k.
Dinner was nearly over; Dan had finished, and was taking it easy on the
sofa, when Joe said:

"I say, Dad, what's a nater-dog like?" Dad told him: "Yellow, sharp
ears and bushy tail."

"Those muster bin some then thet I seen--I do n't know 'bout the bushy
tail--all th' hair had comed off." "Where'd y' see them, Joe?" we
asked. "Down 'n th' springs floating about--dead."

Then everyone seemed to think hard and look at the tea. I did n't want
any more. Dan jumped off the sofa and went outside; and Dad looked
after Mother.

At last the four acres--excepting the biggest of the iron-bark trees
and about fifty stumps--were pretty well cleared; and then came a
problem that could n't be worked-out on a draught-board. I have
already said that we had n't any draught horses; indeed, the only thing
on the selection like a horse was an old "tuppy" mare that Dad used to
straddle. The date of her foaling went further back than Dad's, I
believe; and she was shaped something like an alderman. We found her
one day in about eighteen inches of mud, with both eyes picked out by
the crows, and her hide bearing evidence that a feathery tribe had made
a roost of her carcase. Plainly, there was no chance of breaking up
the ground with her help. We had no plough, either; how then was the
corn to be put in? That was the question.

Dan and Dave sat outside in the corner of the chimney, both scratching
the ground with a chip and not saying anything. Dad and Mother sat
inside talking it over. Sometimes Dad would get up and walk round the
room shaking his head; then he would kick old Crib for lying under the
table. At last Mother struck something which brightened him up, and he
called Dave.

"Catch Topsy and--" He paused because he remembered the old mare was
dead.

"Run over and ask Mister Dwyer to lend me three hoes."

Dave went; Dwyer lent the hoes; and the problem was solved. That was
how we started.

Chapter II.

Our First Harvest

If there is anything worse than burr-cutting or breaking stones, it's
putting corn in with a hoe.

We had just finished. The girls were sowing the last of the grain when
Fred Dwyer appeared on the scene. Dad stopped and talked with him
while we (Dan, Dave and myself) sat on our hoe-handles, like kangaroos
on their tails, and killed flies. Terrible were the flies,
particularly when you had sore legs or the blight.

Dwyer was a big man with long, brown arms and red, bushy wh