Rolf Boldrewood
Babes in the Bush
‘No; did you, though?’ echoed Mr. Churbett compassionately. ‘I confess to feeling inclined to cry when I came up to Murson Creek and saw the hut I was to live in for the first year. But one’s feelings get wonderfully altered after a while.’
‘And are you quite resigned, that is contented, to give up operas and picture galleries, clubs and travel, all the pleasant parts of English life?’ asked Rosamond.
‘It was hard at first, Miss Effingham; but here I have independence, with the prospect of a fortune. In England such was not the case, particularly the independence. Operas and other memories recall a fairy realm which I may yet re-enter. Meantime, I ride about all day, work now and then, smoke and read at night, and if not exactly happy, am decently cheerful.’
‘What the world calls pleasure you never see, I suppose?’ said Beatrice philosophically.
‘Do we not? I forgot one compensation in our virtuous, self-denying lives. Once a year, at least, we have races in Yass, which is our metropolis. Then we all meet together, as a solemn, social obligation. Pilgrimage to Mecca, and so on. Very few true believers absent. Balls, picnics, any amount of dancing, flirtation, what not. Enough to last for the rest of the year. After a week or two we go home sorrowfully, staying at each other’s houses on the way, to let down the excitement by degrees.’
‘Where do the ladies come from?’ asked Annabel. ‘I suppose there are very few?’
‘Very few!’ said Mr. Churbett in tones of horror. ‘Ever so many. Is it possible you have never heard, even in Europe, of the beautiful Miss Christabel Rockley, the fascinating Mrs. Snowden, the talented Mrs. Porchester? Ladies! They abound, or how should we remain civilised? Yass is well known to be the home of all the graces. Could O’Desmond retain his grand seigneur air but for the advantage of refined association? I wish I could take you round, Miss Effingham, on an introductory tour. What a book we could write of our experiences! – “Travels and Sketches in the Upper Strata of the Social System of the Yass District, by Miss Annabel Effingham, illustrated by F. Churbett, F.R.Y.A.S.S., Fellow of the Royal Yass Analytical Squatting Society,” reads well.’
‘Quite delicious,’ said Annabel. ‘But everything that is nice is improper, so, of course, I shouldn’t be let go. Not even Rosamond, who is prudence personified. I’m afraid there is no more liberty for poor women in a new country than an old one. That is the bell – I was sure of it. Mr. Churbett, allow me to invite you to dinner – an early one, which is about the extent of my privileges.’
Mr. Churbett accepted the invitation, as he no doubt would have acceded to any proposition emanating from the speaker even less manifestly beneficial. He kept the whole party amused, and lingered until he declared he should have to gallop Grey Surrey all the way home to get there before dark.
‘He’s like me,’ he explained, upon being charged with cruelty; ‘he only does a day’s work now and then, and he doesn’t mind it when it does come.’
Resisting all invitation to stop for the night, on the plea that the effort necessary in his case must be made some time and might as well be undergone now, he departed in the odour of high consideration, if not of sanctity.
In order that no opportunities might be lost, Wilfred commenced the habit of rising at dawn and joining Dick at the stock-yard, where the old man had initiated a dairy, with the aid of the few cows of the O’Desmond brand which had produced calves. Here he was attended by Andrew, who sturdily proceeded to take his share of the work, in spite of Dick’s sarcastic attitude. He evidently considered the dairy to be his province, and regarded Andrew as an interloper.
‘Na, na, Maister Wilfred,’ said Andrew, ‘I hae been acquent in my time wi’ a’ manner o’ kye, and had a collie following me these thretty years. It’s no because we’re in a new land that I’m to turn my back on ilka occupa-ation that will bring in profit to the laird and his bairns. Jeanie can mak’ as sweet butter as ever a gudewife in Lothian, and we hae to depend maistly on the butter-keggies, for what I see.’
‘You’ll find that garden of yours, when the weeds come up, quite enough for one, I’m thinking. There’s enough of us here, if Mr. Wilfred takes to it kind, as he seems to do. But if you’re such a dab hand at milking, you can tek that red cow that’s come in this morning.’
‘And a gra-and show o’ milk she has,’ quoth Andrew, ‘maist unco-omon!’
Dick commenced, with a stolid expression, to arrange the slip-rails, which apparently took time to adjust. Andrew, meanwhile, proud of the opportunity of exhibiting his familiarity with the art and science of milking, moved the red cow into one of the bails, or stalls, in which cows are ordinarily milked in Australia.
Sitting upon a three-legged stool, he commenced his ancient and classical task. He had succeeded in, perhaps, drawing a pint from the over-full udder of the red cow aforesaid, when she suddenly raised her hind leg and caught him with such emphasis that man and milk, pail and stool, went clattering down into the corner of the yard.
‘Gude save us!’ exclaimed Andrew, picking himself up, and rubbing his person, while he collected all that was recoverable of the scattered properties. ‘What garred the fell beastie act sae daft-like. I hae milket a hunner coos, and ne’er was whummled like yon.’
‘Perhaps they was Scotch cows, and understood your talk, Mr. Cargill,’ said Dick, with great politeness, covering a grim enjoyment; ‘but in this country we mostly leg-ropes cows when we bail ’em up, for fear of accidents.’
‘Weel, I winna say that these queys, being brocht up in a mair savage fashion than in bonnie Scotland, wadna need head and heel fastenings. But, ma certie, they would glower in my part of the country, gin ye tied a coo’s leg like a thrawn ox at the smithy.’
‘I suppose “we must do at Rome, etc.,” and all the rest of it, Andrew,’ said Wilfred. ‘Here, Dick, make a beginning with your cow, and Andrew and I will put a leg-rope on this one. Never too late to mend. I’ll back Andrew to hold his own yet in the milking-yard, or anywhere else.’
Old Dick, having satisfied his grudge by compassing the downfall of Andrew, whom he had shrewdly guessed never to have been accustomed to a leg-rope, condescended to instruct Wilfred in the proper way to knot it. The cows were eventually milked secundum artem, and when the full buckets, foaming over with creamy fluid, stood on a bench outside the yard, Wilfred saw with distinct gratification the first dividend from the cattle investment.
‘We must calculate now, Andrew,’ he said, as they walked over to the house, ‘how much butter can be made from the milk of these cows. It is a small matter, of course; but multiplied by ten – as we shall have at least fifty cows in milk, Dick says, before Christmas – it will not be so bad.’
‘After conseederin’ the matter maist carefully,’ said Andrew, ‘I am free to give it as ma deleeberate opeenion that gin the pasture keeps aye green and plenteous we may mak’ baith butter and cheese o’ the best quality. As to price, I canna yet say, havin’ nae knowledge o’ the mairkets.’
‘Well, we have made a beginning, Andrew, and that is a great matter. If we can only pay current expenses, without employing more hands, we shall be doing well, I consider.’
‘We must work gey and close at the first gang aff, Maister Wilfred, and then dinna ye fear. Wi’ the Lord’s blessing, we’ll be spared to set up our horn on high, as weel as thae prood Amalekites, that have had the first grip o’ this gra-and Canaan. I was doon yestreen and lookit at the field o’ victual – the paddock, as yon auld carle ca’s it. It’s maist promising – forbye ordinar’ – maist unco-omon.’
Among the list of indispensable investments which Dick Evans had urged upon Wilfred, but which he had not at present thought it necessary to undertake, were another lot of cattle, a dozen horses (more or less), and some kind of taxed cart, or light vehicle. Apparently these would be advantageous and profitable, but Wilfred had determined to be most sparing in all outlay, lest the reserve fund of the family should come to a premature end.
On this day it seemed that the advanced guard of the neighbouring gentry had commenced to lay formal siege to Warbrok Chase. On his return to the house in the afternoon, Wilfred descried two good-looking horses hanging up to the garden fence, and upon entering the sitting-room beheld their owners in amicable converse with his mother and sisters. He was promptly introduced to Mr. Argyll and Mr. Charles Hamilton. Both men were well, even fashionably dressed, and bore about them the nameless air which stamps the holder of a degree in the university of society.
‘We should have called before,’ said Mr. Argyll, a tall fair-haired man, whose quick glancing blue eye and mobile features betrayed natural impetuosity, kept under by training; ‘but my partner here is such an awfully hard-working fellow, that he would not quit the engineering with which he was busied, to visit the Queen of Sheba, if she had just settled in the neighbourhood.’
‘I was not aware,’ said Mr. Hamilton coolly, and with an air of settled conviction upon his regular and handsome features, ‘of the extent of my sacrifice to duty. I may venture to assure Mrs. Effingham that my neighbourly duties for the future will not be neglected.’
‘I hope not,’ said Mrs. Effingham; ‘for, now that the excitement of settling in such a very different world has passed away, we begin to feel rather lonely – may I say dull?’
‘No, mamma,’ said Rosamond, ‘you must not say that. We are all so fully occupied, from morning to dusk, that we have no time to be dull.’
‘Oh, but we cannot get on without society,’ remarked Annabel. ‘I feel in the highest spirits as long as there is so much to do, that there is no time for thinking; indeed, I hate to have a moment to myself. But in the afternoons, when papa and the boys are out, I begin to realise our solitary position, and the feeling becomes oppressive.’
‘Very naturally too,’ said Mr. Argyll. ‘But as yet you have no idea of the social resources which you will be able to draw upon when you are acquainted with everybody.’
‘And who is everybody?’ asked Beatrice. ‘How can we be sociable if people don’t come to see us? Suppose you tell us who are the nice people of the district, and we shall be able to enjoy them in anticipation.’
‘You will see most of them within the month; but I shrink from describing them. Charles, you are afraid of nobody, suppose you give us a catalogue raisonné.’
‘Certainly, if Miss Effingham wishes it,’ assented Mr. Hamilton, who had the imperturbable look which goes with a temperament difficult to surprise or intimidate. ‘I shall have great pleasure in trotting out our friends for her information. We have been here only three years, so in case of mistakes you must be considerate.’
‘Oh, we shall be most discreet,’ said Annabel; ‘besides, we have no acquaintance yet to chatter to – that’s the best guarantee for prudence.’
‘I think I may take your solemn affirmation not to betray me,’ said Mr. Hamilton, looking admiringly into Annabel’s lovely eyes, ‘and even then I would face the risk. First, there is Captain Snowden with his wife. He was in the navy, I think; he has rather more of the sailor about him than – what shall I say? – the courtier, though he can be very agreeable when he likes. Madame is extremely lady-like, clever, travelled, what not. You must see her and judge for yourself.’
‘Are there any more ladies?’ asked Rosamond. ‘They possess an absorbing interest for us.’
‘Ever so many more,’ laughed Hamilton. ‘Mrs. Porchester, who is rather a “blue”; Mrs. Egremont, who is a beauty; the Misses Carter, who are good-nature itself. The others, I think, you must find out by degrees. In Yass there are some very nice families, particularly that of Mr. Rockley. He is the leading merchant in these parts, and rules like a benevolent despot. His wife is hospitable and amiable beyond compare; his daughter, Miss Christabel, dangerously beautiful. I must leave something to the imagination.’
‘I assure you we are most grateful to you as it is,’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘It is really encouraging to find that there are so many charming people in the neighbourhood. We should hardly consider them in the same county at home; but here they don’t seem to mind riding any distance.’
‘I am mistaken,’ said Hamilton, ‘if you do not find people riding wonderful distances to visit Warbrok. We are less than twenty miles away, I am thankful to say, so you will see us as often as you care for. By the way,’ turning to Wilfred, ‘did I hear you say you were going to Donnelly’s sale? If you buy stock there, you had better stay a night at Benmohr on your return. It is just a fair stage.’
‘Thanks. I shall be most happy. Do you think it a good idea to invest at Donnelly’s?’
‘If I were in your place I should buy all his cattle and a few horses. They can’t fail to be a profitable purchase, as you seem to have any amount of grass. But we must be going. We shall expect you at Benmohr the day after the sale. Mrs. Effingham, I shall do myself the honour of another visit, after you have been able to verify my portraitures.’
‘What gentlemanlike young men!’ said Mrs. Effingham, when the guests were fairly away. ‘I am so sorry that your papa was out. He would have been so pleased. Mr. Argyll seems so clever, and Mr. Hamilton is very handsome – both wonderfully well dressed for the bush.’
‘I should say Mr. Argyll was disposed to be sarcastic,’ said Rosamond; ‘and I am mistaken if he has not a fierce temper. He told us he was a Highlander, which accounts for it.’
‘Mr. Hamilton is one of the nicest-looking men I have seen for a long time,’ said Annabel; ‘what splendid eyes he has! He is very particular about his gloves too; gives time and reflection to his toilet, I should say.’
‘I have heard Dick say that he is the hardest-working squatter in the district,’ said Wilfred. ‘He is devoted to ploughing, digging, navvy-work, horse-breaking – “all manner of slavery,” as Dick says.’
‘Who would have thought it!’ exclaimed Mrs. Effingham in tones of astonishment. ‘From his appearance I should have thought that he was afraid to soil those white hands of his.’
‘The best-dressed people are not the most backward at work or fighting,’ said Wilfred.
‘But how can he keep his hands white,’ inquired Annabel with a great appearance of interest, ‘if he really works like a labourer?’
‘Perhaps he works in gloves; a man can get through a great deal of work in a pair of old riding-gloves, and his hands be never the worse. There is something about those two men that I like extremely. Mr. Argyll puts me in mind of Fergus MʻIvor with that fiery glance; he looks as if he had a savage temper, well held in.’
‘They are both very nice, and I hope you will make real friends of them, Wilfred,’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘Might I also suggest that, as it is evidently practicable to dress like a gentleman and work hard, a certain young man should be more careful of his appearance?’
‘I deserve that, I know, old lady,’ said her son laughingly; ‘but really there is a temptation in the wilderness to costume a little. I promise you to amend.’
‘Our circle of acquaintance is expanding,’ said Beatrice; ‘certainly it has the charm of variety. Mr. O’Desmond is Irish, Mr. Churbett from London, our last visitors Scots – one Highland, one Lowland. All differing among themselves too. I am sure we shall be fully occupied; it will be a task of some delicacy tenir de salon, if we ever have them here at a party.’
‘A party!’ said Mrs. Effingham; ‘don’t think of it for years to come, child. It would be impossible, inappropriate in every way.’
‘But there’s no harm, mamma, surely, in thinking of it,’ pleaded Annabel. ‘It encourages one to keep alive, if nothing else.’
CHAPTER VI
AN AUSTRALIAN YEOMAN
A week of laborious work preceded the day when circumstances permitted Wilfred and his serving-man to ride forth for the purpose of attending the sale of Mr. Michael Donnelly’s stock and effects. Formerly known as ‘Willoughby’s Mick,’ he had, during an unpretending career as stock-rider for that gentleman, accumulated a small herd of cattle and horses, with which to commence life on a grazing farm near Yass. Here, by exercise of the strictest economy as to personal expenses, as well as from the natural increase of stock, he had, during a residence of a dozen years, amassed a considerable property. Yet on his holding there was but scant evidence of toil or contrivance. A few straggling peach trees represented the garden. The bark-roofed slab hut which he found when he came had sufficed for the lodging of himself and wife, with nearly a dozen children. The fences, not originally good, were now ruinous. The fields, suffered to go out of cultivation, lay fallow and unsightly, only half-cleared of tree-stumps. The dress of this honest yeoman had altered for the worse since the hard-riding days of ‘Willoughby’s Mick.’ The healthy boys and girls were more or less ragged; the younger ones barefooted. The saddles and cart harness were patched with raw hide, or clumsily repaired. The cow-shed was rickety; the calves unsheltered. Yet with all this apparent decay and disorder, any one, judging from appearances, who had put down Michael Donnelly as an impoverished farmer, would have been egregiously deceived. His neighbours knew that his battered old cabbage-tree hat covered a head with an unusual amount of brains. Uneducated and bush-bred, he possessed intuitive powers of calculation and forecast frequently denied to cultured individuals. Early in life he had appropriated the fact, that in this land of boundless pasturage, profitable up to a certain point, without the necessity of one farthing of expenditure, the multiplication of stock was possible to any conceivable extent. Once make a commencement with a few cows, and it was a man’s own fault if he died without more cattle than he could count. Hadn’t Johnny Shore begun that way? Walked over to Monaro with half-a-crown in his pocket. He saved his wages for a few years and got the needful start.
Become a capitalist, his instincts revolted against spending money needlessly, when every pound, often less, would buy a cow, which cow would turn into fifty head of cattle in a few years. ‘What could a man do that would pay him half as well? Why employ labour that could be done without? It was all very well for Mr. Willoughby, who had raised his wages gradually from twenty pounds per annum and one ration. Mr. Willoughby was a gentleman with a big station, and threw his money about a bit; but why should he, Mick Donnelly, go keeping and feeding men to put in crops when farming didn’t pay? Therefore his fields might lie fallow and go out of cultivation.’
His boys were getting big lumps of fellows, old enough to help brand and muster. The girls could milk, and break in the heifers, as well as all the men in the country. His wife could cook – there wasn’t much of that; and wash – it didn’t fatigue her; and sweep – that process was economised – as well as ever. Any kind of duds did for working people, as long as they went decent to chapel on Sundays. That they had always done and would do, please God. But all other occasions of spending money were wasteful and unnecessary.
The sole expenses, then, of this large family were in the purchase of flour, tea, sugar, and clothes, none of which articles came to an extravagant sum for the year. While the sales were steady and considerable, Mick and his sons drove many a lot of cattle, fat or store, to the neighbouring markets. The profits of the dairy in butter and bacon, the representatives of which latter product roamed in small herds around the place, paid all the household expenses twice over; while the amount of his credit balance at the Bank of New Holland in Yass would have astonished many a tourist who watched Mick smoking on his stock-yard rails, or riding an unshod mare down the range after a mob of active cattle.
But now a more ambitious idea was evolved from the yeoman’s slowly maturing, but accurate mental processes. He had been noting the relative scale of outlay and income of a neighbouring sheep-farmer. After certain cautious comparisons, he fixed the conclusion that, other things being equal, sheep would pay him better than cattle. He heard from an old comrade of the forced sale of a sheep station in the then half-explored, unstocked district of Monaro, lying between the Great Range and the Snowy River. His offer of cash, at a rate far from remunerative to the late owner, had been accepted.
That part of his plan settled, he sold his freehold to a neighbouring proprietor who was commencing to found an estate, receiving rather more than double his original purchase money. Stock being at a reasonable price, Donnelly determined to sell off the whole of his possessions, merely reserving his dray, team, and a sufficiency of saddle-horses for the family. His herd had become too numerous for the run. His boys and girls would make shepherds and shepherdesses for a while – by no means a picturesque occupation in Australia, but still profitable as of old. He would be enabled to continue independent of hired labour. He trusted to the duplication of stock to do the rest. Hence the clearing-off sale, which a number of farmers in the neighbourhood were likely to attend, and to which Wilfred and his chief servitor were at present wending their way.
On this occasion Wilfred had resisted the idea of mounting any of the strayed horses, still numerous upon the enticing pastures of Warbrok. Having unwittingly placed himself in a false position, he was resolved not to repeat the impropriety.
‘Mr. Churbett had behaved most courteously,’ he said; ‘but it might have been otherwise. I was not aware that it was other than a colonial custom. There must be no more mistakes of this kind, Dick, or you and I shall quarrel. Go to one of the nearest farmers and see if you can hire me a decent hack.’
So Dick, though chafing at the over-delicacy which led his master to pay for a mount while available steeds were eating his grass, proceeded to obey orders, and shortly returned with a substantial half-bred, upon which Wilfred bestowed himself.
Dick Evans was always in good spirits at the prospect of a cruise in foreign parts. Mrs. Evans, on the other hand, was prone to dwell upon the unpleasant side of domestic matters. Her habit of mind had doubtless resulted in the philosophic calm with which her husband bore his frequent, and occasionally protracted, absences from the conjugal headquarters. As before, he mounted his old mare with a distinct air of cheerfulness.
‘The dairy work will get along all right for a day or two, sir,’ he said. ‘Old Andy begins to be a fairish milker – he was dead slow at first – and Mr. Guy’s a great help bailin’ up. There’s nothing brisks me up like a jaunt somewheres – I don’t care where it is, if it was to the Cannibal Islands. God Almighty never intended me to stop long in one place, I expect.’
‘A rolling stone gathers no moss, Dick,’ said Wilfred. ‘You’ll never save up anything if you carry out those ideas always.’
‘I don’t want to save nothing, sir. I’ve no call to keep money in a box; I can find work pretty well wherever I go that will keep me and my old woman in full and plenty. I’m safe of my wages as long as I can work, and when I can’t work no more I shall die – suddent like. I’ve always felt that.’
‘But why don’t you get a bit of land, Dick, and have a place of your own? You could easily save enough money to buy a farm.’
‘Bless your heart, sir, I wouldn’t live on a farm allers, day in, day out, if you’d give me one. I should get that sick of the place as I should come to hate the sight of it. But hadn’t you better settle with yourself like, sir, what kind of stock you’re agoin’ to bid for when we get to Mick’s? There’ll be a lot of people there, and noise, and perhaps a little fighting if there’s any grog goin’, so it’s best to be ready for action, as old Sir Hugh Gough used to tell us.’
‘Mr. Churbett and Mr. Hamilton thought I should buy all the mixed cattle, as many of them would be ready for the butcher before winter.’
‘So they will, sir, or my name’s not Richard Evans, twice corporal in the old 50th, and would have been sergeant, if I’d been cleverer at my book, and not quite so clever at the canteen. But that’s neither here nor there. What I look at is, they’re all dairy-bred cattle, and broke in close to your own run, which saves a power of trouble. If you can get a hundred or two of ’em for thirty shillings or two pound a head, they’ll pay it all back by next season – easy and flippant.’
Finishing up with his favourite adjective, which he used when desirous of showing with what ridiculous ease any given result might be obtained, Mr. Richard Evans lighted his pipe with an air of assurance of success which commenced to infect his employer.
About mid-day they reached the abode of Michael Donnelly, Esq., as such designated by the local papers, who ‘was about to submit to public competition his quiet and well-bred herd of dairy cattle, his choice stud, his equipages, farming implements, teams, carts, harness, etc., with other articles too numerous to mention.’ Other articles there were none, except he had decided to sell the olive branches. Wilfred was shocked at the appearance of the homestead of this thriving farmer. The falling fences, the neglected orchard, the dilapidated hut, the curiously patched and mended stock-yard, partly brush, partly of logs, with here and there a gap, secured by a couple of rude tree-forks, with a clumsy sapling laid across – all these did not look like the surroundings of a man who could give his cheque for several thousand pounds. However, the personal appearance of Mick himself, an athletic, manly, full-bearded fellow, as also that of his family, was decidedly prepossessing. They were busily attending to the various classes of stock, with much difficulty kept apart for purposes of sale. Whatever else these Australian Celts lacked, they had been well nourished in youth and infancy. A finer sample of youthful humanity, physically considered, Wilfred had never seen. The lack of order everywhere visible had in no way reacted upon their faculties. All their lives they had known abundant nutriment, unrestricted range. Healthful exercise had been theirs, congenial labour, and diet unstinted in the great essentials. Few other considerations had entered into the family councils.
And now they were about to migrate, like the world’s elder children, to a land promising more room. Then, as now, a higher life was possible, where the sheep and the oxen, the camels and the asses, would enjoy a wider range. The sale over, they would once more resume that journey which, commencing soon after the marriage day of Michael Donnelly and Bridget Joyce, was not ended yet.
Wilfred Effingham was soon confirmed in his opinion that he had done well to attend. Many of the neighbouring settlers were there, as well as farmers and townspeople from Yass, brought together by the mysterious attraction of an auction sale. One of the townspeople, asking first if he was Mr. Effingham of Warbrok, put into his hand a note which ran as follows: —
‘My dear Wilfred – I thought you were likely to be at Donnelly’s sale, so I send you a line by a parishioner of mine. I have made inquiries about the stock, and consider that you could not do better than buy as many of the cattle as you have grass for. They are known to be quiet, having been used to dairy tending, and are certain to increase in value and number, as you have so much grass at Warbrok. Price about two pounds. A few horses would not be superfluous, and there are some good ones in Donnelly’s lot, or they would hardly have stood his work. Mention my name to Mick, and say he is to let you down easy. I have had a touch of rheumatism lately —et ego in Arcadia– there’s no escape from old age and its infirmities in any climate, however good, or I’d have looked you up before now. Tell your father I’m coming over soon. – Always yours sincerely,
Harley Sternworth.’
The hour of sale having arrived, and indeed passed, the auctioneer, who had driven out from Yass for the purpose, commenced his task, which he did by climbing on to the ‘cap’ of the stock-yard and rapping violently with a hammer-handled hunting-crop. A broad-chested, stout-lunged, florid personage was Mr. Crackemup, and if selling by auction deserved to be ranked as one of the fine arts, he was no mean professor.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he shouted. ‘I say ladies, for I notice quite a number of the fair sex have honoured me with their presence. Let me mention, in the first place, that the owner of this valuable stock we see before us has resolved to leave this part of the country. Yes, my friends, to leave Gumbaragongara for good and all! Why do I mention this fact – why do I dwell upon it? Because, ladies and gentlemen, it makes all the difference as to the bona fide nature of the sale which we are met together to-day to celebrate – that is – a – to carry out – according to these written conditions. My principal, Mr. Donnelly, with the shrewdness which has characterised him through life, seized upon this view of the case. “If I leave the country bodily,” he said to me, “and sell the stock for what they’ll fetch, no one can say that I went away and took the best with me.” No, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Donnelly departs to-morrow for Monaro, taking only a dray and team, with a few riding-horses, so that all his well-bred, quiet, beautiful herd of dairy cattle, selected with great care from some of the best herds in the colony [here divers of the audience grinned irreverently], I shall have the honour of submitting to public competition this day.
‘The first lot, ladies and gentlemen, is No. 1. Generally so, isn’t it? Ha! ha! One hundred and fifty-four cows and heifers, all broken to bail; most of them with calves at foot, or about to – to – become mothers.’
