"Ned, run up to the harbour-master, and
ask him to send down an ensign to throw
over the poor little darling."

THE WATERS ARE OUT.

GUNDAGAI is a small settlement in the
interior of New South Wales. It is situated
on the hanks of the Murrumbidgee, one of
the principal feeders of the Great Murray
River; and the high road from Sydney to
Melbourne passes through it. The surrounding,
country consists, for the most part, of
valleys, so broad that they may almost be
designated plains, dotted with occasional
isolated mounds of small elevation.

When I first settled there my residence
was a little verandah cottage, built of wood.
At the rear was a large garden devoted to
kitchen produce, and in front there was a
wilderness, which we liked to call a flower-
garden. Flowers there were, truly; but
so utterly neglected, that they looked more
like overgrown weeds. There were thickets
of geranium, tangled masses of pinks and
carnations, and hedges of straggling rose-bushes.

The cottage itself consisted of four rooms,
all on the ground floor; and it seemed a
little singular that it should have been built
on piles, raised three feet above the level of
the gardens; but subsequent experience
showed me the necessity of this arrangement.

Altogether the place wore such a
thoroughly wretched aspect, that I almost feared
to bring my wife up from Sydney to it.
When she came, however, I was agreeably
disappointed. Esther was an ardent
floriculturist, and the task of reducing the
flower-beds to order was to her a delightful
prospective amusement. Under her skilful
supervision the flower-borders were trimmed,
the overgrown plants thinned out, and the
rose-trees carefully pruned and trained.
Many new varieties were also introduced,
and soon a manifest improvement was
perceptible. Roses and honeysuckles, dolichus,
and native ivy, in sweet profusion, shaded
the verandah; and young mimosa trees
formed an impenetrable screen around the
borders of our little homestead. The
luxuriant Australian climate facilitated these
results. I have known rose-trees to send out
shoots exceeding fifteen feet in length in a
single season, and the indigenous acacias will
grow from the seed to the height of eight or
ten feet in the same period.

One morning—I remember the date well,
it was the last day of March—I left my
pleasant home to visit a settler on the
Tarcutta Creek, about thirty miles distant. I
had several calls to make on the road, so that
it was past mid-day before I arrived at my
destination. Business over, I was not averse
to accept the proffered hospitality of my
host; and the more readily, because both
myself and my horse were sorely in need of
refreshment. Agreeable conversation caused
the time to pass unheeded; and when I
at length rose to depart, the declining sun
indicated the near approach of darkness.

The morning had been somewhat warm,
yet not unpleasantly so, for—as often happens
towards the end of the Australian summer—
a soft westerly breeze mitigated the fierceness
of the unclouded sun. But the evening
was the reverse of all this. The wind had
quite died away, and the atmosphere was
close and stifling, so that it seemed difficult
to breathe; and, without exertion, the
perspiration oozed from every pore. All nature
was ominously still. Not a blade of grass
stirred, not a leaf waved on the trees; yet
ever and anon a low sullen sound—which
could only be likened to the hoarse roar
of distant breakers surging around a rocky
shore—issued from the neighbouring forests.
In the west the blood-red sun was rapidly
setting in a mass of swollen purple clouds,
which came rolling up with equal velocity,
and soon submerged the orb of light in their
gloomy folds. As his rays departed, a lurid
shadow seemed to creep over the earth,
covering it as with a pall. An involuntary
tremor, such as I have often experienced
when the atmosphere has been highly charged
with electricity, pervaded my frame, and I
knew that a thunder storm was at hand.

Putting spurs to my horse, I sought to fly
before the coming tempest. The clouds
accumulated in solemn piles; dense darkness-
overspread the earth; and now and then the
thunder muttered threateningly. Yet I rode
on over the hard dry road in safety and
quietude until within a few miles of Gundagai.

Suddenly the intense gloom, was dispelled
by a vivid flash of lightning, and a terrible
peal of thunder awoke the slumbering echoes
of the valley. My frightened horse, snorted
and plunged violently, then stood trembling
in the road. Another blinding flash, another
loud peal quickly followed, and the terrified
animal started forward at full gallop.

And now the rain came down in such force
and volume, that it was as if the floodgates
of the deep had been opened. The wind
howled amongst the tall gums, and swept in
fierce gust athwart the path, levelling many
a goodly tree, and denuding others of their
branches. The lightning flashed with scarcely
a moment's intermission; now in broad
sheets of livid flame, and now in red and
jagged darts. And the awful thunder!

Bowing my head nearly to the horse's
neck, I gave him the rein. He needed no
other bidding than that of fear to hurry
onwards. With straining eyeballs, and ears
laid back, he sprang onwards at the top of
his speed, and in a few minutes stood panting
at the stable-door in Gundagai.

I found Esther anxiously awaiting me,
and much agitated. It was the greatest
thunder-storm she had witnessed since our
arrival in New South Wales; and I think
that nothing in my subsequent experience at