CHAPTER V 

 MUSINGS OF A BUSH RIDE 



HERE I am riding along the sandy track all alone in 

 the Australian bush, flicking off a wattle blossom singled 

 out from the yellow mass with my hunting crop, fancy- 

 ing it is a fly rod, and rehearsing the old trick of sending 

 a fly into a particular leaf. Ah ! little mare Brownie, 

 what are you doing ? Did you never before see a 

 charred stump that you should shy so ? Do you 

 fancy that you are a thoroughbred that you should 

 bolt at such a gentle touch of the spur ? So you espy 

 the half-way house, do you, and fancy that fifteen 

 miles, up and down, in a trifle under two hours, has 

 earned you a spell, a bit of a feed, and something of a 

 washing ? And you are right. Take charge, Mr. Black- 

 fellow-ostler, and while you do your duty let me amuse 

 myself with my notebook. After all, memory is even- 

 handed. It keeps us in remembrance of many things 

 we would fain never think of more ; but it performs 

 similar service for others that are pleasant to ponder 

 over. Out of the saddle bag I have taken a copy of 

 the Gentleman's Magazine, newly arrived by this morn- 

 ing's mail, and while the mare took her own time up 

 the hills I have been glancing through a " Red Spinner " 

 article on " Angling in Queensland," with an author's 

 pardonable desire to see how it comes out in print. 

 That was why I took to making casts at the leaves 



