Jean, Our Little Australian Cousin

It was a bright morning when they left Sydney to go to the station, taking the train early in the day, for there was a railway ride of several hours before them, as well as a long drive.

"Now you are going to see something of Australian life," said Mr. McDonald. "Life in Sydney or Melbourne is very little different from that in Liverpool or Glasgow. On the big stations it is much the same as on the country places at home, but my station is typical of Australia."

"Is it in the Bush, Uncle?" asked Fergus.

"Hear the laddie talking like an old squatter," laughed Mr. McDonald. "Yes and no. You see the Australians who live in the cities consider all the rest of the continent the Bush, but to those who live in the grazing and farming districts the country inland is the Bush or the 'Back Country.' Our run is beautifully situated just on the edge of the Dividing Range, and we are lucky enough to have a river running through one side, so that the run is seldom dry."

"What is the Dividing Range?" asked Fergus, who was determined to understand everything he heard. If he did not, it was not because he did not ask questions enough about it.

"The Dividing Range is the high land which separates the east and west of the continent and runs from north to south along the coast. It is sometimes called the Australian Alps, and some of the peaks are 7,000 feet high. The eastern part of Australia runs in a long strip of fertile ground along the coast. West of this are the mountains and beyond them is a high plateau which slopes down to the plains of Central Australia. This central portion is an almost unknown country. There are no great rivers and little rain. The land is terribly dry and very hot. Many who have gone to explore it have never returned and no one knows their fate. Perhaps they have died of thirst, perhaps they have been killed by the Blacks. This part of the country is called 'Never, Never Land.'"

"Uncle Angus," asked Fergus, as his uncle paused. "When you came to your station were you a squatter?"

His uncle's hearty laugh rang out. "No, my boy, but I bought my run from a squatter," he answered. "The days of squatters were about over when I came out. What do you know about squatters?"

"I don't know anything," answered Fergus. "Only I have heard the name and thought maybe you would tell us about them."

"In the old times, before Australia had started in the trade, the wool from the sheep on the runs was very important to her," said Mr. McDonald. "Men would come out to the country, and, not having very much money, they could perhaps buy a small homestead and stock it, but little more. They would have to have large tracts of land to pasture their sheep, but had not money enough to buy the land. They therefore settled down and took what they needed without permission, and so were called 'squatters.' The Government did not interfere with them, because the wool from their sheep was needed and because the country was so big there seemed land enough for everyone. In time the matter was arranged by the Government's dividing the back country into grazing districts, which all the squatters might use by paying a yearly rent."

"How did the squatters keep their sheep from other people?" Fergus inquired.

"Every flock had its shepherd, who led it wherever food and water were to be found," was the answer. "The life of a shepherd was a lonely one. He had to watch the sheep and lambs and see that the dingoes[4] did not get at them. The shepherd never saw any other people except the man who brought his supplies from the station. His dogs were his only friends, and often these shepherd dogs are marvels of intelligence and loyalty. For a time the squatters prospered and some of them grew immensely wealthy. These were called 'Wool Kings' and lived on their stations extravagantly, building houses such as you saw at Wuurna-wee-weetch.

"But sheep raising is not all plain sailing in Australia. Rabbits were brought into the country, and these proved to be a regular plague, destroying the grass, so that the Government passed a law that squatters must help to exterminate them, which put them to a great expense.

"When I came here twenty years ago, I got my station from a squatter who had worked it for years and had made enough to sell out and go to Sydney, where it had always been his ambition to live. I have worked hard and been successful. When you see our station I think you will want to stay in this country instead of trying to find gold in 'Never, Never Land,'" he said to his brother-in-law.

"Perhaps I shall, but I have no money to buy a station and I can't be a squatter now," said Mr. Hume.

Their way lay through a beautiful semi-tropical country. The train moved through fertile valleys, fine woodland and green vales, and bridged cool mountain streams. When their stopping place was reached and they alighted from the train to find a comfortable cart and good horses awaiting them, Fergus exclaimed, "It doesn't seem to me that travelling in Australia is very hard work."

"Wait till you get to the Bush," said his uncle. "And have to tramp it with your swag[5] upon your back, make your own supper over a twig fire, stir your tea in a billy[6] with a eucalyptus twig, and roll up in a blanket to sleep, waking up to find a dukite snake taking a nap on your breast,—that's real Australia for you."

"I like your kind better," said Jean with a shudder, but Fergus said boastingly,

"Well, I'm not afraid of the Bush."

"Wait and see," said his father as they drove through the gate which led into Mr. McDonald's run.

It was a beautiful station and well suited for the sheep farming from which the owner had made his money. The land lay in a triangle, on two sides of which was a considerable stream while the main road formed the third boundary. The land was fenced with stout rail fences while the paddocks were fenced with wire.

The house was built of stone, of one story, with a broad veranda running around all four sides, shaded in vines and looking on a garden in which gorgeous-hued flowers bloomed in brilliant beauty. There was an air of great comfort about the place. Hammocks were slung in the porches and easy chairs were placed invitingly about.

Long windows clear to the floor opened into the living rooms and a wide hallway ran through the middle of the house. On one side was a drawing room, at the other, dining room and living room. The guests caught glimpses of books and music as they were ushered into their cool bedrooms. These opened on to the veranda and were cool and pleasant, with gay chintz and white hangings. What a delightful visit the children had at the run! It was perhaps pleasanter for them than for the grown folk, for Sandy, Mr. and Mrs. McDonald's only child, a boy of ten, was a perfect imp of mischief, and he led his two cousins into everything that he could think of. Fergus was not far behind, and Jean trudged after the boys, growing strong and rosy in the Australian sunshine.

"Australia is making the greatest change in Jean," said her mother to Mrs. McDonald one day, as they sat upon the veranda. "At home she was so shy she would scarcely look at any one. She seemed delicate and I was worried for fear she would never learn to take care of herself in this world."

"She will grow up into the most self-reliant kind of a girl in the Bush," said her sister. "She is a dear little girl and I think there is plenty of strength of character under her shy little ways."

"I wonder what the three are doing now," said Jean's mother. "It has been some time since we heard a shriek of any kind—oh—what is that?" for as she spoke there came a scream so loud and piercing from the shrubbery that both women sprang to their feet and rushed across the lawn.

Midway between the house and the garden they met the three children, both boys holding Jean's hands and helping her to run to the house, while the little girl, her face covered with blood and tears, was trying not to cry.

"Jean's hurt," cried Sandy.

"So I should judge," said his mother, trying to keep calm, while both boys began to talk at once, so that no one could understand a word they said.

Mrs. Hume gathered Jean in her arms and carried her quickly to the house, where she washed the little, tear-stained face. The child's lip was terribly cut and she was badly frightened, but not seriously hurt, and as she cuddled down in her mother's arms she sighed,

"Nice mother! I don't mind being hurt when you are here to fix me up."

"Tell me what happened, dear," said her mother, as she stroked the fair hair.

"We were playing," Jean said. "The boys had sticks and we heard a queer rustle in the bushes. Sandy said it was a snake and beat the bushes to drive him out. It ran out just in front of Fergus and I thought it would bite him, and I didn't want anything to happen to my brother so I ran up behind him just as he swung his stick over his shoulder to hit the snake. He hit me in the mouth, but of course he didn't mean to, Mother. I screamed because it hurt me so, and then I tried not to cry because I knew it would worry you. It doesn't hurt so badly now, Mother."

"I'm sorry it hurts at all, darling," her mother held her close. "You were a good child and brave not to cry. Crawl up in the hammock now and take a nap, and you will feel better when you wake up."

"I hope Fergus and Sandy won't do anything very interesting while I am asleep," the little girl murmured drowsily, as she dropped off to sleep.

Fergus and Sandy undoubtedly would. They were very kind to Jean, but there was no doubt that they found the little girl a clog upon their movements. Fergus was used to taking care of her, but Sandy had no sisters and he sometimes wished the little cousin would not tag quite so much.

"You can't really do anything much when a girl is tagging around," he said to his mother, but that long-suffering woman proved strangely unsympathetic.

"I think I shall keep Jean always if her being here keeps you out of mischief," she said with a smile, and Sandy answered,

"Well, keep Fergus too, then."

No sooner was Jean asleep than the boys decided the time had come for them to carry out a plan long since formed, but laid aside for a convenient season. At one side of the run was a little lake, formed where one of the boundary streams was dammed. A windmill carried water from this to a platform and upon this were iron tanks from which pipes carried water through the house. The boys had decided to climb to the top of the reservoir and slide down the pipes, which seemed to them would be an exciting performance. The climbing up was not difficult and Sandy took the first slide.

"It's great fun," he shouted. "Let me have another!" as he clambered up again.

"It's my turn," cried Fergus, astride of the pipe.

"Let me. You wait," said Sandy, who was used to playing alone and not to having any-one dispute with him.

"I tell you it's my turn!" Fergus' temper rose. "You don't play fair."

There was a scramble and a cry, both boys lost their balance and fell, and the sound of breaking glass crashed through the air.

Both mothers rushed to the scene to find two pairs of arms and legs waving wildly from the hot-bed, while broken glass was scattered hither and yon.

"You dreadful boys, you have fallen right into the flower beds and broken the glass! Are you badly hurt?" cried Mrs. McDonald, as each mother dragged out a son.

Very crestfallen were the boys as they stood up, their faces covered with scratches and Sandy's hand badly cut.

"What were you doing?" asked both mothers sternly.

"Sliding down the water pipe," said Sandy.

"Quarrelling," said Fergus.

"Nice way to spend the morning," said Mr. McDonald, who appeared at that moment from the stables. "Go and get washed up and we'll see if you have any broken glass in your cuts."

When the damages were repaired neither boy was found to be much hurt, but Jean begged so hard that they should not be punished, that the two were let off for that time.

"The next piece of mischief you get into you'll be sent to bed for a day to rest up and think it over," said Sandy's father, and the boys assured him that they would never, never do anything again as long as they lived.

CHAPTER V

While the children played happily together the grown folk had many an anxious consultation as to ways and means.

"I wish I could persuade you to stay with us, Elsie," said her sister. "Let your husband go by himself, on his wild goose chase after gold."

"Oh, I can't do that," said Mrs. Hume. "I can rough it, and it will do Fergus good, but I am afraid of it for Jeanie."

"Let me keep her," said Mrs. McDonald eagerly. "Oh, do, Elsie! I have always wanted a little girl to pet and take care of and Jean will be ever so much safer with me than travelling through the wild country you are going into on your way to the Gold Fields."

"It might be best," Mrs. Hume said thoughtfully. "I will talk it over with Fergus and leave Jean in your care, going with him, if he agrees."

Mr. Hume, however, had very decided ideas as to what was best to be done.

"Since your sister and her husband are so anxious to keep you, my dear, I am sure it will be best for you and Jean to stay here at the run. My trip to the Gold Fields is only an experiment. It will be a long, hard journey and an expensive one, and I may not find anything worth doing when I get there, and in that case will return and take up stock farming. McDonald offers me a chance now, but I feel as though I ought to make the trial before accepting help.

"I will take Fergus with me. The trip will not hurt him and he would drive you distracted if left here with Sandy. I shall do better work feeling that you and the lassie are safe and well cared for here."

"I hate to have you go without me, but I must do as you think best," said his wife. So it was arranged, and with a heavy heart Jean saw her father and brother drive away from the run, starting on their long trip to the Gold Fields.

"Why does father have to go away?" she asked her uncle, who had taken her before him for a ride on his big, black horse, "The Bruce."

"He has gone to hunt for gold, lassie, so you can have fine clothes to wear," he answered.

"I'd rather have father here and not have fine clothes," she said, her lip quivering. "How do they get gold in fields, Uncle? I didn't know it grew like flowers and grass."

"It doesn't, lassie," he answered. "They just call the place they find it the Gold Fields. It is dug out of the earth, where it is found mixed with sand and stone."

"Well, where are the Gold Fields and who found there was gold there?" asked Jean. She liked her burly uncle, who was always ready to talk to her and who explained everything about the run so pleasantly.

"The Gold Fields extend all over Western Australia," said Mr. McDonald. "Gold was first discovered here in 1823 and people have gone mad with gold fever ever since. The precious metal has been found in Victoria, New South Wales and Queensland, but recently it has been discovered in Western Australia. The miners often strike a good lead and grow very rich, but it is a hard life and especially so in the districts where there is little water. In the old days men often died of thirst, but now they have ways of storing the rain which falls in the wet season so that they do not suffer much.

"There are many interesting things about the gold regions if the life there is hard. Trains of camels carry the swag of the miners across the sandy deserts. These beasts were imported especially for this work, since they can go longer without water than any other animals, and often it is a long ways from one good water hole to another. The miners 'peg out' their claims in the new places and set to work sifting the sands in which are found the grains of gold, sometimes as large as nuts. Soon there is a camp started. Little canvas huts dot the country. Then if the camp proves successful, houses are built and finally a city will grow up, almost as if by magic. One city, that of Ballarat, has grown in twenty-five years to be one of the handsomest in Australia. It has broad streets, fine houses, and a beautiful park. The swamp land near by has been made into a lake surrounded by velvet-turfed pleasure grounds, planted with wonderful trees and flowers. Kalgoorlie, in only ten years, is almost a golden city, to which water is brought two hundred miles in pipes, to drive the engines which extract the gold from the quartz."

"Thank you, Uncle, for telling me all about it," said Jeanie. "I hope father will find a good mine and then sell it out quickly and come back to buy a run near you. That is what I should like best of anything."

"So should I, child," her uncle smiled at her. "Here we are at the stables. Jump down and run and call Sandy for me and I'll take you both with me while I go over the sheds."

"I've always wanted to know about these queer looking sheds," said Jean as she and Sandy trudged after her uncle.

"This long building is the wool shed," he said. "Now it is empty and quiet, but when it is shearing time there is noise enough. At this end is the wool press, and the shearing board runs along the sides of the shed. Sheep used to be sheared by hand, but Lord Wesley's brother invented a machine for shearing which is a wonderful thing. Would you two youngsters like to ride around the run with me? I have to go over to the paddocks to-day."

"Oh, Uncle, may I ride?" exclaimed Jean. "I had a little Shetland pony at home and I have missed him so much."

"You may ride Sandy's pony, and he will take Wallace, while I will ride 'The Bruce,'" said Mr. McDonald, and both the children fairly jumped with delight. They rode around the run, the master looking everything over carefully.

"Every paddock has its own flock," he explained to Jean. "In one the ewes are kept, in another the wethers, and then there is a paddock for the horses and another for the cows."

"How do you get so many animals fed," asked Jean.

"They graze on the grass, and those great fields of alfalfa over there are grown to use as food. It has to be irrigated and is quite a little trouble, but it pays in the end. That house is where the manager lives, with his family and the jackaroos."

"What is a jackaroo? Some kind of a bird?" asked Jean. Sandy shouted with laughter and his uncle smiled as he answered,

"No, child, jackaroo is the name given to the young fellows who are new at the station and just learning Australian customs. All kinds of jokes are played on them by the old hands and they have a hard time at first. A story is told of some Englishmen who had just come out and were going hunting. They hadn't found any game and so they asked some station hands if they had seen any. 'There's a jackaroo down near the water hole,' said the cook, wickedly, so the two men hurried away to shoot the strange animal, and lo! it was a young man like themselves."

"What do jackaroos do, Uncle?" asked Jean.

"Well, they have to learn to do all the work there is to do at a station, so that some day they may get to be managers or even run stations of their own. They have to ride the boundary every day to see that there are not holes in the fences, and that the water holes are full. Only one man is needed to look after 7,500 sheep, so he is kept pretty busy."

"There are so many buildings somebody must have to look after them. Do the jackaroos do that?" asked Jean.

"No, all the repair work on the station is given to a set of men who dig water holes, build fences, and do any necessary carpenter work. These draw their groceries, meat, and so forth from the stores, but do not eat at our tables. I don't believe Wu Ling would stand it if he had to cook for them."

"Isn't he funny?" said Jean, laughing. "He lets me come in the kitchen and watch him bake brownie, but he won't allow Fergus or Sandy there at all. Do all stations have Chinese cooks?"

"Not all, but a great many do. The Chinese are the best cooks we can get. A great many people hate the yellow-skinned Celestials and raise a hue and cry about a 'White Australia,' but I don't know what we of the far stations would do without them."

"Wu Ling cooks very good things," said Sandy. "But he got very angry when Fergus called him 'pig tail.'"

"That wasn't nice of Fergus," said Jean. "What beautiful thistles and sweet briar, Uncle."

"Not beautiful in our eyes," said her uncle, as they rode by a magnificent clump of sweet briar, the pink blossoms making a lovely spot of colour against the purple of the thistles. "Some patriotic Scot brought the first thistles to Australia, and an English family the roses, and many's the day I have wished they never came. The soil here is so rich that everything grows fast, and the thorny plants have spread all over the land, in some places growing so thick that they have ruined whole tracts of grazing land. They are nearly as bad as the foxes. These were brought to destroy the rabbits which ate up the crops, but Mr. Reynard likes chicken far better than hare, and he has increased so rapidly that it is almost impossible to get rid of him, though rewards are offered for his scalp and in one year over thirty thousand skins were brought in."

"Do they scalp rabbits, too?" asked Jean.

"Trapping rabbits is a regular Australian business," said her uncle. "A good trapper can make £4 a week catching them, and the fur is used to make felt hats."

"There are lots and lots of interesting things in your country," said Jean brightly.

"But shearing time will be the fun," said Sandy.

"Oh, I'd like to see them shear. May I, Uncle?" cried Jean.

"Yes, indeed, you may see anything you like. We'll make a regular station-hand of you before you are done," he laughed.

"I'm only a little jackaroo now," she said. "What is that queer noise? It seemed to come from under those trees."

"That is the lyre bird, isn't he a handsome fellow? See, there he is beneath that bottle tree. We have a pair of them and never allow them to be touched, as they are quite rare in this part of the country, though found quite frequently in the scrub.

"The tail of the male is just like an old-fashioned lyre, and it is one of the most interesting of our birds."

"Did you say that was a bottle tree?" asked Jean.

"Yes. Don't you see it is shaped just like a huge bottle, the branches growing out of the mouth? The stems have water in them, and if you are ever lost in the Bush and thirsty, find a bottle tree and get a drink. The Blacks eat the roots, which are full of a kind of gum."

"I never heard of such a place as this," said Jean. "It seems as if everything in Australia was useful. Everything but little girls," she added.

"Little girls are very useful in making other people happy," said her uncle kindly.

"But I'd like to be really useful and learn to do something," said Jean.

"You will when you are bigger," he answered. "You must get well and strong before you can do very much, lassie. But you will be useful enough as you grow older."

"I don't see why you are in such a hurry to go to work," said Sandy. "I think you have a pretty fine time!"

CHAPTER VI

Life at the run proved pleasant to Jean and full of interesting happenings. She missed her father and Fergus, but she and Sandy soon grew to be great friends, and many were the thrilling bits of mischief into which he dragged her, sure that he would escape punishment if Jean were only to say, "Don't punish Sandy, Uncle Angus, I did it too."

The little girl loved her Aunt Mildred, but more than any one at the station her uncle had won her heart. She grew to be his little shadow, driving and riding with him, sun-tanned and rosy, growing strong and healthy in the free Australian life.

"You are getting as fat as a Chinaman's horse, lassie," said her uncle as they rode to the river one day.

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"The Chinese are always very kind to their horses and keep them fat and slick, so that has grown to be a proverb, though some people say as 'fat as a larrikin's dog,' instead."

"What is a larrikin?" Jean was growing as full of questions as Fergus.

"Larrikin is a slang term applied to the idlers who lounge about the cities, a dog at their heels, like the 'Enery 'Awkins of London or Glasgow. There are many of them in Australia and they have formed a kind of secret society among themselves, which is not a very good thing. Here is a fine bit for a canter, Jeanie. I'll beat you to the big eucalyptus."

"No, you won't." Jean chirruped to her pony and was off like a shot through the open paddock, jumping a fence as if on wings. She loved to gallop when the air was filled with the fragrance of the wattle and the gum, and she had grown to ride like a little centaur.

"Well done," cried her uncle as she drew up at the gate, laughing and breathless, her horse half a head in advance of his. "We are so near to 'Mason's run,' I think we'll have time to stop there. I want to see him about several things, so we'll ride on."

"Very well, Uncle. Is it a sheep run?"

"No, cattle. You have not seen one yet, so keep your eyes open and learn all you can. Mason breeds the long horns, sullen beasts, but good stock."

"I shall be glad to see them," she said, and they cantered up to the homestead, which was very unlike her uncle's station.

Built of wood, with a galvanized-iron roof, the house stood on piles, but between each pile and the house was a tin plate to keep the white ants from climbing into the rooms. Several gins[7] came out to see who the strangers were, the first that Jean had seen, and she looked at them curiously. Not more so, however, than they looked at her, for they stared at her and whispered together.

"They don't know what to make of you, 'Lassie with the lint white locks,'" her uncle laughed. "The young gin wants to know if you are Great Baiame's golden child. It's your fair hair, I suppose."

Jean's hair was light golden and floated all about her face like a halo.

"Great Baiame is their god, good spirit, and they think you are a goddess. That gin wants to touch your hair. Better let her, she won't hurt you."

Jean smilingly bent her head and let the black woman run her fingers over her shining tresses. The gin smiled and, seized by a sudden impulse, Jean said,

"She may have a curl if she wants it, Uncle. I have plenty and mother won't care." He handed her his knife and she snipped off a silken strand, which the gin took with many expressions of delight.

"You have certainly made a hit among the Blacks," said her uncle teasingly. "She will wear that as a charm and be the envy of all the tribe. Your hair is pretty.

"Uncle, I don't think cattle runs are as nice as sheep runs. There aren't any wool sheds, but just open yards."

"These are the stock and branding yards. You see the cattle roam the hills, some of the runs being as large as five thousand square miles, on which the cattle find their own food and water."

"If they wander over all that distance, how do the owners ever tell their own cattle?" asked Jean.

"Every beast is branded, that is, he has his owner's mark burnt into his hide," said her uncle. "So it is easy to draft out of the mobs the cattle which belong to other ranchmen. The young oxen are sent to the coast to be fattened for market, while the old cattle are sent to the rendering works, where they are made into tallow and beef extract. The stockman's life is harder than that of the shepherd, and dangerous because of the bullocks' stampedes, when they break loose and often run down horses and men in their frantic rush for freedom."

"I like the sheep run much better," said Jean. "See that flying squirrel, Uncle! I think they are the cunningest little things. Who do you suppose is hiding behind that tree? I heard some one laughing."

"Look and see," her uncle smiled. Jean jumped down from her horse and peered behind the tree. There she saw a little bird perched on one leg which sang a pretty little song, always breaking off with "H-ah-ha! Hoo-hoo-hoo!"

"That's a laughing jackass, Jeanie," said her uncle. "He's a funny little fellow, isn't he?"

"He isn't a bit pretty," said Jean.

"No, but he's very useful, for he eats snakes and lizards and all kinds of things, and there is a law forbidding any one to kill him."

"You have so many queer things in Australia," said Jean. "Down by the river Sandy and I found the queerest thing. It looked part animal and part bird. It had a big flat bill like a duck and fur on its body like a rat, and it had webbed feet and a long bushy tail. Sandy said it was a beastie and was called a water mole, but we found its nest in a kind of tunnel running from the water's edge under ground, and in the nest were eggs."

"That was a platypus, or water mole," said Mr. McDonald. "He is an animal but lays eggs like the birds. There is another animal in Australia which does too, the spiny ant-eater. He looks like a hedgehog but has a queer, long bill with a long tongue covered with sticky stuff with which he licks up the ants off the ground. He hasn't a nest, but carries his eggs around in a kind of a pocket until they are hatched."

"It certainly is a queer place, with trees that shed their bark every year, pears that have hard wooden rinds, cherries with the stones outside, trees with flowers and seeds growing in the leaves and animals that lay eggs," said Jean.

"And little girls that chatter and ride like monkeys," cried Sandy's teasing voice, as he rode up behind them. "I can pass you!"

"No, you can't!" cried Jean, and she galloped off, her cousin after her, though he did not catch up with her till she rode up to the veranda and jumped off her pony, laughing heartily.

Some weeks later all was hurry and bustle at the station. Shearing was to begin the next day and there was a great deal to be done to make ready for the great event. Shearers were coming in, some riding, some trudging along on foot, carrying their swags. There were huts for them to sleep in, and tents were being spread in the open. Mr. McDonald left all the details of this work to his manager, a young Australian who had been born and raised on a sheep run.

At first Jean was much interested in seeing the shearing and stood in the shed watching, as the engine whistled to begin. The pens were full of sheep who did not at all know what they were there for, but who did know that they did not like it. They baa-ed and bawled, and with the noise of the machinery it was deafening in the sheds. As the machine starts every shearer grabs a sheep from the pen, choosing the one that looks the easiest to shear, he throws it with his knee and rapidly guides the little knife-like cutters of the machine over the fleece, which falls from the animal in one huge piece. The sheep is then released to run, pink and shivering, to the yard again. The "picker up" catches up the fleece and takes it to the wool bin, while the shearer turns to the pen to catch another victim. He has to be quick because the sharp eye of the overseer is upon him. He walks up and down, watching every one. The "penners-up" must not let a single pen be empty, "the pickers-up" must keep the floor clean, the shearers must shear evenly as well as closely. If they cut a ragged fleece the wool will grow badly the next year and some of it will be wasted.

The shearers are paid by the number of sheep they shear, and they work very fast, every man trying to see if he cannot be the "ringer," as they call the man who has sheared the greatest number of sheep at the close of the shearing.

The shearers earn five dollars for every hundred sheep sheared, and an ordinarily good workman will shear a hundred sheep in a day, while extra good ones have sheared three hundred in a day. As the shearers have no expenses, their food and lodging being given them, they can make a good deal of money during the season.

The picker-up takes the fleece to the wool roller, who trims it and rolls it up to be inspected by the classer. He decides as to its quality and puts it in the proper bin. It is then baled, marked with the quality and the owner's brand, and taken by wagon to the nearest shipping station.

The sheep are counted, branded and dipped to prevent their being covered with wood ticks, which bite so fiercely, and then are returned to their paddocks. There is no more attractive sight in the world than an immense flock of the long-wooled Australian sheep, and none more forlorn than the shivering droves of freshly-sheared animals.

Jean watched until she was tired. The smell of the wool, the noise, the heat, the cries of the tormented sheep, all turned her sick, and she fled to the house. There things were little better. Everybody was busy. Aunt Mildred had no time to notice a little girl. Sandy was away, no one knew where, and, worst of all, her mother was laid low with one of her terrible headaches. Jean knew these of old, and that it was no use to expect to even speak to her mother before night. She felt forlorn and lonely and decided to take a ride.

No one was at the stable to saddle Dandy, but she had learned to ride as well without a saddle as with, so she got on the pony's back and rode toward the river.

Away from the noise of the shearing shed, how quiet and lovely it all seemed. The wind swayed gently the branches of the great she-oaks as a mopoke's mournful note came from the gum trees. Flying foxes flapped their wings and she came upon the playground of a satin-bower[8] bird, the first she had ever seen, although her uncle had told her about them. She rode farther into the wood than she intended and, feeling tired, she got off Dandy and, throwing the reins over a bush, sat down under a tree to rest.

"I'm so tired," she said to herself, "I think I will take a little nap. This looks just the place for a fairy ring and perhaps the elves will come to dance while I am asleep."

She lay down under the huge tree about which ferns grew so thickly as to form a green curtain. Dandy browsed in the grass near by, every now and then pricking up his dainty ears and working his velvety nose as if something he did not like was near. Then his reins pulled loose from the bush and he wandered away to nibble at a tempting bit of turf a little distance away. Another tempted him and he was soon out of sight, hidden by the great ferns which grew up above his pretty head.

As he disappeared there was a little rustle in the bushes and two eyes peered at the sleeping child. Then a hand reached out and warily touched a fold of her little blue gingham frock. Jean stirred in her sleep and smiled. She was dreaming that her father had come back and that he took her in his strong arms and carried her away, away, and she never wanted him to put her down. The scent of the wild blooms was in her nostrils, and she did not wake when two arms cautiously raised her from the ground and holding her lightly yet carefully, so that no branch might brush against her, carried her far into the deep and lonely wood. It was perhaps an hour that the man carried her and she did not wake. Then she opened her eyes to find herself in the arms of a big Black. She screamed in fright, but he spoke gently to her.

"Missa not 'fraid. Me not bad Black. Take Missa home."

"Where is my pony. I would rather ride him," she cried, struggling, and the Black put her down.

"Pony all gone," he said. "Missa very tired, me show Missa my gin. She very sick, want to see white baby, with gold for hair. Hear all about her from other gin. Then carry home. Black very much like Missa." He smiled again and his face looked kind. "Let me carry Missa or we not get there soon," he said coaxingly, and not knowing what else to do Jean allowed him to pick her up and carry her again. He walked fast, but she did not see the river or the house and she began to grow frightened. It grew dark and the air was full of flying things, so large as to seem like birds and so small as to seem like baby mice with wings. The bird songs were stilled; only the soft chirping of the tree insects were heard. Then those ceased and all was still and dark, and the silent forest so terrified the child that she began to cry.

"No good for Missa to cry, Missa must go see gin," said the Black, and as he spoke they came in sight of a little group of native huts, bark-thatched and dimly seen through the darkness. Into the smallest of these the Black stumbled and set his burden before a couch on which lay a black woman wasted with fever.

"Brought you white child," he said. The hut was full of Blacks, but Jean was too frightened and tired to think of any of them, and she covered her face with her hands and sobbed as if her heart would break.