yet, he could find none. Dreary and sandy
plains on one hand seemed to extend for many
leagues, low and swampy grounds on the
other, which some day might become a rich
summer run for cattle.

But now famine impelled, and he and
Kitson must away to the embryo Melbourne
for stores. Ben Brock must be left in charge
of the flock, and strong and resolute as he
was, it was an anxious matter. While they
were absent, he alone must bear the brunt of
all visits from natives, wild dogs, or
unprincipled adventurers. There was, however, no
alternative, and the only thing was to make
as expeditious a journey as possible. So
black Peg, the mare, was mounted, and
ridden alternately by the travellers, and they
made all speed through the woods. They had
nothing to carry; their provision for the way
was a few handsful of tea and their tin cans;
an opossum, dragged from its hole during
the day's journey, and broiled on their evening
fire. Before this fire, wrapped in their
blankets, they slept; and one day was like
another, till they reached the town. Tom
Scott purchased as much flour, tea, and sugar
as Peg could well carry, and they made their
way back again with all speed. But it was
now late in November; the heat was become
intense, and the country already bore traces
of its withering effect. The grass was brown
and crisp, the streams and pools had wonderfully
shrunk, and it required a good long
rest at noon to enable both men and horse to
continue their journey. But by degrees they
neared their station, and saw with increasing
anxiety the change that a fortnight only had
made. The plains over which they passed
were scorched to a pale brown; the water
had wonderfully vanished. Where there had
been pools, there were dry hollows; where
there had been streams, there were grey
ravines. With difficulty they gained their
own location, and stood riveted in consternation.
The whole was one black waste;
fire had passed over it, and mowed the grass
cleaner than any human scythe. The fallen
boughs were reduced to white ashes; the
shrubs and young trees were burnt black, or
singed into the ruddy hues of autumn.

After a moment's paralysis of terror, Tom
Scott sprung forward, leaving his companion
to follow with the horse. He was soon on
the hill where their hut had stood. There it
lay, a heap of ashes; the ashes of the sheep-
fold fence marked a melancholy circle on the
ground; and all around was a burnt waste.
Where Ben and the flock had escaped to, if
they had escaped at all, was the question.
Scott snatched the panniers from the mare
as Kitson came up confounded with wonder;
leapt upon her back, and commenced
galloping in a wide circle. In this circle he
came upon the singed carcase of a sheep, on
another, and another. There was his clue;
and still following it, he soon found himself
in the swampy hollows—swampy which had
been, but which now were baked as hard as
a stone floor, and covered only with thin
withered grass and shrubs. It was not,
however, till towards night that he caught sight
of Brock, with the miserable remains of the
flock, in a deep hollow where there was yet
some grass, and one small pool of muddy
water.

Ben's tale was soon told. The heat had
speedily dried up the little streams, burnt
up the pastures, and compelled him to seek
food for his flock in the swamps. These
rapidly dried up; and to add to his anxiety,
not being able to quit the neighbourhood
till their return, every night he had been
visited by troops of wild dogs, which, spite of
his dogs and his own exertions, overleaped
the fence of the pen, and committed havoc
amongst the sheep. A week's watching had
quite worn him out, when he found himself
also attacked with ague, from lying with his
sheep by day in the vapours of the drying
swamps; and while prostrated by this despot
of a complaint, he suddenly saw the hills on
fire, amid the screeches and halloos of a
number of natives. The fire, kindled with
practical regard to the wind, swept the
whole district with a flying roar, and the
blacks then came down upon him with
showers of spears and horrible cries. Ben
gave himself up for lost, and determined to
sell his life dear. There were six of the
natives, and sheltering himself behind a tree,
he coolly watched his opportunity, and shot
down two of them. Before he could charge
a third time, they rushed in upon him,
flinging showers of stones as they advanced,
and in another moment he fell senseless,
struck on the head by a waddie.

How he still remained alive, he knew not;
but on recovering consciousness, he found his
gun still lying beside him, the natives gone,
and the remains of his flock scattered in the
woods. With infinite pains, still weighed
down by the intermittent fever, consumed
with thirst, his head dizzy and inflamed with
the effects of the blow, he had hunted up the
fragment of the flock—now only a hundred
and eighty—the dogs and the natives having
destroyed or driven the rest beyond recovery.
Ben himself presented a woful spectacle; his
head bound in an old handkerchief, his flesh
wasted, his lips parched and cracked and the
whole man reduced to a something betwixt a
spectre and a scarecrow.

This was a miserable result of the
expedition to Australia Felix. And here we may
say that Tom Scott, born to no heritage but
his hands, a brave heart, and a clear head,
had raised his little flock by years of care,
constant watching, and self-sacrifice. Every
individual sheep was to him as a child, and
he sate down at this blow, and resting his
head on his knees, gave himself up for a few
minutes to despair. But in Van Diemen's
Land he had left a fair and strong-hearted
wife and two infant children, and at the