elter over him, made of boughs, to
keep the sun off. Two or three times a day he cut greenstuff for
him--which the cows ate. He humped water to him which he sullenly
refused to drink; and did all in his power to persuade Farmer to get up
and go on with the ploughing. I don't know if Dad knew anything of
mesmerism, but he used to stand for long intervals dumbly staring the
old horse full in the eyes till in a commanding voice he would bid him,
"Get up!" But Farmer lacked the patriotism of the back-block poets. He
was obdurate, and not once did he "awake," not to mention "arise".

This afternoon, as Dad approached his dumb patient, he suddenly put
down the bucket of water which he was carrying and ran, shouting
angrily. A flock of crows flew away from Farmer and "cawed" from a
tree close by. Dad was excited, and when he saw that one of the
animal's eyes was gone and a stream of blood trickled over its nose he
sat down and hid his face in his big rough hands.

"CAW, CAW!" came from the tree.

Dad rose and looked up.

"CURSE you!" he hissed--"you black wretches of hell!"

"CAW, CAW, CAW"

He ran towards the tree as though he would hurl it to the ground, and
away flew the crows.

Joe arrived.

"W-w-wuz they at him, Dad?"

Dad turned on him, trembling with rage.

"Oh, YOU son of the Devil!" he commenced. "YOU worthless pup, you!
Look there! Do you see that?" (He pointed to the horse.) "Did n't I
tell you to mind him? Did n'--"

"Yes," snivelled Joe; "but Anderson's dog had a k-k-k-angaroo bailed
up."

"DAMN you, be off out of this!" And Dad aimed a block of wood at Joe
which struck him on the back as he made away. But nothing short of two
broken legs would stop Joe, who the next instant had dashed among the
corn like an emu into a scrub.

Dad returned to the house, foaming and vowing to take the gun and shoot
Joe down like a wallaby. But when he saw two horses hanging up he
hesitated and would have gone away again had Mother not called out that
he was wanted. He went in reluctantly.

Red Donovan and his son, Mick, were there. Donovan was the publican,
butcher, and horse-dealer at the Overhaul. He was reputed to be
well-in, though some said that if everybody had their own he would n't
be worth much. He was a glib-tongued Irishman who knew everything--or
fondly imagined he did--from the law to horse-surgery. There was money
to be made out of selections, he reckoned, if selectors only knew how
t