When Christmas drew nigh, my brother drove over from Wellington to take me back with him for my holidays. We had a very pleasant journey back through Gulgong, passing on our way Messrs. Rouse’s properties, Guntawang, Biragambil, and Beaudesert; all fine estates of these early settlers in the district. Gulgong is now a thriving “golden township,” with church, public school, and its own newspaper, and now, no doubt, a very different hotel from the one we stayed at on this occasion. It was during an election, and therefore full of “free and independents.” My sleeping apartment was near a general room, and nearly all night one man would give noisy utterance to his ideas on the capacities of various candidates, interspersed with allusions to his family affairs; his remarks were very personal, occasionally touching upon the private life of the candidate he opposed. At last, wearied with the incessant talking, I fell asleep, to be roused by the undertones of others who disagreed with the chief orator, a man who ought to be in parliament now, as the talents he possessed resemble those we have so many of in our present Legislative Assembly. I have never heard a debate, or rather wrangle there, but have read them, and had a great many described. As this night’s experience at Gulgong, nearly a quarter of a century ago, returns to my mind, I pity quiet and sensible men who have to listen to such balderdash.

The town of Wellington was improving; court-house, hospital, stores, and cottages were in course of erection, and Montefiores only a suburb.

The Mill Cottage and Bulla I visited, and saw how trees, vines, and shrubs had grown. The same old friends were there, but not for long; and my eyes rested on the well-known spots for the last time, as sixteen years passed ere I saw the district again, strangers sitting beside the hearths, and wandering through the bush, where the friends of my youth had their homes. “Some had gone to lands far distant,” others to “The Silent Land.”

We had a pleasant journey back to Broom through bush lands, past Mitchell’s Creek, arriving at my home in time for tea. It was a great drawback my being such a nervous horsewoman, as I lost many opportunities of seeing such country as vehicles could not travel through. It was very tantalising to watch young people starting off for long rides. Australians of both sexes are veritable centaurs. Fearless and graceful riders, they do not care for walking, and will spend an hour in running a horse in, to ride on an errand they could have gone in less time on foot. Girls brought up in the country will ride any kind of horse over the roughest country. When I first went to Wellington I have watched them leaving the town, their horses covered with parcels, and often with a child in front of them. One girl “down the river” wanted to take a small shoe trunk before her. The horses are often only partially broken in, and back and shy frequently, but these young people stick on. I suppose our horses are good, as the Indian market is partly supplied from Australia. They are not equal in appearance to the English horses; this struck me when in the west end of London; even the cab and omnibus horses look better than ours.

The busy time for our gentlemen was approaching. Yards for drafting the sheep had to be made, so Mrs. Charles suggested that we, with some of the girls from Mulla, should picnic at the place over the river where they were working. About eleven we started with the provisions for lunch, which we were to cook at the place of meeting,—chops, steaks, ham, ingredients for pancakes, with some cold provisions, which Mr. James suggested, as he thought “we might burn or otherwise fail in our cooking.” Tea was of course provided; beer and wine also. What a glorious morning it was, and how busy we were,—not even a fire lighted for us when we arrived at the place! Mr. Charles declared we had undertaken to be gipsies, so should not be assisted. “As if we want assistance,” was our proud rejoinder. “Mary, you collect some light wood, while I select a good place for the fire.” This was done; but Mrs. Charles was afterwards too busy unpacking baskets and case to notice that Mary was waiting for further orders. At last the terrible truth dawned on us,—we had forgotten the matches; and therefore, as Kate said, “must demean ourselves by asking the gentlemen’s assistance.” Little Louie suggested, “The blacks light a fire by rubbing two pieces of wood together.” “Takes too long.” Mrs. Charles had left us and gone towards two station hands who were felling trees for the yards, returning with her charming face all aglow. “I have some matches, so Charlie and Jim need not know we forgot ours.” We would not eat anything that we had not cooked ourselves, though the patties, cold ham, and the plum pudding, made by the French cook at Broom, looked very tempting. Mr. Charles was very good and ate underdone steak and burnt pancakes manfully; but Mr. James cruelly refused, saying, “Fried meat was too indigestible, and he did not care for smoked mutton.” “Very well, then, you must not have tea; that is sure to be smoky,” said saucy Kate. After lunch they went back to work, and we scattered about getting flowers and ferns, but were very glad to find on our return to the camp that Mr. Charles had told one of the men to pack up our things,—all but meat, bread, butter, and cake, and with tea ready to make as soon as we came in sight. “It was a real picnic,” we all said, “and more enjoyable than the usual affairs of the kind.”

Now sheep-washing and shearing were the chief business at Broom. The gentlemen left at daylight, returning to an early breakfast. We finished our usual home occupations as quickly as possible, wishing to spend part of the afternoon watching the process, and a very pretty sight it was. The home flocks were chiefly bred from imported sheep, famous for the quality of their wool, which Mr. Charles had made arrangements for getting up well. Yards were put up on one side of the river for the unwashed sheep, and close to the bank large tanks filled with hot water were placed, in which the sheep were first scoured, and then passed on for two men to dip them several times in the river. A man stood ready to drive them up the grassy bank into paddocks on the other side, when in a day or two they looked like balls of snow, and were ready for the shearing shed. This part of the work I soon tired of, as occasionally the shears cut deeper than the wool; still it is wonderful watching experienced men clip, clip, and then in a few minutes away the frightened creature runs, shorn of its beautiful coat.

Very young lambs are not pretty I discovered at Broom, when Mr. Charles brought in a motherless one, which, being of a valuable breed, he wished to be brought up by hand. The parlour-maid undertook to feed it from a bottle, and “Snow” consequently became a nuisance, following the girl everywhere. It grew to be a very pretty creature,—an ideal “pet lamb” which the children delighted to play with; but unfortunately “Snow” grew very quickly, and one evening Mr. Charles said, “I must take ‘Snow’ to Sam, who has the care of several others.” A tender farewell ensued, and a few tears from Lilly, who was consoled by being told, “We will go and see the pet soon,” which promise was fulfilled; but, alas, ungrateful “Snow” had forgotten us, and not even biscuit would tempt it to leave its friends!

When shearing was over, the young people persuaded Mrs. Charles to give them a dance at Broom, which was followed by a grand ball at the School of Arts in Mudgee, given by Mr. George to all classes. It reminded me of tenants’ balls I had read of in county stories of the old country; some of the farmers had lived on the property for years, and many of the servants at Burra and Broom were of the third generation. One old man at Broom had been in the family nearly fifty years; we used often on Sunday afternoons to visit him at his hut, taking some delicacy for his evening meal. He had been a tall, powerful man, but was now bent with the “burden of many years.” I had been reading to him as usual, when after a long pause he began talking of “the old country,”—the only subject he ever seemed interested in—when he remarked in answer to some question of mine, “You see, Miss, I was lagged very young, so can remember those times well.” “What, Sam! were you sent to Australia?” was my shocked question. “Yes, Miss,” in an apologetical tone; “but not for a very bad crime; they called it poaching. You see, this is how it was. We lived in a grand game country, miles and miles of heather and bracken alive with wild things, always tempting us to snare ’em. My mother was dead, and father married again, so no one cared much about me. One day a lot of lads said to me, ‘Sam,’ says they, ‘we are going to Lord X——’s park to-morrow night; will ’ee come?’ At first I said No, minding a promise I made mother when I was a bit of a boy; but they persuaded me, so at last I agreed to meet them at the cross roads. Well, I went; two of the lot were well-known bad uns, I heard later on. The keepers had heard they were skulking about the village, so set a trap for them, and we were all caught. They said, as it was my first offence, I should have been let off easy; but you see I had a tussle with one of the keepers and nearly killed him. I could not help knocking him down, when he called me a thief; so I was sent over the seas with the lot, and was assigned to this family after a while, and have been in it ever since. Good masters, all on ’em, Miss; the old gentleman as well as his sons,—good to their men, bond or free.” Poor old Sam was right to be grateful; he was well cared for to the end of his life, which was a long one—dying in his hut amidst green pastures and country sounds. After the old man’s narrative, Louie inquired, “Don’t you feel lonely, Sam?” “No, little Miss; I was a shepherd for years, and often days after days only heard the sheep and my dog’s voice.”