CHAPTER I.
Some of our relatives on the other side of the globe will be astonished to learn that the way to the Moon has been discovered by an unfortunate member of the literati of Australia.
The greatest thinkers of the day have scouted the idea as nothing but moonshine, when spoken to about the practicability of the discovery. But it must be borne in mind that the same laws of Nature which guide and rule the Mother Country are somewhat erratic here at the Antipodes, inasmuch as we are all upside down—standing on our heads, in fact. Therefore we are prepared for marvels. In a land where there are animals who stand on their tails, and fight with all four feet at once; where the young leap out of and into their parents’ stomachs at will—there being a strange bag in that quarter for the purpose of humouring the antics of the juveniles, just like the hole in the [[198]]bow of a timber ship; where there are creatures that appear neither flesh nor fowl—who swim in ponds like a duck, have a duck’s bill, who lay eggs, yet have feet and hair like a beast; in a land where the leaves on the trees grow edgeways to the sun, and the trees themselves shoot downwards, surely it is no great wonder that we have found a passage to the great luminary of night, and had the pleasure of shaking hands and likewise supping with the disobedient man who gathered sticks on Sunday.
“HE WAS BORNE ALONG SO SWIFTLY THAT HE NEARLY LOST HIS SENSES.”
The scientific world will never feel half the surprise anent our new discovery as that which fell upon the old shepherd when he found himself surrounded and made a prisoner. He had left his sheep in charge of the only companion he had in these regions—viz., his dog. Within a sheltered nook on one of the fairest and most luxuriant slopes of the mysterious Blue Mountains, Patch, the half-bred dingo, held watch and ward over his charge while his master wandered down the rugged side of the cliff in search of gold. Here the sun was almost hid behind the broad awning of gigantic trees, whose immense trunks, gnarled and hoary with age, stood like mammoth sentinels to guard the dim glen below. The lonely herdsman had often descended to that spot before unmolested, [[199]]but now from every mound and hollow there peered the grotesque faces of the Mountain Sprites, watching his every movement, until with a sudden rush they pounced upon him and held him fast. For a time he struggled manfully to free himself. It was quite useless. The genii of the Blue Mountains are a powerful people, not to be trifled with, as the shepherd soon discovered. [[200]]He was lifted bodily up, and borne along so swiftly that he nearly lost his senses. The route of his captors lay in a downward direction—never upward. And it appeared as if the dusky ravines which they traversed led right away from the upper world into the region of eternal night.
“Dear friends, good people, where are you taking me?” cried the poor fellow in an affrighted tone.
“Bis, bus, silence, mortal!” replied an ancient gnome authoritatively. “Your destination is not on the Earth, but the Moon.”
“Good gracious!” ejaculated the poor shepherd, with starting eyeballs.