On Our Selection | Page 5

and the aid of a sapling
lever we rolled the thundering big logs together in the face of Hell's
own fires; and when there were no logs to roll it was tramp, tramp the
day through, gathering armfuls of sticks, while the clothes clung to our
backs with a muddy perspiration. Sometimes Dan and Dave would sit
in the shade beside the billy of water and gaze at the small patch that
had taken so long to do; then they would turn hopelessly to what was
before them and ask Dad (who would never take a spell) what was the
use of thinking of ever getting such a place cleared? And when Dave

wanted to know why Dad did n't take up a place on the plain, where
there were no trees to grub and plenty of water, Dad would cough as if
something was sticking in his throat, and then curse terribly about the
squatters and political jobbery. He would soon cool down, though, and
get hopeful again.
"Look at the Dwyers," he'd say; "from ten acres of wheat they got
seventy pounds last year, besides feed for the fowls; they've got corn in
now, and there's only the two."
It was n't only burning off! Whenever there came a short drought the
waterhole was sure to run dry; then it was take turns to carry water
from the springs--about two miles. We had no draught horse, and if we
had there was neither water-cask, trolly, nor dray; so we humped
it--and talk about a drag! By the time you returned, if you had n't
drained the bucket, in spite of the big drink you'd take before leaving
the springs, more than half would certainly be spilt through the vessel
bumping against your leg every time you stumbled in the long grass.
Somehow, none of us liked carrying water. We would sooner keep the
fires going all day without dinner than do a trip to the springs.
One hot, thirsty day it was Joe's turn with the bucket, and he managed
to get back without spilling very much. We were all pleased because
there was enough left after the tea had been made to give each a drink.
Dinner was nearly over; Dan had finished, and was taking it easy on the
sofa, when Joe said:
"I say, Dad, what's a nater-dog like?" Dad told him: "Yellow, sharp
ears and bushy tail."
"Those muster bin some then thet I seen--I do n't know 'bout the bushy
tail--all th' hair had comed off." "Where'd y' see them, Joe?" we asked.
"Down 'n th' springs floating about--dead."
Then everyone seemed to think hard and look at the tea. I did n't want
any more. Dan jumped off the sofa and went outside; and Dad looked
after Mother.

At last the four acres--excepting the biggest of the iron-bark trees and
about fifty stumps--were pretty well cleared; and then came a problem
that could n't be worked-out on a draught-board. I have already said
that we had n't any draught horses; indeed, the only thing on the
selection like a horse was an old "tuppy" mare that Dad used to straddle.
The date of her foaling went further back than Dad's, I believe; and she
was shaped something like an alderman. We found her one day in about
eighteen inches of mud, with both eyes picked out by the crows, and
her hide bearing evidence that a feathery tribe had made a roost of her
carcase. Plainly, there was no chance of breaking up the ground with
her help. We had no plough, either; how then was the corn to be put in?
That was the question.
Dan and Dave sat outside in the corner of the chimney, both scratching
the ground with a chip and not saying anything. Dad and Mother sat
inside talking it over. Sometimes Dad would get up and walk round the
room shaking his head; then he would kick old Crib for lying under the
table. At last Mother struck something which brightened him up, and
he called Dave.
"Catch Topsy and--" He paused because he remembered the old mare
was dead.
"Run over and ask Mister Dwyer to lend me three hoes."
Dave went; Dwyer lent the hoes; and the problem was solved. That was
how we started.
Chapter II.

Our First Harvest
If there is anything worse than burr-cutting or breaking stones, it's
putting corn in with a hoe.
We had just finished. The girls were sowing the last of the grain when

Fred Dwyer appeared on the scene. Dad stopped and talked with him
while we (Dan, Dave and myself) sat on our hoe-handles, like
kangaroos on their tails, and killed flies. Terrible were the flies,
particularly when you had sore legs or the blight.
Dwyer was