e harvesting of it. Riots had threatened
earlier, the result of the state of affairs in the Colony, and the
measures which I deemed it necessary to introduce. As a precaution, I had
some soldiers, about a hundred and fifty, I think, sent to me from New
South Wales. That was a step on which I was entitled to congratulate
myself. At the pruning hook, in getting in that harvest, they were of
vast assistance, and not often have soldiers been more nobly occupied.'

Yet the pruning hook, which Sir George associated with the historic
harvest, and with Ridley, an early Australian colonist, was hardly of the
Scriptural pattern. It was a subtle machine, invented for a harvest where
the wheat-ears were needed, not the straw. The former were chopped off,
collected in a sort of trough; and the straw was burned for manure. Here
was waste, only there was no avoiding it, and, moreover, the meaning of
'waste' is defined by circumstances. The South Australian soil was so
fruitful that it only needed to be thrown seed. Sir George satisfied
himself that it contained gypsum, such as belongs to the fertile parts of
Egypt. Thus gypsum reared wheat, under the foot-print of the black man,
who shod his spear in obsidian. Things that began before history, were
meeting from very different sides. Nature extended one hand to the inflow
of civilisation, another to the rude holding of it back. There was a
point of contact in the adventure of a settler, Turner by name, whom Sir
George Grey met near the Murray River. It fell out comedy, but might have
been tragedy; and how often those two flirt with each other round a
corner!

The fact, upon which the affair hinged, was that Turner wore a wig, no
doubt for sufficient reason. He was making a journey across country, and
with him were a few natives, guides and packmen. Perhaps his head grew
hot; anyhow, at some stage he took a penknife from his pocket, and ran
the blade under the edge of the wig. The native nearest to him,
suspicious of witchcraft, stared at this act, terror written on every
feature. With a deft lift of the knife, Turner had the wig clear of his
head. The native stayed no longer to consider 'Is this a sorcerer?' He
whipped off, to what he considered a safe distance. The innocent Turner
followed his retreat with laughing eye, amused at the effect produced.
For acknowledgment, a spear cracked through the satchel on his back, and
wounded him slightly. His load had saved his life, and he waril