From sight the ruin of the hut;
There stands the tree where once I cut
The M that interlaced the L.
What more is left to tell?
As we were converging towards this spot before lunch, the smart shot of the gathering was made. A forester kangaroo, demoralised by the abnormal events of the day, came dashing up towards the party. He wheeled and fled as we met, and a snap shot but staggered him. Then one of the party dropped the reins on his horse's neck, and with a long shot rolled him over, dead as a rabbit.
A succession of 'drives' make a partial clearance of each paddock, all being taken in turn. The short winter day, accented by heavy showers in the afternoon, begins to darken as we ride homewards, damp but hilarious. The day had been successful on the whole. Plenty of fun, reasonable sport, manly exercise, and a fair bag. Nearly a hundred legal 'raisings' of 'h'ar' prove that the average has been over ten head per gun. Dry clothes, blazing fires, a warm welcome and sympathetic greetings, await us on arrival. The advantage of bearing trifling discomfort, to be compensated by unwonted luxury, presents itself to every logical mind. The dinner was a high festival, where mirth reigned supreme; while the ball in the evening—for had not all dames and demoiselles within twenty miles been impressed for the occasion?—fitly concluded the day's work with a revel of exceptional joyousness.
If there be a moral connected with this 'study in Black and White' it must be that while most people (excepting the advocates for the abolition of capital punishment) admit that it is a good and lawful deed to clear the 'noxious' marsupial off the face of the earth, we trust that the process will not be so swift as to bring speedily to an end such enjoyable gatherings,—these sociable murder parties, wherein business and pleasure are happily conjoined, as in the battue at which I had the happiness to be present.
FIVE MEN'S LIVES FOR ONE HORSE
'Yes; it does seem a goodish price to pay for a half-bred mare—worth ten pound at the outside,' said old Bill, the cook for the rouseabouts at Jergoolah Station, one wet evening, as the men gathered round the fire after supper, with their pipes in their mouths. It had been wet for three days, so there was no shearing. Very little work for the other men either—half a hundred strong—as the wet-fleeced sheep were best left alone. The shearers were sulky of course. They were eating (and paying for) their own rations. But the ordinary 'pound-a-week men,' whose board, with lodging, was provided for them gratis, were philosophically indifferent to the state of the weather.
'I don't care if it rains till Christmas,' remarked a dissipated-looking youth, who had successfully finished a game of euchre with a dirty pack of cards and an equally unclean companion. 'It's no odds to us, so long's the creeks don't rise and block us goin' to the big smoke to blue our cheques. I don't hold with too much fine weather at shearin' time.'