vagabonds and unlucky diggers. Roads and legs were equally welcomed without characters or reference from their former employers, the Masters and Servants Act having become a dead letter. Hyde entered the government service and had the good sense to stay there. His military bearing and noble mean proclaimed him fit to be a leader of men, and soon secured his promotion. He was made a sergeant and in a few years was transferred to the Western District, far away, as he thought, from the scene of his early adventure. He lived for several years after meeting with and cutting his old employer, Robinson, and died at last of dyspepsia and peppermints, the disease and the remedy combined. End of section 21. Section 22 of The Book of the Bush This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. Many men who had been prisoners of the crown or seaman lived on the islands in Bass Straits, as well as on islands in the Pacific Ocean, fishing, sealing, or hunting, and sometimes cultivating patches of ground. The freedom of this kind of life was pleasing to those who had spent years under restraint in ships, in jails, in chain gangs, or as slaves to settlers in the bush, for the lot of the assigned servant was often worse than that of a slave, as he had to give his labor for nothing but food and clothing, and was liable to be flogged on any charge of disobedience, insolence, or insubordination which his master might choose to bring against him. Moreover, the black slave might be sold for cash, for five hundred to a thousand dollars, according to the quality of the article and the state of the market, so that it was for the enlightened self-interest of the owner to keep him in saleable condition. But the white slave was unsaleable, and his life of no account. When he died another could be obtained for nothing from the cargo of the next convict ship. Some masters treated their men well according to their desserts, but with regard to others the exercise of despotic authority drew forth all the evil passions of their souls, and made them callous to the sufferings of their servants. The daily fear of the lash produced in the prisoners a peculiar expression of countenance and a cowed and slinking gate, which I have never seen in any other men, white or black. And that gate and expression, like that of a dog crouching at the heels of a cruel master in fear of the whip, remained still after the prisoners had served the time of their sentences and had recovered their freedom. They never smiled, and could never regain the feelings and bearings of free men. They appeared to feel on their faces the brand of cane by which they were known to all men, and the scars left on their backs by the cruel lash could never be smoothed away. Whenever they met, even on a lonely bush-track, a man who, by his appearance, might be a magistrate or a government officer, they raised a hand to the forehead in a humble salute by mere force of habit. There were some, it is true, whose spirits were never completely broken, who fought against fate to the last, and became bush-rangers or murderers, but sooner or later they were shot or they were arrested and hanged. The gallows tree on the virgin soil of Australia flourished and bore fruit in abundance. The trial of a convict charged with disobedience or insubordination was of summary jurisdiction. Joe Kermode, a teamster, chanced to be present at one of these trials. It was about ten o'clock in the morning when he swore near a house on the roadside a little knot of men at an open window. He halted his team to see what was the matter, and found that a police magistrate sitting inside a room was holding a court of petty sessions at the window. It was an open court to which the public were admitted according to law, a very open court, the roof of which was blue, the blue sky of a summer's morning. A witness was giving evidence against an assigned servant charged with some offence against his master. His majesty the magistrate yawned. This kind of thing was tiresome. Presently a lady came into the room, walked to the open window, clasped her hands together, and then laid them affectionately on the shoulder of the court. After listening for a few moments to the evidence she became impatient and said, oh William, give him three dozen and come to breakfast. So William gave the man three dozen and went to breakfast with a good conscience, having performed the ordinary duty of the day extraordinarily well. He was on the high road to perfection. The sentence of the court was carried out by a scourger, sometimes called flagellator or flogger. The office of scourger was usually held by a convict. It meant promotion in the government service, and although there was some danger connected with it, there was always a sufficient number of candidates to fill vacancies. In New South Wales, the number of officers in the Cato Ninetales department was about thirty. The danger attached to the office consisted in the certainty of the scourger being murdered by the scourgee if ever the opportunity was given. Joe Kermode had once been a hutkeeper on a station. The hut was erected about forty yards from the stockyard to which the sheep were brought every evening to protect them from attack by dingos or blackfellas. If the dingos and blackfellas had been content with one sheep at a time to allay the pangs of hunger, they could not have been blamed very much. But after killing one they went on killing as many more as they could, and thus wasted much mutton to gratify their thirst for blood. Joe and the shepherd were each provided with a musket and bayonet for self-defense. The hut was built of slabs and was divided by a partition into two rooms, and Joe always kept his musket ready-laded night and day just inside the doorway of the inner room. Two or three blacks would sometimes call and asked for flour, sugar, tobacco, or a fire-stick. If they attempted to come inside the hut, Joe ordered them off, backing at the same time towards the inner door, and he always kept a sharp lookout for any movement they made, for they were very treacherous, and he knew they would take any chance they could get to kill him, for the sake of stealing the flour, sugar, and tobacco. Two of them once came inside the hut and refused to go out until Joe seized his musket and tickled them in the rear with his bayonet under the move-on claws in the police offences statute. Early one morning there was a noise as of some disturbance in the stockyard, and Joe, on opening the door of his hut, saw several blacks spearing the sheep. He seized his musket and shouted, warning them to go away. One of them, who was sitting on the top rail with his back towards the hut, seemed to think that he was out of range of the musket, for he made most unseemly gestures, and yelled back at Joe in a defined and contemptuous manner. Joe's gun was charged with shot, and he fired and hit his mark, for the black fellow dropped suddenly from the top rail, and ran away, putting his hands behind him and trying to pick out the pellets. One day a white stockman came galloping on his horse up to the door of the hut, his face, hands, shirt, and trousers being smeared and saturated with blood. Joe took him inside the hut and found that he had two severe wounds on the left shoulder. After the bleeding had been staunched in the wounds bandaged, the stranger related that as he was riding he met a black fellow carrying a firestick. He thought it was a good opportunity of lighting his pipe, Lucifer matches being then unknown in the bush. So he dismounted, took out his knife, and began cutting tobacco. The black fellow asked for a fig of tobacco, and after filling his pipe the stockman gave him the remainder of the fig he had been cutting, and held out his hand for the firestick. The black fellow seemed disappointed, very likely expecting to receive a whole fig of tobacco, and, instead of handing him the firestick, he threw it on the ground. At the first moment the stockman did not suspect any treachery, as he had seen no weapon in possession of the black fellow. He stooped to pick up the firestick, but just as he was touching it he saw the black man's feet moving nearer, and becoming suddenly suspicious he quickly moved his head to one side and stood upright. At the same instant he received a blow from the tomahawk on his left shoulder. This blow, intended for his head, was followed by another, which inflicted a second wound, but the stockman succeeded in grasping the wrist of his enemy. Then began a wrestling match between the two men, the stakes two lives, no umpire, no timekeeper, no backers, and no bets. The only spectator was the horse, whose bridle was hanging on the ground, but he seemed to take no interest in the struggle, and continued nibbling the grass until it was over. The black man, who had now dropped his rug, was as agile and nimble as a beast of prey, and exerted all his skill and strength to free his hand, but the white man felt that to lose his hold would be to lose his life, and he held on to his grip of the black fellow's wrist with desperate resolution. The tomahawk fell to the ground, but just then neither of the men could spare a hand to pick it up. At length, by superior strength, the stockman brought his enemy to the ground. He then grasped the thick matted hair with one hand, and thus holding the black's head close to the ground, he reached with the other hand for the tomahawk, and with one fierce blow buried the blade in the savage's brain. Even then he did not feel quite sure of his safety. He had an idea that it was very difficult to kill black fellow's outright, that they were like American possums, and were apt to come to life again after they had been killed and ought to be dead. So to finish his work well, he hacked at the neck with the tomahawk, until he had severed the head completely from the body. Then, taking the head by the hair, he threw it as far as he could to the other side of the track. By this time he began to feel faint from loss of blood, so he mounted his horse and galloped to Joe Kermode's hut. When Joe had performed his duties of a good Samaritan to the stranger, he mounted his horse and rode to the field of battle. He found the headless body of the black man, the head at the other side of the track, the tomahawk, the piece of tobacco, the rug, and the fire stick. Joe and the shepherd buried the body. The white man survived.