On a Selection 49 



but, until then, the pumpkin is the staple vege- 

 table. Dinner is washed down with plenty of 

 scalding tea, after which the selector lights his 

 pipe and goes off to work again. During the 

 afternoon, a swagman comes to the door, with 

 the stereotyped question, "Any chance of a 

 feed, missus?" He is introduced to the wood 

 heap and a blunt axe, and if he is a genuine 

 man, and he generally is, he chops a pile of 

 wood and carries water from the creek while the 

 inevitable tea is being prepared. A meal is set be- 

 fore him, and he eats ravenously, chatting between 

 mouthfuls concerning the state of the country he 

 has just traversed. A pannikin of flour and a 

 "bit o' tea" send him on his way satisfied, to 

 camp for the night in a clump of low timber 

 further along the track. 



And now the shadows are lengthening, and the 

 selector's wife goes down to the slip rails to wait 

 for the post-boy, who may have a letter or paper 

 for her. That bush Mercury comes ambling along 

 the track on his dusty pony, and, shaking his 

 head in reply to her questioning look, rides by 

 with a cheery "Good evening." Shading her 

 eyes from the setting sun, she sees the children 

 straggling home from school, and turns back to 

 the house to get their tea ready. Then the cows 

 have to be milked once more, and the young stock 

 tended, which occupies everybody until it is quite 

 dark. The mother sets about putting the children 

 to bed, but the eldest boy whistles to his dog, and 



