soil; and the water brought down enough
sand to make a beach, and spread it over the field to a depth of six
inches. The flood also took half a mile of fencing from along the
creek-bank, and landed it in a bend, three miles down, on a dummy
selection, where it was confiscated.

Tom didn't give up--he was energetic. He cleared another piece of ground
on the siding, and sowed more wheat; it had the rust in it, or the
smut--and averaged three shillings per bushel. Then he sowed lucerne and
oats, and bought a few cows: he had an idea of starting a dairy. First,
the cows' eyes got bad, and he sought the advice of a German cocky, and
acted upon it; he blew powdered alum through paper tubes into the bad
eyes, and got some of it snorted and butted back into his own. He cured
the cows' eyes and got the sandy blight in his own, and for a week or
so be couldn't tell one end of a cow from the other, but sat in a dark
corner of the hut and groaned, and soaked his glued eyelashes in warm
water. Germany stuck to him and nursed him, and saw him through.

Then the milkers got bad udders, and Tom took his life in his hands
whenever he milked them. He got them all right presently--and butter
fell to fourpence a pound. He and the aforesaid cocky made arrangements
to send their butter to a better market; and then the cows contracted
a disease which was known in those parts as "plooro permoanyer," but
generally referred to as "th' ploorer."

Again Tom sought advice, acting upon which he slit the cows' ears, cut
their tails half off to bleed them, and poured pints of "pain killer"
into them through their nostrils; but they wouldn't make an effort,
except, perhaps, to rise and poke the selector when he tried to tempt
their appetites with slices of immature pumpkin. They died peacefully
and persistently, until all were gone save a certain dangerous, barren,
slab-sided luny bovine with white eyes and much agility in jumping
fences, who was known locally as Queen Elizabeth.

Tom shot Queen Elizabeth, and turned his attention to agriculture again.
Then his plough horses took bad with some thing the Teuton called "der
shtranguls." He submitted them to a course of treatment in accordance
with Jacob's advice--and they died.

Even then Tom didn't give in--there was grit in that man. He borrowed a
broken-down dray-horse in return for its keep, coupled it with his own
old riding hack, and started to finish ploughing. The team wasn't a
success. Whe