18

CHRISTMAS NUMBER OF HOUSEHOLD WORDS.

[Conducted by

means to forward letters; but the pen, once so
hateful to me, became now, in hours of leisure,
my great, resource. Often and often have
I sat in my hut at midnight, filling pages
with my thoughts, my feelings, my regrets.
The fire burning before my hut, where mv
men were sleeping, reminded me that I was
not alone in the great pastoral desert, which
sloping away from my station, rolled for hun-
dreds of miles. Every sound was redolent of
the romance of the strange land to which I had
transplanted myself. The howl of the dingo
prowling round my sheep-folds; the defying
bark of my watchful dogs; the cry of the
strange night-birds; and sometimes, echoing
from the rocky ranges, the wild mountainous
songs of the fierce aborigines, as they danced
their corrobberies, and acted dramas repre-
senting the slaughter of the white man, and
the plunder of his cattle. When such
noises met my ear, I looked up to the rack
where my arms lay, ready loaded, and out to
where a faithful sentinel, the rebel O'Donohue,
or the poacher, Giles Brown, with musket on
shoulder paced up and down, ready to die, but
not to surrender. In this great desert, the petty
cares, mean tricks of land jobbing, all the little
contrivances for keeping up appearances no
longer needed, were forgotten. My few books
were not merely read; they were learned by
heart. If in the morning I tired horses in
galloping my rounds, and settled strife among
my men with rude words, and even blows; in
the evening, sitting apart, I was lost in the
wanderings of Abraham, the trials of Job, or
the Psalms of David.

I followed St. John into the wilderness,
not unlike that before my eyes, and listened
far from cities to the Sermon on the mount.
At other times, as I paced along the open
forests, I made the woods resound with the
speeches of Homer's heroes, or the outbursts
of Shakspeare's characters–––outbursts that
came home to me: for, in those lone regions,
I was chief, warrior, and almost priest; for,
when there was a death, I read the funeral
service. And thus I educated myself.

While thus recalling friends neglected, and
opportunities misused, and pleasant scenes of
Eastern County life, I most loved to dwell upon
the Christmas time of dear old England.

In our hot summer of Australian December,
when the great river that divided and bounded
my pastures drivelled to a string of pools,
and my cattle were panting around at the
quiet hour of the evening, when the stars,
shining with a brilliancy unknown in northern
climes, realised the idea of the blessed night
when the star of Bethlehem startled and
guided the kings of the Eastern world on their
pious pilgrimage,–––my thoughts travelled
across the sea to England. I did not feel the
sultry heat, or hear the cry of the night-
bird, or the howl of the dingoe. I was across
the sea, among the Christinas revellers. I
saw the gay flushed faces of my kindred and
friends shining round the Christmas table; the

grace was said, the toast went round. I heard
my own name mentioned, and the
grew sad. Then I awoke from my dream and
found myself alone, and wept. But in a life of
action there is no time for useless grieving,
though time enough lor reflection and resolu-
tion. Therefore, after visions like these, I
resolved that the time should come when,
on a Christmas-day, the toast " to absent
friends" should be answered by the Australian
himself.

The time did come–––this very year of the
half century. Earnest labour and sober eco-
nomy had prospered with me. The rich
district in which I was one of the earliest
pioneers, had become settled and pacified,
as far as the river ran; the wild MyaIs
had grown into the tame, blanket-clothed
dependents of the settlers. Thousands of
fine-woolled flocks upon the hills, and cattle
upon the rich flats, were mine; the bark
hut had changed into a verandahed cottage,
where books and pictures formed no in-
significant part of the furniture; neighbours
were within a ride; the voices of children
often floated sweetly along the waters of the
river.

Then said I to myself, I can return now.
Not to remain; for the land I have conquered
from the wilderness shall be my home for life:
but I will return, to press the hands that
have longed for many years to press mine; to
kiss away the tears that dear sisters shed
when they think of me, once almost an outcast;
to take upon my knees those little ones who
have been taught to pray for their " uncle in
a far land across the broad deep sea." Per-
haps I had a thought of winning some rosy
English face and true English heart to share
my pastoral home.

I did return, and trod again the shores of
my mother country. My boyish expectations
had not been realised, but better hopes had.
I was not returning laden with treasures, to
rival the objects of my foolish youthful vanity;
but I was returning thankful, grateful, con-
tented, independent, to look round once more
on my native land, and then return to settle
in the land of my adoption.

It was mid-winter when I landed at a small
fishing village in the extreme west of England;
for my impatience made me take ad van
during a calm in the Channel, of the first
fisher's boat that boarded us.

The nearer we approached the shore, the
more impatient I grew to land. I insisted on
giving my help to one of the heavy oars; and
no sooner had we touched the ground, than,
throwing myself into the water, I waded on
shore. Oh, easy-going men of the great world,
there are some pleasures you can never taste;
and among them is the enthusiasm, the heart-
felt, awe-stricken admiration of the dweller
among pastoral plains when he finds himself
once more at home among the gardens of
England!

Garden is the only word to express the