94 NOTES OF TRAVEL 
disappointment. In the evening I arrived in good time at 
Cressbrook. Mr. and Mrs. David McConnel and their family 
were at that time in England ; his brother John and his wife 
were in possession, and hospitably received me after the good 
old fashion in the bush. The house was so placed that from 
the veranda the windings of the Brisbane River could easily 
be seen. At what was then called ‘“ the old cottage,” there 
was a fine bunya, which had been planted in the garden 
sixteen years before, and it then was bearing cones for the 
first time. Before going to bed, I obtained leave to get my 
new mare shod by the station blacksmith, and I handed her 
over to him as soon as he got to work on the following morning. 
He made a very neat job of the shoeing, but later on I found 
to my sorrow it was not a success. I did not get away 
that morning until 19 o’clock, intending to go only to Colinton, 
where lived Mr. Balfour, the then owner. I had not gone far, 
however, when it commenced to rain, and as there seemed 
every prospect of its continuing, I decided to push on. I 
had heard much of Cooyar Creek, on which Walter Scott’s 
station, Taromeo, was situated, a rushing stream easily raised 
by steady rain to flood level ; such was its character. I had 
lost two days at Ipswich, and had no more to spare ; I must 
therefore get over it before the flood waters came down. 
I rode past Colinton in the pouring rain ; up the range where 
bunya trees grew in their native home; on over the stony 
road until Taromeo came in view. I looked hungrily at the 
snug home, then rode down the creek bank and over the 
already rising stream. Now, at any rate, the flood would 
not block me; but the next stopping place was Nanango, 
and Nanango was a long way ahead. After ‘crossing Cooyar 
Creek, the road was less rugged, but the rain stil] came down 
steadily, and the light was already failing. Fortunately, 
the horse I rode was a sensible old fellow, who knew how 
to stick to the track in the dark; it passed through thick 
wattle for what seemed an interminable distance, and there the 
night was black as pitch, and the rain fell with pitiless force. 
I could not see a dozen feet in front of me, but ‘‘ Cock Robin ”’ 
never made a mistake or a false step, and it was due to his 
sagacity that I arrived at the hotel at Nanango at half-past 
nine that night. ‘‘ You must be very wet,’ remarked the 
good woman who attended tomy wants. ‘‘ And uncommonly 
