sort of a wool-press he was in possession of.
Whether he had one of the newest construction
or still continued to fill his bags by
means of the old contrivance of a huge beam
balanced on a post, and weighted at the
condensing end with a huge piece of rock.
Nothing escaped the lynx eye and the capacious
soul of David the deeply cogitating; and thus
he went on his way most profitably observant,
with a grumble, ever and anon, for the ear of
Perdy, and a Eureka! to himself.

As he drew near his own station, the
station of the umquhile Tom Scott, his heart
beat stronger and more pleasurably, for the
country grew ever more and more delectable.
The valleys were as rich as those of the Land
of Goshen, most charming slopes and swells
descended from the woods, which would have
fascinated the eye of a painter, and were most
agreeable to that of David, because they
grew delicious grass. Now, they ascended
hills covered with giant trees, and fragrant
with the blossom of shrubs; now they
descended from the silent and stony regions of
the forest, and saw around them hills and
rocks thrown up in all the prodigal wild
beauty of Nature's most original moments.
Here the poet's eye would have seen the
future shaping itself with cottages and
granges, with all their hanging gardens, and
vineyards, their crofts and orchards about
them. Cows, and goats, and fowls, appearing
on the soft meadow flats, or clambering to
the most airy pinnacles of cliff. Down they
went and issued into a valley which made
David Macleod rise in the carriage, and
spread out his hands in rapture. "Eh, sirs!
and whaten a place for the bulls of Bashan,
and the cattle on a thousand hills!"

In truth, human eye seldom luxuriated on
a more superb scene. A magnificent valley
extended up and down far as the eye could
see, deep in grass, yellow with the golden
flowers of early summer, in which large
herds of cattle were grazing, of a beauty
never surpassed, in its free grace and untamed
spirit, on the meads of Trinacria or on the
Pampas of Brazil. On either side rose
wooded hills of manifold heights and forms,
whose bluffs and spurs towered breezily in the
upper air, or descended, studded with the
verdant gracile forms of the shiock and the
olive-like lightwood, into the luxuriant vale.

The travellers took a side-way, which led
them between these Arcadian declivities and
a fair, winding river, from which rose, in vast
clouds and with a wild clangour, thousands
of wild fowl, which made hasty flight to a
distance. Anon they saw the smoke of
habitations, and as they drew near, by
degrees revealed themselves a variety of
wooden buildings. This was the station.
It was seated on a mount occupying a natural
little amphitheatre midway in the hills, to
which they ascended by an easy winding
road. Arrived on the mount, even David
Macleod, whose soul dwelt so snug and
satisfied in the profitables, could not help
being struck with it.

The mount seemed to have been formed, in
the old plastic ages, by some huge landslip.
Above it impended hills and rocks gashed
with deep ravines, and scooped out in green
concaves or coornbes, and shagged with giant,
and in many cases far-projecting masses of
the stringy-bark and iron-bark forest.
Down one of these came dashing and foaming
a little stream, which collected itself in the
centre of the mount into a large natural
basin, between which and the hills stood the
cluster of wooden buildings which constituted
the station. Near to the little lake, and
facing it, stood forward the chief hut; right
and left and behind stood others, including
stables, cow-sheds, kitchen, and stockmen's
huts. Around the lake the grass was smooth
and green as on an English lawn, and on the
sides of the mount lay gardens and
vineyards, presenting a most vividly light green
contrast to the native foliage around.
Beyond the broad valley rose again noble
masses of woods; beyond these stretched
the unbroken surface of interminable forests,
over which looked distant ranges of hills,
one chain showing over the other,—the near
dark with clothing woods, the farthest blending
with the azure distance.

It was a seat fit for an emperor. So thought
the delighted David; so before him had
thought the unfortunate Tom Scott. His
was the discovery, his the building of these
dwellings, the planting out of these gardens,
and the fencing in of ample paddocks for
corn and hay, and the security of horses
and milch kine, in the sheltered hangers
below.

An active young countryman, his overseer,
was ready to receive the great man in his
bush home. Donald Ferguson had been on
the look-out for him for some days, and had
a table spread ready for the hungry man,
on which the utensils were humble, but the
fare was substantial. A haunch of kangaroo,
more delicious than any hare, succeeded
kangaroo-soup, that would have delightfully
astonished the palate of a Lord Mayor, and
furnished new topics to the appetising pen of
Miss Acton. Wild turkey, black-duck from
the river, bronze-winged pigeon (a luxurious
substitute for partridge), patties of quince
marmalade, preserved peaches and cream,
followed in a succession which spoke eloquent
eulogiums for the cook; and a dish of early
figs, the first produce of the summer, closed
the rear with a bottle of port, which the
enraptured squatter declared could not be
matched in Melbourne, nor scarcely in
Glasga. We say nothing of vegetables,
rare in the bush,—greens; peas, already
plentiful; new potatoes; scorzonera-root,
worthy to stand on the right-hand of seakale;
salads, and pickles of mango and green
melon. Never was a dinner more to the
taste of hungry traveller,—never did one so