as soon as I can see things clear ahead a bit.' And the hard days
went on, and the weeks, and the months, and the years---- Ah, well!

Mary used to say, when things would get worse, 'Why don't you talk
to me, Joe? Why don't you tell me your thoughts, instead of shutting
yourself up in yourself and brooding--eating your heart out? It's hard
for me: I get to think you're tired of me, and selfish. I might be cross
and speak sharp to you when you are in trouble. How am I to know, if you
don't tell me?'

But I didn't think she'd understand.

And so, getting acquainted, and chumming and dozing, with the gums
closing over our heads here and there, and the ragged patches of
sunlight and shade passing up, over the horses, over us, on the front of
the load, over the load, and down on to the white, dusty road again--Jim
and I got along the lonely Bush road and over the ridges, some fifteen
miles before sunset, and camped at Ryan's Crossing on Sandy Creek for
the night. I got the horses out and took the harness off. Jim wanted
badly to help me, but I made him stay on the load; for one of the
horses--a vicious, red-eyed chestnut--was a kicker: he'd broken a
man's leg. I got the feed-bags stretched across the shafts, and the
chaff-and-corn into them; and there stood the horses all round with
their rumps north, south, and west, and their heads between the shafts,
munching and switching their tails. We use double shafts, you know, for
horse-teams--two pairs side by side,--and prop them up, and stretch bags
between them, letting the bags sag to serve as feed-boxes. I threw the
spare tarpaulin over the wheels on one side, letting about half of
it lie on the ground in case of damp, and so making a floor and a
break-wind. I threw down bags and the blankets and 'possum rug against
the wheel to make a camp for Jim and the cattle-pup, and got a gin-case
we used for a tucker-box, the frying-pan and billy down, and made a good
fire at a log close handy, and soon everything was comfortable. Ryan's
Crossing was a grand camp. I stood with my pipe in my mouth, my hands
behind my back, and my back to the fire, and took the country in.

Reedy Creek came down along a western spur of the range: the banks here
were deep and green, and the water ran clear over the granite bars,
boulders, and gravel. Behind us was a dreary flat covered with those
gnarled, grey-barked, dry-rotted 'native apple-trees' (about as much
like apple-trees as the native bear is