VIII WRETCHED QUARTERS 105 
war-cries into our ears and drove us inside, and I would 
at that moment have given all I possessed to have 
turned back, had it been possible. 
I said nothing when I wished Mr. Gurner good-bye, 
but, like Paddy’s parrot, I “ thought a dale,” and I had 
an intense feeling of loneliness I couldn’t shake off. 
Mould and cockroaches were everywhere. We had tea 
without sugar or milk, pumpkin, and junks of some 
sort of flesh — I had watched the natives preparing 
the tea with most unclean hands, the meat would 
have drawn out any teeth other than canine. In the 
early days of Australia, I have heard of tea that they 
designated “Jack the painter”; the men liked some- 
thing (they said) “ that was strong and took a good 
grip of the stomach,” and to ensure this the dry leaves 
were given a dash of green oil paint. I think that 
what we had must have been handed down from those 
same times. 
Then the children were put to bed ; the youngest, a 
grandchild, cried lustily all night, and poor Mrs. D. 
groaned with fever. She did look utterly broken 
down, and hopeless despair was always written on her 
face. Sleep was out of the question, for the pigs under 
the house (which, like all those in Queensland, is on 
piles) kept up such a perpetual squeaking and grunting 
in their search for food, that rest was impossible, and 
the mosquitoes were in countless numbers. 
I tried next morning to get the natives to take a 
note for me over to Mr. H.’s to whom I had a letter of 
introduction, but neither for love, pipes, tobacco, nor even 
a scarlet print with white bull-dog heads upon it, would 
they be bribed ; they were afraid of the tribe of natives 
there. Then I tried to get a letter to the Mission 
Station, five miles up the river, but there was no boat, 
and even had there been, the two dear, good Moravian 
