206 DAYS AND NIGHTS BY THE DESERT. 



So, without entering into further conversation, 

 I told them my waggons were in front, and that I 

 should be pleased to have them for my guests that 

 evening. But scarcely had I issued this invitation, 

 when I beheld my cavalcade advancing through 

 clouds of dust. 



On reaching the leading waggon, I found Cigar 

 driving, and on inquiring why he had inspanned, he 

 told me that there was a fine wooded vley in front, 

 about five miles off, where there was an abundance 

 of excellent grass, and that it would, in consequence, 

 be a much better place to start from, on our long 

 treck to Honey Vley, than our last halting-ground. 



It took but little persuasion to induce the two 

 travel-stained wanderers to take a seat on the 

 waggon-box. A glass of cango (a colonial spirit 

 which, when aged, is not to be despised) and 

 a strong domestic cigar at once overcame their 

 scruple at retracing their steps, and caused both 

 to really look happy under circumstances that I 

 believe even Mark Tapley himself would have 

 given in to. 



The sun was quite an hour high when we reached 

 our destination. The vley, which was a couple of 

 hundred yards long, looked like a permanent water, 

 and round its margin grew numerous trees, the 

 branches of those that hung over its surface being 

 invariably terminated with one of those skilfully 

 constructed and gracefully shaped nests for which 



