Old Harvey, an expatriated countryman of Cetewayo's, handed me my single-barrelled fowling-piece, a generally useful weapon, which had been loaded with ball for the occasion. I walked cautiously through the staring, wildish cattle, to the middle of the yard, where stood the big black bullock. He lowered his head, and began to paw the ground. I made a low bovine murmur, which I had found effective before; he raises his head and looks full at me for a second. The bullet crashes into the forehead "curl," and the huge savage lies prone—a quivering mass. Harvey promptly performs the necessary phlebotomy, and being dragged out of the yard, the black ox is skinned, quartered, and on his way to the beef-cask at Hartlands well within twenty minutes of his downfall.
Years after, when a full-fledged Riverina squatter, Mr. Kerr and I met in partibus. He at length recalled my name and locale, remarking, "Oh yes! remember now; you were the boy that shot the black bullock in my yard at South Yarra long ago."
Well, Mr. Bolden and I ride along the winding, gravelly bush road, over ranges that skirt and at times leave the course of the river wholly, not seeing a house or a soul, except Mr. Gardiner's dairy farm, for more than twenty miles. The country, in an agricultural and pastoral point of view, is as bad as can be. Thick—i.e. scrubby, poor in soil, scanty as to pasture, when all suddenly, as is so often the case in Australia, we come upon a "mountain park."
We cross a running creek by a bridge. We see a flock of sheep and a shepherd, the genuine "old hand" of the period. The slopes are gently rising towards the encircling highlands, the timber is pleasingly distributed, the soil, the pasture, has improved. We are in a new country. We have entered upon Yering proper, a veritable oasis in this unredeemed stringy-bark desert.
How Mr. William Ryrie, in the year 1837 or 1838, brought his flocks and herds and general pioneer equipment straight across country from Arnprior in far Monaro in New South Wales, hitting precisely upon this tenantless lodge in the wilderness, will always be a marvel. It was one of the feats which the earlier explorers occasionally performed, showing their fitness for the heroic work of colonisation, wherein so many of them risked life and limb. With the great pastoral wild of Australia Felix lying virgin and unappropriated before him, Mr. Ryrie might easily have made a more profitable, a more expansive choice. But he could not have hit upon a more ideal spot for the founding of an estate and the formation of a homestead had he searched the continent.
Amid the variously-gathered outfit which accompanied the pastoral chief, as he led flocks, herds, and retainers through unknown wilds to the far promised land, happened to be some roots of the tree, the survival of which caused Noah so much uneasiness, and more or less humbled his descendants, before John Jameson and Co. took up the running with the now fashionable product of the harmless avena. A few grape vines reached the spot unharmed. Planted in the first orchard on the rich alluvial of the broad river-flat which fronted the cottage, they grew and flourished, so richly that the area devoted to the vine was soon enlarged. From such small beginning arose the vineyards of Yering and St. Hubert's. From those, again, Messrs. de Pury and others planted the wine-producing district which has now a European reputation.
Little of this, however, was apparent to my companion and myself, or we might have been entertaining royalty by this time—who knows?—carrying ourselves like other eminent and gilded colonists, envied by everybody and sneered at by our less fortunate compatriots. We rode steadily on, through hill and hollow, past plump cattle, not, however, showing quite so much white and roan as do the present herds; past a "manada" of mares and foals, from which ran out to challenge our steeds Clifton the Second, "with flying mane and arching crest." Finally we ride up to a neat weatherboard cottage, whence issues our kindly, warm-hearted host, breathing welcome and hospitality in every tone of his jolly voice. We were soon enjoying the change of sensation, which after a thirty-mile ride is of itself a luxury. With him as visitors were "Hobbie" Elliot, a well-known squatter of the period, and a stalwart younger brother just out from home.
The cottage, as I remember it then, was built upon a slight elevation overlooking a richly-grassed meadow, below which the Yarra, not much less wide and rapid than near Melbourne, ran its winding course. On the farther side of the river, looking eastward, was a purple-shadowed mountain, apparently, though not in reality, overhanging the stream. In the dimmer distance rose the vast snow-crowned range of the Australian Alps. We walked about after our afternoon meal, admiring the great growth of the trees in the garden, and the picturesque appearance of things generally.
On the next day we took a long ride, and, I well remember, crossed the river upon a primitive bridge, which enables me to say to this day that I have ridden across a river upon a single tree. It was even so. An enormous eucalyptus (E. amygdalina), growing upon the bank of the Yarra, had been felled or grubbed—I think the latter—so as to fall across the stream. Afterwards it had been adzed level—a hand-rail had been supplied. A quiet horse could therefore be easily led or ridden across to the other side, the width being an average of three feet.