thought of them he sprung up, wiped his
hand across his eyes, as though he would
whisk away his troubles, and cried: "This
is of no use, my lads. Let us on, and try
again."

And here, too, we may as well let the
reader into another secret. The two
followers of Scott were originally two convicts,
two ticket-of-leave men. He had given them
employment, found good in them, persuaded
them to make a fresh effort for a good name
and honest fortune, and had found them
ready to follow him to the world's end. If
he succeeded, they were to reap the benefit
of it.

The three sad, but not utterly daunted
men, went on once more. This time they
selected a place where there was more show
of permanent water, and all seemed to go on
well. Once more they built their hut, and
employed themselves in attending to the
autumnal increase of their flock; for in that
country the flocks often produce lambs in
autumn, and another portion in spring. But
winter came, and with its rains they found
their station laid almost wholly under water.
Again they were compelled to go on in
search, and at length came upon a tolerably
fair stream, now called the Loddon. Here
were wood and rich valley and upland, a
change and a resource for all seasons. Here
Tom Scott built himself a log hut; found
himself in as fine a country—beautiful with
its wooded hills, its broad expanse of rich
meadow lands, its grassy uplands and
unfailing river—as the colony could show.
Here, if ever, he must prosper. But his
flock was terrifically reduced, his means of
purchasing more were small, and nothing but
a life of incessant care, activity, economy,
and perseverance could enable him to avail
himself of the splendid lands on which he
had sate down. For ten years our squatter
maintained himself there, and we may now
in a few sentences relate the upshot of his
fortunes.

Miserable were the first few years of our
settlers. The lands on which they had settled
were splendid, and therefore they were soon
beset by rivals, endeavoring to get each a
good large slice of the run. One sate down
here and another there, and Tom Scott saw
himself likely very soon to have to pasture
his little flock on something less than nothing
He set about therefore lustily to drive off
the invaders, who drove his sheep as constantly
back again. Then came hard words, blows,
threats and animosities. Luckily, this state
of things all over the colony compelled the
establishment of Crown Land Commissioners
and a mounted police, to protect the squatter
both from black and white neighbours; and
Tom found himself legally the master of an
ample run. But his flock was miserably
small, and he and his fellows must live. And
they did live, but such a life as none but men
in the utmost extremities, and with nerves
and resolutions of iron, could endure. All
their hope was in the increase of their flock;
money they had none to purchase more; and
sheep then were excessively dear, for the
demand to supply a whole new country was
immense. To spare the flock, they lived
chiefly on tea and damper, a heavy
unleavened cake, and never indulged themselves
in the taste of meat except when the wild dogs
had destroyed and left some of their sheep on the ground.

These wild dogs were a terrible and incessant
nuisance. For ages unmolested by the
natives, they had increased into myriads,
and nightly came down on the folds in
crowds. As yet the grand blessing of the
squatters, strychnine, which has now
reduced the destructive troops of these animals
to an insignificant number, was unknown;
and daily and nightly it was a constant
stretch of watching and anxiety to preserve
his little remnant of a flock from their jaws.
Sun and rain, the cold—intensely cold—
nights of that otherwise fine climate, had to
be constantly endured by Scott and his
companions, and told in woful cramps and
rheumatisms on their frames.

Still the flocks grew and multiplied
wonderfully, almost doubling themselves every
year; and in four years the flock had actually
augmented itself into the number of two
thousand. Tom had fetched over his wife
and children, having previously built them a
hut, and, encouraged by his wife's cheerful
spirit and unfailing sympathy, Tom looked
forward to some day when sheep should be
worth something, and repay all his cares.
But sheep multiplied, and the population did
not multiply in proportion. Wool was low,
and there was no demand for mutton. Tom
had to pay his hard money, that is, so much
per head for his sheep and cattle, to pay for
stores from Melbourne, to purchase a dray
and a bullock-team, and wool-bags. Yet his
flocks still wonderfully increased. People
began, in 'thirty-nine and 'forty, to flock over
to the colony, and a bright future seemed to
dawn. It was a delusive one. Lord John
Russell's order that no colonial land should
be sold at less than one pound per acre
arrived; immigration stopped short at once,
as at the command of an evil genius; and
the squatters gazed in consternation on their
wonderfully multiplying flocks, which were
thus absolutely reduced to no value at all.
In eighteen hundred and forty-two came the
crash of ruin on the land, and sheep were
valued at a shilling a head.

Meantime Tom Scott had had to pay heavily
for labour in splitting slabs and shingles for
his wool-shed, for the fences of his paddocks,
for plough, harrow, hurdles, and watch-
boxes; for stores, stockyard-fences, milking-
bail, calf-pen, garden-fencing and planting,
and heaven knows what besides; for all
which a huge balance had run up against,
him at his merchant's, in Melbourne, spite of