convincingly proclaim a land of plenty and of
dainty delights.

"Where in the world, Donald, did ye
discover this paragaun of a cook?" cried the
transported squatter.

"He discovered himself," replied Donald.
"He walked in one day as we were at our
wit's end for some one to cook our damper
and fry our chops."

"And noo ye live like the Heir o' Lynn!
I'll fear me, thoo, that the chap 'ull be rayther
extravagant."

"O, no!" replied Donald; "we keep him
close to the chop and the cake when we're
alone."

"Aweel! this is an orra time, I reckon.
But dinna ye ken where the chiel comes
frae? Nane but a lord could want the like
o' him."

"I believe," said Donald, "he was head
cook to some great man, and was just sent
over to the other side on a suspicion of
poisoning him."

"Poisoning! poisoning his ain maister!
An' ye tuk him in, and dar to eat and drink
of his devil's bannoks and bree? Oot wi'
him! oot wi' him! or we are a' dead men!"

"Not a bit of it," said Donald, smiling;
"don't be alarmed; there's no danger. He
has cooked for us these two years, and an
honester fellow does not live. In fact, he
says, and I think so too, the cook that
poisoned the great man was his own
gormandising and boozing; for he was regularly
carried to bed dead drunk every night of his
life."

"Weel, weel," said the startled squatter,
"there may be something in that; but to me
it seems naething mair nor less than a
tempting o' Providence."

"We get used to such things here," said
Donald; "we can get no women-servants
up here, and not easily men; and half our
workmen and shepherds, and I must say the
best half, are notorious transported thieves
and burglars."

"An' ye dar to gang through the woods
with these gallows-birds all alone wi' ye, an'
nae Christian creature within miles o' ye?"

"Just so," added Donald, coolly; "we
can't help ourselves, and nothing happens."

The great squatter had begun to think
the bush not half so pleasant as it appeared
over the roast turkey and the port; and his
alarm was the more increased when, on going
to his bed-room, he found neither lock nor
latch to his door, and the moon shining
through vacancies between the slabs of which
it was built, large enough to put a hand
through, much more the muzzle of a gun.

"Donald, my man! Donald!" he shouted,
"hoo's this? Nae lock, nae latch, nae
stang?"

"Oh, no," said Donald, "we don't want
them; there is nothing but a latch to the
front door."

This was worse and worse, and the great
man clapping the only thing like a table in
the room against the door, and shoving a
heavy box against that, resolved to make
short work of it in the bush. But, presently,
the habitual shrewdness of the man began
to operate, and suggesting to him that the
inhabitants of the bush knew best, and that
all was right, he dropped asleep, and awoke
in the beaming morning cured of all his
fears, and more delighted with the scene
than ever.

The hut in which he lived was but a
wooden hut, with a mud floor, and a huge
open chimney on the hearth of which burned
a fire just enough to keep hot the kettle,
and nothing more; but on the breakfast-
table appeared, with the tea and coffee, chops,
steaks, roasted wattle-birds, quails, and other
dainties.

After breakfast Donald Ferguson rode
out with Squatter to show him something
of the run and its stock. But this was no
work of a morning like the riding over an
English farm. Seven flocks were tended
upon it by seven shepherds, each with his
different hut and district of pasturage, and
to reach these, they had to ascend lofty
hills, thread deep and hidden glens, cross
streams, and ride on through woods that
appeared endless. Then, again, they came
out on plains, or high and extensive downs,
where was descried the immense flock rolling
along, as it were, over the grassy level
like a cloud, or a low fog before the shepherd,
always on the move, and grazing as
they went. There is something pasturally
grand in the idea of these numerous flocks,
all daily radiating from one central circle
of homesteads, and grazing in profound calm
through the silent and boundless waste,
returning at evening to their resting-place,
and so on from day to day, and from year
to year, swelling serenely into living expanses
of affluence.

David Macleod soon found that it would
require weeks to take a survey of his
possessions, and he contented himself with finding
the fragment explored all orderly and
prosperous. Strychnine had now decimated
the dingoes, or wild dogs, the squatters
had driven back the natives, and a
profound peace brooded over these wild
realms of pastural riches. Readers, lift up
your imaginations; spread them out on
their broadest pinions, and conceive the
Squatter occupying the county of Kent, or
Surrey for his run, at a rate, including
licence-fee, and head-money, of some fifty
pounds a-year, and you form a tolerable idea
of the Squatter's domain; a domain which
this country has so bountifully consigned
to him, and perceive why he should so
fervently desire to hold it for ever.

Ever and anon, as he followed the indefatigable
Donald, through far-off valleys, where
it would require a compass to direct the
stranger, a troop of beautiful horses would