The bush covers the ranges of hills between Majorca and these plains or lower grounds, amidst which the creeks run. Here, in some places, the trees grow pretty thickly; in others, the country is open and naturally clear. There is, however, always enough timber about to confuse the traveller unless he knows the track.
Shortly after my settling in Majorca, having heard that one of my fellow-passengers by the 'Yorkshire' was staying with a squatter about fourteen miles off, I determined to pay him a visit. I thought I knew the track tolerably well; but on my way through the bush I got confused, and came to the conclusion that I had lost my way. When travellers get lost, they usually "coo-ee" at the top of their voice, and the prolonged note, rising at the end, is heard at a great distance in the silence of the bush. I coo-ied as loud as I could, and listened; but there was no response. I rode on again, and at length I thought I heard a sort of hammering noise in the distance. I proceeded towards it, and found the noise occasioned by a man chopping wood. Glad to find I was not yet lost, I went up to him to ask my way. To my surprise, he could not speak a word of English. I tried him in German, I tried him in French. No! What was he, then? I found, by his patois, a few words of which I contrived to make out, that he was a Savoyard, who had only very recently arrived in the colony. By dint of signs, as much as words, I eventually made out the direction in which I was to go in order again to find the track that I had missed, and I took leave of my Savoyard with thanks.
I succeeded in recovering the track, and eventually reached the squatter's house in which my friend resided. It was a large stone building, erected in the modern style of villa architecture. Beside it stood the original squatter's dwelling. What a contrast they presented! The one a tall, handsome house; the other a little, one-storied, shingle-roofed hut, with queer little doors and windows. My friend, as he came out and welcomed me, asked me to guess what he had been just doing. He had been helping to put in the new stove in the kitchen, for the larger house is scarcely yet finished. He told me what a good time he was having: horses to ride, doing whatever he liked, and enjoying a perfect Liberty Hall.
The host himself shortly made his appearance, and gave me a cordial welcome. After dinner we walked round and took a view of the place. Quite a little community, I found, lived about; for our host is a large squatter, farmer, and miller; all the people being supplied with rations from the station store. There is even a station church provided by the owner, and a clergyman comes over from Maryborough every Sunday afternoon to hold the service and preach to the people. After a very pleasant stroll along the banks of the pretty creek which runs near the house, I mounted my nag, and rode slowly home in the cool of the evening.
CHAPTER XI.
AUSTRALIAN WINTER—THE FLOODS.
The Victorian Climate—The Bush in Winter—The Eucalyptus, or Australian Gum-tree—Ball at Clunes—Fire in the main Street—The Buggy Saved—Down-pour of Rain—Going Home by Water—The Floods out—Clunes Submerged—Calamity at Ballarat—Damage done by the Flood—The Chinamen's Gardens Washed Away.
I was particularly charmed with the climate of Victoria. It is really a pleasure to breathe the air: it is so pure, dry, and exhilarating. Even when the temperature is at its highest, the evenings are delightfully cool. There is none of that steamy, clammy, moist heat during the day, which is sometimes so difficult to bear in the English summer; and as for the spring of Australia, it is simply perfection.