46 Australian Life 



trestles, run crookedly between the paddocks, 

 inviting the stock to break through and stray. 

 Valuable machinery for harvesting lies unpro- 

 tected and rusting in dew and rain, waiting for 

 the shelter-shed its owner is just going to erect. 

 The women folk have to carry their water from 

 the creek a quarter of- a mile away, although a 

 pure and better supply could be obtained by sink- 

 ing a well near the house. The cultivation pad- 

 docks bristle with stumps, the standing crop is 

 fringed with a border of dry grass, which might 

 safely be burned off on a still day. Some hot 

 night the north wind will drive a bush fire upon 

 the selection, and the selector and his family will 

 have to fight the flames along that fringe of 

 dry grass, or see their year's work licked up by 

 the fire. Everything speaks of procrastination 

 and makeshift; his very occupation of the soil 

 is regarded by the cockie as only a temporary 

 permanence. 



The day's work on the selection begins at 

 "piccaninny daylight," when the stars are still 

 shining in the grey sky, and the birds are utter- 

 ing their first sleepy calls. Down into the horse- 

 paddocks goes the eldest boy. Having caught 

 the quietest horse, he throws a sack across it and 

 drives the rest up to the yard. He slips a saddle 

 and bridle on his riding-horse, and at once sets off 

 to bring in the cows. By this time, the whole bush 

 is awake. A party of kookaburras, perched on 

 the big swamp gum tree by the creek, are laugh- 



