99 



DOWN THE RIVER. 



BY J. S. WALKER, ESQ. 

 (Concluded from page ZQ.) 



The serious business of the day commences, and we make preparations 

 for dinner; the hampers are unpacked, and one of the ladies assumes the 

 responsible office of cook. The kettle is slung across the fire, and the 

 fish we Have just caught are hissing in the frying-pan. Seating ourselves 

 in a circle on the ground, we partake of a substantial repast. 



Soon after we are joined by another black, nicknamed Ramrod — very 

 inaptly — for he is, unlike the majority of his brethren, nearly bent double, 

 and walks in a halting manner, as if he were lame, probably in consequence 

 of a fall from a tree whilst in quest of opossums. But his fame is great 

 as a skilful fisherman, and woe to the luckless mullet which swims within 

 the gaze of that eagle eye. Ramrod has paddled after us in his canoe, 

 and is attended with three or four large curs — gaunt, mangy, and half- 

 starved, as is the case with all the blackfellows' dogs. The canoe is the 

 frailest of vessels, made by simply stripping a sheet of bark from the tree 

 and tying the ends together. It is about seven feet in length, and six 

 or eight inches in width, and is so light as to be easily carried on the 

 head. Ramrod's arrival is hailed with great delight by his friends, as a 

 welcome addition to our party. 



By this time as night has come on, and the children are fast asleep in 



their blankets, I stroll down to the sea-shore. Nothing can surpass the 



loveliness of an Australian night. The sea-breeze has died away, and a 



faint balmy air, heavy with the perfume of the Wild Clematis, hardly ripples 



the still waters of the lake. At my feet the waves of the Pacific Ocean 



come rolling in, their crests burnished like gold with phosphorescent light; 



the black rocks frown around me, and the distant hills are almost hidden 



in darkness, but 1 can discern the fringe of tall forest trees which crown 



their summits, standing out sharp and crisp against the clear blue sky. 



The picturesque eflect is much heightened by the blacks, who have waded 



into the shallows with torches made of bark, from which long trails of 



fire fall into the water, as the fishermen run to and fro. The shouts and 



laughing of the blacks in the distance, the splash of fish in the lake, the 



shrill wild scream of the Curlew, and far overhead the plaintive call of 



the Black Swans, as they wing their way to the fresh-water lagoons of 



the interior; a Dingo, or Wild Dog, which from one of the headlands 



serenades us with dismal bowlings, 



"The wolf's long howl from Oonalacha's shore;" 

 but above all 



"The murmuring surge 

 That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes." 



