At the rear, its foot almost
in the back door, sloped a barren ridge, formerly a squatter's sheep-yard.
For the rest there were sky, wallaby-scrub, gum-trees, and some acres of
cultivation. But Dad must have seen something in it, or he would n't have
stood feasting his eyes on the wooded waste after he had knocked off work
of an evening. In all his wanderings--and Dad had been almost everywhere;
swimming flooded creeks and rivers, humping his swag from one end of
Australia to the other; at all games going except bank-managing and
bushranging--he had seen no place timbered like Shingle Hut.
"Why," he used to say, "it's a fortune in itself. Hold on till the
country gets populated, and firewood is scarce, there'll be money in it
then--mark my words!"
Poor Dad! I wonder how long he expected to live?
At the back of Shingle Hut was a tract of Government land--mostly
mountains--marked on the map as the Great Dividing Range. Splendid
country, Dad considered it--BEAUTIFUL country--and part of a grand scheme
he had in his head. I defy you to find a man more full of schemes than
Dad was.
The day had been hot. Inside, the mosquitoes were bad; and, after supper,
Dad and Dave were outside, lying on some bags.
Pages:
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151