Dad sighed and turned away from the awful prospect. He went and looked
into the water-cask. Two butterflies, a frog or two, and some charcoal
were at the bottom. No water. He sighed again, took the yoke and two
kerosene-tins, and went off to the springs.
About an hour and a half after he returned with two half-tins of muddy,
milky-looking water--the balance had been splashed out as he got through
the fences--and said to Mother (wiping the sweat off his face with his
shirt-sleeve)--
"Don't know, I'm SURE, what things are going t' come t';...no use doing
anything...there's no rain...no si----" he lifted his foot and with cool
exactness took a place-kick at the dog, which was trying to fall into one
of the kerosene-tins, head first, and sent it and the water flying.
"Oh you ----!" The rest is omitted in the interests of Poetry.
Day after. Fearful heat; not a breath of air; fowl and beast sought the
shade; everything silent; the great Bush slept. In the west a stray cloud
or two that had been hanging about gathered, thickened, darkened.
The air changed. Fowl and beast left the shade; tree-tops began to
stir--to bend--to sway violently.
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