A BUSH HERMIT.

It is not good for man to be alone, but Philip became a hermit. Half a mile from the school and the main road there was an empty slab hut roofed with shingles. It was on the top of a long sloping hill, which afforded a beautiful view over the lake and the distant hills. Half an acre of garden ground was fenced in with the hut, and it was part of the farm of a man from Hampshire, England, who lived with his wife near the main road. A man from Hampshire is an Englishman, and should speak English; but, when Philip tried to make a bargain about the hut, he could not understand the Hampshire language, and the farmer's wife had to interpret. And that farmer lived to the age of eighty years, and never learned to speak English. He was not a fool by any means; knew all about farming; worked twelve or fourteen hours a day all the year round, having never heard of the eight hours system; but he talked, and prayed, and swore all his life in the Hampshire dialect. Whenever he spoke to the neighbours a look of pain and misery came over them. Sometimes he went to meetings, and made a speech, but he was told to go and fetch a Chinaman to interpret.

Philip entered into possession of the hut. It had two rooms, and the furniture did not cost much. At Adams' store he bought a camp oven, an earthenware stew-pot, a milk pan, a billy, two pannikins, two spoons, a whittle, and a fork. The extra pannikin and spoon were for the use of visitors, for Philip's idea was that a hermit, if not holy, should be at least hospitable. With an axe and saw he made his own furniture--viz., two hardwood stools, one of which would seat two men; for a table he sawed off the butt end of a messmate, rolled it inside the hut, and nailed on the top of it a piece of a pine packing case. His bedstead was a frame of saplings, with strong canvas nailed over it, and his mattress was a sheet of stringy bark, which soon curled up at the sides and fitted him like a coffin. His pillow was a linen bag filled with spare shirts and socks, and under it he placed his revolver, in case he might want it for unwelcome visitors.

Patrick Duggan's wife did the laundry work, and refused to take payment in cash. But she made a curious bargain about it. A priest visited Nyalong only once a month; he lived fifty miles away; when Mrs. Duggan was in her last sickness he might be unable to administer to her the rites of the church. So her bargain was, that in case the priest should be absent, the schoolmaster, as next best man, was to read prayers over her grave. Philip thought there was something strange, perhaps simoniacal, about the bargain. Twice Mrs. Duggan, thinking she was on the point of death, sent a messenger to remind him of his duty; and when at last she did die, he was present at the funeral, and read the prayers for the dead over her grave.

Avarice is a vice so base that I never heard of any man who would confess that he had ever been guilty of it. Philip was my best friend, and I was always loath to think unkindly of him, but at this time I really think he began to be rather penurious--not avaricious, certainly not. But he was not a hermit of the holiest kind. He began to save money and acquire stock. He had not been long on the hill before he owned a horse, two dogs, a cat, a native bear, a magpie, and a parrot, and he paid nothing for any of them except the horse. One day he met Mr. McCarthy talking to Bob Atkins, a station hand, who had a horse to sell--a filly, rising three. McCarthy was a good judge of horses, and after inspecting the filly, he said: "She will just suit you, Mr. Philip, you ought to buy her." So the bargain was made; the price was ten pounds, Bob giving in the saddle, bridle, a pair of hobbles, and a tether rope. He was proud of his deal.

Two years afterwards, when Philip was riding through the bush, Bob rode up alongside, and after a while said:

"Well, Mister, how do you like that filly I sold you?"

"Very well indeed. She is a capital roadster and stockhorse."

"Does she ever throw you?"

"Never. What makes you ask?"

"Well, that's queer. The fact is I sold her to you because I could not ride her. Every time I mounted, she slung me a buster."

"I see, Bob, you meant well, didn't you? But she never yet slung me a buster; she is quieter than a lamb, and she will come to me whenever I whistle, and follow me like a dog."

Philip's first dog was named Sam. He was half collie and half bull dog, and was therefore both brave and full of sagacity. He guarded the hut and the other domestics during school hours, and when he saw Philip coming up the hill, he ran to meet him, smiling and wagging his tail, and reported all well. The other dog was only a small pup, a Skye terrier, like a bunch of tow, a present from Tommy Traddles. Pup's early days were made very miserable by Maggie, the magpie. That wicked bird used to strut around Philip while he was digging in the garden, and after filling her crop with worms and grubs, she flapped away on one wing and went round the hut looking for amusement. She jumped on Pup's back, scratched him with her claws, pecked at his skull, and pulled locks of wool out of it, the poor innocent all the while yelping and howling for mercy. Sam never helped Pup, or drove Maggie away; he was actually afraid of her, and believed she was a dangerous witch. Sometimes she pecked at his tail, and he dared not say a word, but sneaked away, looking sideways at her, hanging down his ears, and afraid to say his tail was his own. Joey, the parrot, watched all that was going on from his cage, which was hung on a hook outside the hut door. Philip tried to teach Joey to whistle a tune: "There is na luck aboot the hoose, There is na luck at a'," but the parrot had so many things to attend to that he never had time to finish the tune. He was, indeed, very vain and flighty, sidling along his perch and saying: "Sweet pretty Joey, who are you, who are you? Ha! Ha! Ha!" wanting everybody to take notice and admire him. When Maggie first attacked poor Pup, scratched his back, pecked at his head, and tore locks of wool out of him, and Pup screamed pitifully to all the world for help, Joey poked his head between the wires of his cage, turned one eye downwards, listened to the language, and watched the new performance with silent ecstacy. He had never heard or seen anything like it in the whole course of his life. Philip used to drive Maggie away, take up poor Pup and stroke him, while Maggie, the villain, hopped around, flapping her wings and giving the greatest impudence.

It really gave Philip a great deal of trouble to keep order among his domestics. One day, while hoeing in the garden, he heard the Pup screaming miserably. He said, "There's that villain, Maggie, at him again," and he ran up to the hut to drive her away. But when he reached it there was neither Pup nor Maggie to be seen, only Joey in his cage, and he was bobbing his head up and down, yelping exactly like the Pup, and then he began laughing at Philip ready to burst, "Ha! Ha! Ha! Who are you? Who are you? There is no luck aboot the hoose, There is na luck at a'."

The native bear resided in a packing case, nailed on the top of a stump nearly opposite the hut door. He had a strap round his waist, and was fastened to the stump by a piece of clothes line. The boys called him a monkey-bear, but though his face was like that of a bear he was neither a monkey nor a bear. He was in fact a sloth; his legs were not made for walking, but for climbing, and although he had strong claws and a very muscular forearm, he was always slow in his movements. He was very silent and unsociable, never joined in the amusements of the other domestics, and when Philip brought him a bunch of tender young gum-tree shoots for his breakfast in the morning, he did not even say "thanks" or smile, or show the least gratitude. He never spoke except at dead of night, when he was exchanging compliments with some other bear up a gum tree in the forty-acre paddock. And such compliments! Their voices were frightful, something between a roar and a groan, and although Philip was a great linguist he was never quite sure what they were saying. But the bear was always scheming to get away; he was like the Boers, and could not abide British rule. Philip would not have kept him at all, but as he had taken him into the family circle when a cub he did not like to be cruel and turn him out along in a heartless world. Twice Bruin managed to untie the clothes line and started for the forty-acre. He crawled along very slowly, and when he saw Philip coming after him, he stopped, looked behind him, and said, "Hoo," showing his disgust. Then Philip took hold of the end of the clothes line and brought him back, scolding all the time.

"You miserable Bruin, you don't know what's good for you; you can't tell a light-wood from a gum-tree, and you'll die of starvation, or else the boys will find you, and they will kill you, thinking you are a wild bush bear, for you don't show any signs of good education, after all the trouble I have taken to teach you manners. I am afraid you will come to a bad end."

And so he did. The third time Bruin loosed the clothes line he had a six hours' start before he was missed, and sure enough he hid himself in a lightwood for want of sense, and that very night the boys saw him by the light of the moon, and Hugh Boyle climbed up the tree and knocked him down with a waddy.

Pussy, Philip's sixth domestic, had attained her majority; she had never gone after snakes in her youth, and had always avoided bad company. She did her duty in the house as a good mouser, and when mice grew scarce she went hunting for game; she had a hole under the eaves near the chimney, through which she could enter the hut at any time of the night or day. While Philip was musing after tea on the "Pons Asinorum" by the light of a tallow candle, Pussy was out poaching for quail, and as soon as she caught one she brought it home, dropped it on the floor, rubbed her side against Philip's boot, and said, "I have brought a little game for breakfast." Then Philip stroked her along the back, after which she lay down before the fire, tucked in her paws and fell asleep, with a good conscience.

But many bush cats come to an unhappy and untimely end by giving way to the vice of curiosity. When Dinah, the vain kitten, takes her first walk abroad in spring time, she observes something smooth and shiny gliding gently along. She pricks up her ears, and gazes at the interesting stranger; then she goes a little nearer, softly lifting first one paw and then another.

The stranger is more intelligent than Dinah. He says to himself, "I know her sort well, the silly thing. Saw her ages ago in the Garden. She wants mice and frogs and such things--takes the bread out of my mouth. Native industry must be protected." so the stranger brings his head round under the grass and waits for Dinah, who is watching his tail. The tail moves a little and then a little more. Dinah says, "It will be gone if I don't mind," and she jumps for it. At that instant the snake strikes her on the nose with his fangs. Dinah's fur rises on end with sudden fright, she shakes her head, and the snake drops off. She turns away, and says, "This is frightful; what a deceitful world! Life is not worth living." Her head feels queer, and being sleepy she lies down, and is soon a dead cat.

That summer was very hot at Nyalong, one hundred and ten degrees in the shade. Philip began to find his bed of stringy bark very hard, and as it grew older it curled together so much that he could scarcely turn in it from one side to the other. So he made a mattress which he stuffed with straw, and he found it much softer than the stringy bark. But after a while the mattress grew flat, and the stuffing lumpy. Sometimes on hot days he took out his bed, and after shaking it, he laid it down on the grass; his blankets he hung on the fence for many reasons which he wanted to get rid of.

The water in the forty-acre to the south was all dried up. An old black snake with a streak of orange along his ribs grew thirsty. His last meal was a mouse, and he said, "That was a dry mouthful, and wants something to wash it down." He knew his way to the water-hole at the end of the garden, but he had to pass the hut, which when he travelled that way the summer before was unoccupied. After creeping under the bottom rail of the fence, he raised his head a little, and looked round. He said, "I see there's another tenant here"--Bruin was then alive and was sitting on the top of his stump eating gum leaves--"I never saw that fellow so low down in the world before; I wonder what he is doing here; been lagged, I suppose for something or other. He is a stupid, anyway, and won't take any notice even if he sees me."

Sam and Puss were both blinking their eyes in the shade of the lightwood, and whisking the flies from their ears. Maggie was walking about with beak open, showing her parched tongue; the heat made her low-spirited.

The snake had crept as far as Philip's mattress, which was lying on the grass, when Maggie saw him. She instantly gave the alarm, "A snake, a snake!" for she knew he was a bad character. Sam and Puss jumped up and began to bark; Joey said, "There is na luck aboot the hoose." Bruin was too stupid to say anything. The snake said, "Here is a terrible row all at once, I must make for a hole." He had a keen eye for a hole, and he soon saw one. It was a small one, in Philip's mattress, almost hidden by the seam, and had been made most likely by a splinter or a nail. The snake put his head in it, saying, "Any port in a storm," then drew in his whole length, and settled himself comfortably among the straw.

Beasts and birds have instincts, and a certain amount of will and understanding, but no memory worth mentioning. For that reason the domestics never told Philip about the snake in his mattress, they had forgotten all about it. If Sam had buried a bone, he would have remembered it a week afterwards, if he was hungry; but as for snakes, it was, "out of sight, out of mind."

Philip took in his mattress and blanket before sundown and made his bed. The snake was still in the straw; he had been badly scared, and thought it would be best to keep quiet until he saw a chance to creep out, and continue his journey down the garden. But it was awfully dark inside the mattress, and although he went round and round amongst the straw he could not find any way out of it, so at last he said: "I must wait till morning," and went to sleep.

When Philip went to bed the snake was disturbed, and woke up. There was so heavy a weight on him that he could scarcely move, and he was almost suffocated. He said: "This is dreadful; I have been in many a tight place in my time, but never in one so tight as this. Whatever am I to do? I shall be squeezed to death if I don't get away from this horrid monster on top of me."

Philip fell asleep as usual, and by-and-by the snake began to flatten his ribs, and draw himself from under the load, until at last he was clear of it; then, heaving a deep sigh of relief he lay quiet for awhile to recover his breath. He knew there was a hole somewhere if he could only find it and he kept poking his nose here and there against the mattress.

After sleeping an hour or two, Philip turned on his other side, and the snake had to move out of the way in a hurry for fear of being squeezed to death. There was a noise as of something rustling in the straw, and after listening awhile, Philip said: "I suppose it's a mouse," and soon fell fast asleep again, because he was not afraid of mice even when they ran across his nose.

In the morning he took his blankets out again, and hung them on the fence, shook up his mattress and pillow, and then spread the sheets over them, tucking them in all round, and then he got ready his breakfast.

The whole of that day was spent by the snake in trying to find a way out. The sheets being tucked in he was still in the dark, and he kept going round and round, feeling for the hole with his nose until he went completely out of his mind, just as a man does when he is lost in the bush. So the day wore on, night and bedtime came again, and Philip lay down to rest once more right over the imprisoned snake. Then that snake went raving mad, lost all control of himself, and rolled about recklessly. Philip sat up in bed, and a cold sweat began to trickle down his face, and his hair stood on end. He whispered to himself as if afraid the snake might hear him. "The Lord preserve us, that's no mouse; it's a snake right under me. What shall I do?"

The first thing to do was to strike a light; the matches and candle were on a box at his bedside, and he slowly put out his hand to reach them, expecting every moment to feel the fangs in his wrist. But he found the match-box, struck a light, carefully examined the floor as far as he could see it, jumped out of bed at one bound, and took refuge in the other room. There he looked in every corner, and along every rafter for the other snake, for he knew that at this season snakes are often found in pairs, but he could not see the mate of the one he had left in bed.

There was no sleep for Philip that night, and, by the light of the candle, he sat waiting for the coming day, and planning dire vengeance. At sunrise he examined closely every hole, and crevice, and corner, and crack in both rooms, floor and floor, slabs, rafters, and shingles. He said, at last: "I think there is only one snake, and he is in the bed."

Then he went outside, and cut a stick about five feet long, one end of which he pointed with his knife. Returning to the bedroom, he lifted up with the point of his stick the sheets, blankets, and pillows, took them outside, and hung them on the fence. Next he turned over the mattress slowly, but there was nothing to be seen under it. He poked the mattress with the blunt end of his stick here and there, and he soon saw that something was moving inside. "Ah!" he said, "there you are, my friend." The thought of having slept two nights on a live snake made him shudder a little, but he was bent on vengeance. He took hold of one end of the mattress with one hand, and holding the stick in the other, he carried it outside and laid it on the grass. Looking carefully at every side of the mattress he discovered the hole through which the snake had entered. It was so small that he could scarcely believe that a snake had gone through it, but no other hole was anywhere visible. Philip said, "If the beast comes out it shall be through fire," so he picked up a few pieces of bark which he placed over the hole, and set on fire. The straw inside was soon in a blaze, and the snake was lively. His situation was desperate, and his movements could be traced by the rising and falling of the ticking. Philip said, "My friend, you are looking for a hole, but when you find it it will be a hot one." The snake at last made a dash for life through the fire, and actually came out into the open air. But he was dazed and blinded, and his skin was wet and shining with oil, or perspiration, or something.

Philip gave him a finishing stroke with his stick, and tossed him back into the fire. Of course a new mattress was necessary, and a keen eye for snakes ever afterwards.

The teaching in the school went on with regularity and success. There was, however, an occasional interruption. Once a furious squall came over the lake, and shook the frail building so much that Philip threw open the door and sent out all the children, the little ones and girls first, and then the boys, remaining himself to the last like the captain of a sinking ship; but he was not so much of a fool to stay inside and brave destruction; he went out to a safe distance until the squall was over.

Sometimes a visitor interfered with the work of the school, and Philip for that reason hated visitors; but it was his duty to be civil and patient. Two inspectors called on two different occasions to examine the scholars. One of them was scarcely sober, and he behaved in a manner so eccentric that the master had a strong temptation to kick him out. However, he at last succeeded in seeing the inspector outside the door peaceably, and soon afterwards the department dispensed with that gentleman's services.

He had obtained his office by favour of a minister at home for services rendered at an election. His salary was 900 pounds per annum. The next inspector received the same salary. He was brother or brother-in-law to a bishop, and had many ancestors and relatives of high degree. Philip foolishly showed him a few nuggets which he had picked up in Picaninny Gully, and the inspector showed Philip the letter by which he had obtained his appointment and 900 pounds a year. It was only a couple of lines written and signed by a certain lord in London, but it was equivalent to an order for a billet on the government of Victoria. Then the inspector said he would feel extremely obliged to Philip if he would give him one of his little nuggets that he might send it to my lord as a present, and Philip at once handed over his biggest nugget. Little amenities of this kind make life so pleasant. My lord would be pleased to receive the nugget, the inspector was pleased to send it, and Philip said "it cannot be bribery and corruption, but this inspector being a gentleman will be friendly. When he mentions me and my school in his report he cannot possibly forget the nugget."

Barney, the boozer, one day visited the school. He opened the door and stood on the threshold. His eyes seemed close together, and there was a long red scar on his bare neck, where he had on a former occasion cut his throat. All the scholars were afraid of Barney, and the girls climbed up on the benches and began to scream.

Philip went up to the Boozer and said:

"Well, my friend, what do you want here?"

"The devil knows," replied Barney.

"Very likely, but he is not here, he has gone down the road."

Then taking Barney by the arm he turned him round and guided him to the road. Barney went about twenty yards until he came to a pool of water. He stepped on to the fence and sat on the top rail gazing into the pool. At last he threw his hat into it, then his boots, coat, shirt, and trousers. When he was quite naked, he stamped on his clothes until they were thoroughly soaked and buried in mud. Barney then resumed his search for the devil, swinging his arms to and fro in a free and defiant manner.

The school was also visited by a bishop, a priest, a squatter, and a judge. The dress and demeanour of the judge were very impressive at so great a distance from any centre of civilization, for he wore a tall beaver hat, a suit of black broadcloth, and a white necktie. Philip received him with reverence, thinking he could not be anything less than a lord spiritual, such is the power of broadcloth and fine linen. Nosey, the shepherd, was then living at Nyalong, having murdered the other shepherd, Baldy, about six months before, and this judge sent Nosey to the gallows seventeen years afterwards; but neither Nosey nor the judge knew what was to happen after seventeen years. This is the story of Nosey and Baldy.

THE TWO SHEPHERDS.

By the men on the run they were known as Nosey and Baldy, but in a former stage of their existence, in the days of the Emperor Augustus Cæsar, they were known as Naso and Balbus. They were then rivals in love and song, and accused each other of doing things that were mean. And now, after undergoing for their sins various transmigrations into the forms of inferior animals, during two thousand years, as soon as shepherds are required in Australia Felix, they appear once more following their flocks and herds. But they are entirely forgetful of all Greek and Roman civilization; their morals have not improved, and their quarrels are more bitter than ever. In the old times they tootled on the tuneful reed, and sang in purest Latin the sweetest ditties ever heard, in praise of Galatea and Amyntas, Delia and Iolla. But they never tootle now, and never sing, and when they speak, their tongue is that of the unmusical barbarians. In their pagan days they stained their rustic altars with the blood of a kid, a sacrifice to Jupiter, and poured out libations of generous wine; but they offer up neither prayer nor sacrifice now, and they pour libations of gin down their throats.

The Italian rustic is yet musical, and the Roman citizen has not lost the genius of his race. He is still unrivalled in sculpture and architecture, in painting, in poetry, and philosophy; and in every handicraft his fingers are as deft as ever. But empire has slipped from his grasp, and empire once lost, like time, never returns. Who can rebuild Ninevah or Babylon, put new life into the mummies of the Pharoahs, and recrown them; raise armies from the dust of the warriors of Sesostris, and send them forth once more to victory and slaughter? Julian the Apostate tried to rebuild the Holy City and Temple of Israel, to make prophecy void--apparently a small enterprise for a Roman Emperor--but all his labours were vain. Modern Julians have been trying to resuscitate old Rome, and to found for her a new empire, and have only made Italy another Ireland, with a starving people and a bankrupt government. 'Nos patriæ fines, nos dulcia linquimus arva'. The Italians are emigrating year after year to avoid starvation in the Garden of Europe. In every city of the great empire on which the sun never sets they wander through the streets, clad in faded garments of olive green--the toga long since discarded and forgotten--making sweet music from the harp and violin, their melancholy eyes wandering after the passing crowd, hoping for the pitiful penny that is so seldom given.

The two shepherds were employed on a station north of Lake Nyalong. It is a country full of dead volcanoes, whose craters have been turned into salt lakes, and their rolling floods of lava have been stiffened into barriers of black rocks; where the ashes belched forth in fiery blasts from the deep furnaces of a burning world have covered the hills and plains with perennial fertility.

Baldy had been entrusted with a fattening flock, and Nosey had in his care a lambing flock. From time to time the sheep were counted, and it was found that the fattening flock was decreasing in numbers. The squatter wanted to know what had become of his missing sheep, but Baldy could give no account of them. His suspicions, however, soon fell on Nosey. The latter was his nearest neighbour, and although he had only the same wages--viz., thirty pounds a year and rations-- he seemed to be unaccountably prosperous, and was the owner of a wife and two horses. He had been transported for larceny when he was only fifteen years of age, and at twenty-eight he was suspected of being still a thief. Girls of the same age were sent from Great Britain to Botany Bay and Van Diemen's Land for stealing one bit of finery, worth a shilling, and became the consorts of criminals of the deepest dye. You may read their names in the Indents to this day, together with their height, age, complexion, birthplace, and other important particulars.

Baldy went over to Nosey's hut one evening when the blue smoke was curling over the chimney, and the long shadows of the Wombat Hills were creeping over the Stoney Rises. Julia was boiling the billy for tea, and her husband was chopping firewood outside.

"Good evening, Julia," said Baldy; "fine evening."

"Same to you, Baldy. Any news to-day?" asked Julia.

"Well, there is," said Baldy, "and it's bad news for me; there's ten more of my fatteners missing" (Nosey stopped chopping and listened) "and the master says I'll have to hump my swag if I can't find out what has become of them. I say, Nosey, you don't happen to have seen any dingoes or blacks about here lately?"

"I ain't seen e'er a one, neither dingo nor blackfellow. But, you know, if they were after mischief they'd take care not to make a show. There might be stacks of them about and we never to see one of them."

Nosey was proud of his cunning.

"Well," said Baldy, "I can hear of nobody having seen any strangers about the Rises, nor dingoes, nor black fellows. And the dingoes, anyhow, would have left some of the carcases behind; but the thieves, whoever they are, have not left me as much as a lock of the wool of my sheep. I have been talking about 'em with old Sharp; he is the longest here of any shepherd in the country, and knows all the blacks, and he says it's his opinion the man who took the sheep is not far away from the flock now. What do you think about it, Nosey?"

"What the----should I know about your sheep?" said Nosey. "Do you mean to insinivate that I took 'em? I'll tell you what it is, Baldy; it'll be just as well for you to keep your blasted tongue quiet about your sheep, for if I hear any more about 'em, I'll see you for it; do you hear?"

"Oh, yes, I hear. All right, Nosey, we'll see about it," said Baldy.

There would have been a fight perhaps, but Baldy was a smaller man than the other and was growing old, while Nosey was in the prime of life.

Baldy went to Nyalong next day. His rations did not include gin, and he wanted some badly, the more so because he was in trouble about his lost sheep. Gin, known then as "Old Tom," was his favourite remedy for all ailments, both of mind and body. If he could not find out what had become of his sheep, his master might dismiss him without a character. There was not much good character running to waste on the stations, but still no squatter would like to entrust a flock to a shepherd who was suspected of having stolen and sold his last master's sheep.

Baldy walked to Nyalong along the banks of the lake. The country was then all open, unfenced, except the paddocks at the home stations. The boundary between two of the runs was merely marked by a ploughed furrow, not very straight, which started near the lake, and went eastward along the plains. In the Rises no plough could make a line through the rocks, and the boundaries there were imaginary. Stray cattle were roaming over the country, eating the grass, and the main resource of the squatters was the Pounds Act. Hay was then sold at 80 pounds per ton at Bendigo; a draft of fat bullocks was worth a mine of gold at Ballarat, and, therefore, grass was everywhere precious. No wonder if the hardy bullock-driver became a cattle lifter after his team had been impounded by the station stockman when found only four hundred yards from the bush track. Money, in the shape of fat stock, was running loose, as it were, on every run, and why should not the sagacious Nosey do a little business when Baldy's fat sheep were tempting him, and a market for mutton could be found no farther away than the Nyalong butcher's shop.

Baldy left the township happier than usual, carrying under his arm two bottles of Old Tom. He was seen by a man who knew him entering the Rises, and going away in the direction of Nosey's hut, and then for fifteen years he was a lost shepherd. In course of time it was ascertained that he had called at Nosey's hut on his way home. He had the lost sheep on his mind, and he could not resist the impulse to have another word or two with Nosey about them. He put down the two bottles of gin outside the door of the hut, near an axe whose handle leaned against the wall. Nosey and his wife, Julia, were inside, and he bade them good evening. Then he took a piece of tobacco out of his pocket, and began cutting it with his knife. He always carried his knife tied to his belt by a string which went through a hole bored in the handle. It was a generally useful knife, and with it he foot-rotted sheep, stirred the tea in his billy, and cut beef and damper, sticks, and tobacco.

"I have been to Nyalong," he said, "and I heern something about my sheep; they went to the township all right, strayed away, you know, followed one another's tails, and never came back, the O. K. bullocks go just the same way. Curious, isn't it?"

Nosey listened with keen interest. "Well, Baldy," he said, "and what did you hear? Did you find out who took 'em?"

"Oh, yes," said Baldy; "I know pretty well all about 'em now, both sheep and bullocks. Old Sharp was right about the sheep, anyway. The thief is not far from the flock, and it's not me." Baldy was brewing mischief for himself, but he did not know how much.

"Did you tell the police about 'em?" asked Nosey.

"Oh, no, not to-day!" answered Baldy. "Time enough yet. I ain't in no hurry to be an informer."

Nosey eyed him with unusual savagery, and said:

"Now didn't I tell you to say no more about your blasted sheep, or I'd see you for it? and here you are again, and you can't leave 'em alone. You are no better than a fool."

"Maybe I am a fool, Nosey. Just wait till I get a light, and I'll leave your hut and trouble you no more."

He was standing in the middle of the floor cutting his tobacco, and rubbing it between the palms of his hands, shaking his head, and eyeing the floor with a look of great sagacity.

Nosey went outside, and began walking to and fro, thinking and whispering to himself. It was a habit he had acquired while slowly sauntering after his sheep. He seemed to have another self, an invisible companion with whom he discussed whatever was uppermost in his mind. If he had then consulted his other self, Julia, he might have saved himself a world of trouble; but he did not think of her. He said to himself: "Now, Nosey, if you don't mind, you are going to be in a hole. That old fool inside has found out something or other about the sheep, and the peelers will have you, if you don't look out, and they'll give you another seven years and maybe ten. You've done your time once, Nosey, and how would you like to do it again? Why couldn't you leave the cursed sheep alone and keep out of mischief just when you were settling down in life comfortable, and might have a chance to do better. Baldy will be telling the peelers to-morrow all he knows about the sheep you stole, and then they'll fetch you, sure. There's only one thing to stop the old fool's jaw, and you are not game to do it, Nosey; you never done a man yet, and you are not game to do it now, and you'll be damned if you do it, and the devil will have you, and you'll be hanged first maybe. And if you don't do him you'll be lagged again for the sheep, and in my opinion, Nosey, you are not game. Yes, by the powers, you are, Nosey, damned if you ain't. Who's afeered? And you'll do it quick --do it quick. Now or never's your time."

While talking thus to himself, Nosey was pacing to and fro, and he glanced at the axe every time he passed the door. The weapon was ready to his hand, and seemed to be inviting him to use it.

"Baldy is going to light his pipe, and while he is stooping to get a firestick, I'll do him with the axe."

When Baldy turned towards the fire, Nosey grasped the axe and held it behind him. He waited a moment, and then entered the hut; but Baldy either heard his step, or had some suspicion of danger, for he looked around before takingup a firestick. At that instant the blow, intended for the back of the head, struck him on the jaw, and he fell forward among the embers. For one brief moment of horror he must have realised that he was being murdered, and then another blow behind the head left him senseless.

Nosey dragged the body out of the fireplace into the middle of the floor, intending, while he was doing a man, to do him well. He raised the axe to finish his work with a third blow, but Julia gave a scream so piercing that his attention was diverted to her.

"Oh, Nosey," she said, "what are you doing to poor Baldy? You are murdering him."

Nosey turned to his wife with upraised axe.

"Hold your jaw, woman, and keep quiet, or I'll do as much for you."

She said no more. She was tall and stout, had small, sharp, roving eyes; and Nosey was a thick-set man, with a thin, prominent nose, sunken eyes, and overhanging brows. He never had a prepossessing appearance, and now his look and attitude were so ugly and fierce that the big woman was completely cowed. The pair stood still for some time, watching the last convulsive movements of the murdered Baldy.

Nosey could now pride himself on having been "game to do his man," but he could not feel much glory in his work just yet. He had done it without sufficient forethought, and his mind was soon full of trouble.

Murder was worse than sheep stealing, and the consequences of his new venture in crime began to crowd on his mind with frightful rapidity. He had not even thought of any plan for hiding away the corpse. He had no grave ready, and could not dig one anywhere in the neighbourhood. The whole of the country round his hut was rocky-- little hills of bare bluestone boulders, and grassy hollows covered with only a few inches of soil--rocks everywhere, above ground and below. He could burn the body, but it would take a long time to do it well; somebody might come while he was at the work, and even the ashes might betray his secret. There were shallow lakes and swamps, but he could not put the corpse into any of them with safety: search would be made wherever there was water, on the supposition that Baldy had been drowned after drinking too freely of the gin he had brought from Nyalong, and if the body was found, the appearance of the skull would show that death had been caused, not by drowning, but by the blows of that cursed axe. Nosey began to lay all the blame on the axe, and said, "If it had not stood up so handy near the door, I wouldn't have killed the man."

It was the axe that tempted him. Excuses of that sort are of a very ancient date.

Luckily Nosey owned two horses, one of which was old and quiet. He told Julia to fasten the door, and to open it on no account whatever, while he went for the horse, which was feeding in the Rises hobbled, and with a bell tied round his neck. When he returned he saddled the animal, and Julia held the bridle while he went into the hut for the body. He observed Baldy's pipe on the floor near the fire-place, and he replaced it in the pocket in which it had been usually kept, as it might not be safe to leave anything in the hut belonging to the murdered man. There was a little blood on the floor, but he would scrape that off by daylight, and he would then also look at the axe and put away the two bottles of gin somewhere; he could do all that next morning before Baldy was missed. But the corpse must be taken away at once, for he felt that every minute of delay might endanger his neck. He dragged the body outside, and with Julia's help lifted it up and placed it across the saddle. Then he tried to steady his load with his right hand, and to guide the horse by the bridle with his left, but he soon found that a dead man was a bad rider; Baldy kept slipping towards the near side or the off side with every stride of the horse, and soon fell to the ground.

Nosey was in a furious hurry, he was anxious to get away; he cursed Baldy for giving him so much trouble; he could have killed him over again for being so awkward and stubborn, and he begun to feel that the old shepherd was more dangerous dead than alive. At last he mounted his horse, and called to Julia to come and help him.

"Here, Julia, lift him up till I catch hold of his collar, and I'll pull him up in front of me on the saddle, and hold him that way."

Julia, with many stifled moans, raised the body from the ground, Nosey reached down and grasped the shirt collar, and thus the two managed to place the swag across the saddle. Then Nosey made a second start, carefully balancing the body, and keeping it from falling with his right hand, while he held the bridle with his left.

The funeral procession slowly wound its way in a westerly direction among the black rocks over the softest and smoothest ground to avoid making any noise. There was no telling what stockman or cattle-stealer the devil might send at any moment to meet the murderer among the lonely Rises, and even in the darkness his horrible burden would betray him. Nosey was disturbed by the very echo of his horse's steps; it seemed as if somebody was following him at a little distance; perhaps Julia, full of woman's curiosity; and he kept peering round and looking back into the darkness. In this way he travelled about a mile and a half, and then dismounting, lowered the body to the ground, and began to look for some suitable hiding place. He chose one among a confused heap of rocks, and by lifting some of them aside he made a shallow grave, to which he dragged the body, and covered it by piling boulders over and around it. He struck several matches to enable him to examine his work carefully, and closed up every crevice through which his buried treasure might be visible.

The next morning Nosey was astir early. He had an important part to act, and he was anxious to do it well. He first examined the axe and cleaned it well, carefully burning a few of Baldy's grey hairs which he found on it. Then he searched the floor for drops of blood, which he carefully scraped with a knife, and washed until no red spot was visible. Then he walked to Baldy's and pretended to himself that he was surprised to find it empty. What had happened the previous night was only a dream, an ugly dream. He met an acquaintance and told him that Baldy was neither in his hut nor with his sheep.

The two men called at old Sharp's hut to make enquiries. The latter said, "I seen Baldy's sheep yesterday going about in mobs, and nobody to look after them." Then the three men went to the deserted hut. Everything in it seemed undisturbed. The dog was watching at the door, and they told him to seek Baldy. He pricked up his ears, wagged his tail, and looked wistfully in the direction of Nosey's hut, evidently expecting his master to come in sight that way.

The men went to the nearest magistrate and informed him that the shepherd was missing. A messenger went to the head station. Enquiries were made at the township, and it was found that Baldy had been to Nyalong the previous day, and had left in the evening carrying two bottles of gin. This circumstance seemed to account for his absence; he had taken too much of the liquor, was lying asleep somewhere, and would reappear in the course of the day. Men both on foot and on horseback roamed through the Rises, examining the hollows and the flats, the margins of the shallow lakes, and peering into every wombat hole as they passed. They never thought of turning over any of the boulders; a drunken man would never make his bed and blanket of rocks; he would be found lying on the top if he had stumbled amongst them. One by one as night approached the searchers returned to the hut. They had discovered nothing, and the only conclusion they could come to was, that Baldy was taking a very long sleep somewhere--which was true enough.

Next day every man from the neighbouring stations, and some from Nyalong, joined in the search. The chief constable was there, and as became a professed detector of crime, he examined everything minutely inside and outside the two huts, but he could not find anything suspicious about either of them. He entered into conversation with Julia, but the eye of her husband was on her, and she had little to say. Nosey, on the contrary, was full of suggestions as to what might have happened to Baldy, and he helped to look for him eagerly and actively in every direction but the right one.

For many days the Rises were peopled with prospectors, but one by one they dropped away. The chief constable was loath to leave the riddle unsolved; he had the instinct of the sleuth-hound on the scent of blood. He had been a pursuer of bad works amongst the convicts for a long time, both in Van Diemen's Land and in Victoria, and had helped to bring many men to the gallows or the chain-gang. He had once been shot in the back by a horse thief who lay concealed behind the door of a shepherd's hut, but he secured the horse thief. He was a man without nerves, of medium height, strongly built, had a broad face, massive ears, wide, firm mouth, and strong jaws.

One night after the searchers had departed to their various homes, the chief remained alone in the Rises, and leaving his horse hobbled at a distance, cautiously approached Nosey's hut. He placed his ear to the outside of the weatherboards, and listened for some time to the conversation of Nosey and his wife, expecting to obtain by chance some information about the disappearance of the other shepherd. Nosey was in a bad temper, swearing and finding fault with everything. Julia was prudent and said little; it was best not to say too much to a man who was so handy with the family axe. But at last she made use of one expression which seemed to mean something. She said, "Oh, Nosey, you murdering villain, you know you ought to be hanged." There was a prophetic ring in these words which delighted the chief constable, and he glued his great ear to the weatherboards, eagerly listening for more; but the wrangling pair were very disappointing; they would not keep to the point. At last he walked round the hut, suddenly opened the door, and entered. Nosey was struck dumb at once. His first thought was that his plan had been sprung, and that the murder was out. The chief addressed Julia in a tone of authority, imitating the counsel for the crown when examining a prevaricating witness.

"Now, missus, remember you will be put on your oath. You said just now, 'Oh, Nosey, you murdering villain, you know you ought to be hanged.' Those were your very words. Now what did you mean? On your oath, mind; out with it at once."

But Julia was not to be caught so easily. She replied:

"Oh, bad luck to him, he is always angry. I don't know what to do with him. I did not mean anything."

"You did not mean anything about Baldy, I suppose, did you, now?" queried the constable, shamefully leading the witness, and looking hard at Nosey.

Julia parried the question by heaving a deep sigh, and saying: "Hi, ho, Harry, if I were a maid, I never would marry;" and then she began singing a silly old song.

The constable was disgusted, and said:

"My good woman, you'll find there will be nothing to laugh at in this job, when I see you again."

As he left the hut, he turned at the door and gave one more look at Nosey, who had stood all the time rivetted to the ground, expecting every moment that the constable would produce the handcuffs. Soon afterwards Julia went outside, walked round the hut, and stayed awhile, listening and looking in every direction. When she returned, Nosey said, in a hoarse whisper:

"Is he gan yet?"

"I think," replied Julia, "he won't be coming again to-night. He has thrown away his trouble this time, anyhow; but ye must hould your tongue, Nosey, if ye want to save your neck; he means to have you if he can."

Nosey stayed on the run some weeks longer, following his sheep. It would not be advisable to go away suddenly, and, moreover, he recollected that what the eye could not see might some time be discovered by another of the senses. So he waited patiently, standing guard as it were over the dead, until his curiosity induced him to pay a farewell visit by daylight to the place where Baldy was buried.

There had been hot weather since the body had been deposited in the shallow grave, and the crevices among the piles of bluestones had been filled by the wind with the yellow stalks of decayed grass. Nosey walked round his own particular pile, and inspected it closely. He was pleased to find that it showed no signs of having been touched since he raised it. It was just like any of the other heaps of rocks around it. He had, at any rate, given Baldy as good a funeral as circumstances would permit, better than that of many a man who had perished of hunger, heat, and thirst, in the shelterless wastes of the Never-Never Land, "beyond Moneygrub's farthest run." Nosey and the weather had done their work so well that for the next fifteen years no shepherd, stockman, or squatter ever gave a second look at that unknown grave. The black snake coiled itself beneath the decaying skeleton, and spent the winter in secure repose. The native cat tore away bits of Baldy's clothing, and with them and the yellow grass made, year after year, a nest for its young among the whitening bones.

Everything, so far, had turned out quite as satisfactorily as any murderer could expect. Nosey had been game to do his man, and he had done him well. Julia was prudent enough to hold her tongue for her own sake; it was unlikely that any further search would be made for the lost shepherd; he had been safely put out of sight, and not even Julia knew where he was buried.

Nosey began to have a better opinion of himself than ever. Neither the police nor the law could touch him. He would never be called to account for putting away his brother shepherd, in this world at any rate; and as for the next, why it was a long way off, and there was time enough to think about it. The day of reckoning was distant, but it came at last, as it always does to every sinner of us all.

Nosey resigned his billet, and went to Nyalong. He lived in a hut in the eastern part of the township, not far from the lake, and near the corner of the road coming down from the Bald Hill. Here had been laid the foundation of a great inland city by a bush publican, two storekeepers, a wheelwright, and a blacksmith. Another city had been started at the western side of Wandong Creek, but its existence was ignored by the eastern pioneers.

The shepherd soon began to forget or despise the advice of his wife, Julia; his tongue grew loose again, and at the bar of the inn of the crossroads his voice was often heard loud and abusive. He felt that he had become a person of importance, as the possessor of a secret which nobody could discover. What he said and what he did was discussed about the township, and the chief constable listened to every report, expecting that some valuable information would accidentally leak out.

One day a man wearing a blue jumper and an old hat came down the road, stepped on to the verandah of the inn, and threw down his swag. Nosey was there, holding forth to Bill the Butcher, Dick Smalley, Frank Barton, Bob Atkins, Charley Goodall, and George Brown the Liar. A dispute occurred, in which the presumptuous stranger joined, and Nosey promptly knocked him off the verandah into the gutter. A valid claim to satisfaction was thus established, and the swagman showed a disposition to enforce it. He did not attempt to regain his position on the boards, but took his stand on the broad stone of honour in the middle of the road. He threw up his hat into the air, and began walking rapidly to and fro, clenched his fists, stiffened his sinews, and at every turn in his walk said:

"You'll find me as good a man as ever you met in your life."

This man's action promised real sport, and true Britons as we all were we were delighted to see him. Nosey stood on the verandah for a minute or two, watching the motions of the swagman; he did not seem to recollect all at once what the code of honour required, until Bill the Butcher remarked, "He wants you, Nosey," then Nosey went.

The two men met in the middle of the road, and put up their hands. They appeared well-matched in size and weight. The swagman said:

"You'll find me as good a man as ever you met in your life."

Nosey began the battle by striking out with his right and left, but his blows did not seem to reach home, or to have much effect.

The swagman dodged and parried, and soon put in a swinging blow on the left temple. Nosey fell to the ground, and the stranger resumed his walk as before, uttering his war cry:

"You'll find me as good a man as ever you met in your life."

There were no seconds, but the rules of chivalry were strictly observed; the stranger was a true gentleman, and did not use his boots.

In the second round Nosey showed more caution, but the result was the same, and it was brought about by another hard blow on the temple. The third round finished the fight. Nosey lay on the ground so long that Bill, the Butcher, went over to look at him, and then he threw up the sponge--metaphorically--as there was no sponge, nor any need of one.

The defeated Nosey staggered towards his hut, and his temper was afterwards so bad that Julia declined to stay with him any longer; she loosed the marriage bonds without recourse to law, and disappeared. Her husband went away westward, but he did not stay long. He returned to Nyalong and lived awhile alone in his hut there, but he was restless and dissatisfied. Everybody looked at him so curiously. Even the women and children stood still as he passed by them, and began whispering to one another, and he guessed well enough why they were looking at him and what they were saying--"That's Nosey the murderer; he killed Baldy and hid him away somewhere; his wife said he ought to be hanged, and she has run away and left him."

When the hungry hawk comes circling over the grove of crookedy gum in which two magpies are feeding their callow young, the bush is soon filled with cries of alarm. The plump quail hides himself in the depths of a thick tussock; the bronze-winged pigeon dives into the shelter of the nearest scrub, while all the noisiest scolds of the air gather round the intruder. Every magpie, minah, and wattle-bird within a mile joins in the clamour. They dart at the hawk as he flies from tree to tree. When he alights on a limb they give him no peace; they flap their wings in his face, and call him the worst of names. Even the Derwent Jackass, the hypocrite with the shining black coat and piercing whistle, joins in the public outcry, and his character is worse than that of the hawk himself, for he has been caught in the act of kidnapping and devouring the unfledged young of his nearest neighbour. The distracted hawk has at length to retreat dinnerless to the swampy margin of the river where the tallest tea-trees wave their feathery tops in the wind.

In like manner the human hawk was driven from the township. He descended in the scale of crime, stole a horse, and departed by night.

Bill, the butcher, said next day: "Nosey has gone for good this time. He will ride that horse to death and then steal another."

At this time I rode through the Rises and called at the two huts; I found them occupied by two shepherds not unlike the former tenants, who knew little and cared less what had become of their predecessors. Time empties thrones and huts impartially, and the king feels no pride in his monument of marble, nor the shepherd any shame beneath the shapeless cairn which hides his bones.

At this time the old races both of men and animals were dying out around Lake Nyalong, and others were taking their places. The last black child ever seen in the township was brought by its mother to the hut of a white woman. It was naked and very dirty, and she laid it down on the clay floor. The white woman's heart was moved with pity at the sight of the miserable little bairn. She took it up, washed it with warm water and soap, wrapped it in flannel, and gave it back to the mother. But the lubra was loath to receive it. She said, "Black picaninny all die. No good; white picaninny live."

The kangaroo, wombat, and dingo were fast dying out, as well a the blackfellow. We could all see well enough how the change was brought about. Millions of years ago, new species may have been evolved out of the old species, but nothing of the kind happens now. The white men of Australia were not evolved out of the black men. There are no family ties, and never will be, between the kangaroo, the wombat and wallaby, and their successors, the cattle, the sheep, and the goats. We can kill species, but we can't create any.

The rabbit, destined to bring Nosey to the gallows, was a favoured animal on Austin's station at the Barwon. It was a privilege to shoot him--in small quantities--he was so precious. But he soon became, as the grammar says, a noun of multitude. He swarmed on the plains, hopped over the hills, burrowed among the rocks in the Rises, and nursed his multitudinous progeny in every hollow log of the forest. Neither mountain, lake, or river ever barred his passage. He ate up all the grass and starved the pedigree cattle, the well-born dukes and duchesses, and on tens of thousands of fertile acres left no food to keep the nibbling sheep alive. Every hole and crevice of the rocks was full of him. An uninvited guest, he dropped down the funnel-shaped entrance to the den of the wombat, and made himself at home with the wild cat and snake. He clothed the hills with a creeping robe of fur, and turned the Garden of the West into a wilderness. Science may find a theory to account for the beginning of all things, but among all her triumphs she has been unable to put an end to the rabbit. War has been made upon them by fire, dynamite, phosphorus, and all deadly poisons; by dogs, cats, weasels, foxes, and ferrets, but he still marches over the land triumphantly.

For fifteen years Nosey roamed from station to station under various names, between Queensland and the Murray, but wherever he went, the memory of his crime never left him. He had been taught in his boyhood that murder was one of the four sins crying to heaven for vengeance, and he knew that sooner or later the cry would be heard. Sometimes he longed to unburden his mind to a priest, but he seldom saw or heard of one. The men with whom he worked and wandered were all like himself--lost souls who had taken the wrong turn in the beginning of their days, the failures of all trades and professions; thieves, drunkards, and gamblers; criminals who had fled from justice; men of pleasure and, therefore, of misery; youths of good family exported from England, Ireland, and Scotland to mend their morals, to study wool, and become rich squatters. All these men get colonial experience, but it does not make them saintly or rich. Here and there, all over the endless plains, they at last lie down and die, the dingoes hold inquests over them, and, literally, they go to the dogs, because they took the wrong turn in life and would not come back.