Page 42 - A Little Bush Maid

in the thick shades by the water. Occasionally came the clear whistle of a
lyre bird or the peal of a laughing jackass. Jim knew all the bird-notes, as

well as the signs of bush game, and pointed them out as they rode. Once a
big wallaby showed for an instant, and there was a general outcry and a

plunge in pursuit, but the wallaby was too quick for them, and found a safe
hiding-place in the thickest of the scrub, where the ponies could not follow.

"We cross the creek up here," Jim said, "and make ’cross country a bit. Tt
saves several miles."

"How do you cross? Bridge?" queried Wally.

"Bridge!--don’t grow such things in this part of the world," laughed Jim.
"No, there’s a place where it’s easy enough to ford, a little way up. There

are plenty of places fordable, if you only know them, on this creek; but a
number of them are dangerous, because of deep holes and boggy places.
Father lost a good horse in one of those bogs, and to look at the place you’d

only have thought it a nice level bit of grassy ground."

"My word!" Wally whistled. "What a bit of hard luck!"

"Yes, it was, rather," Jim said. "Tt made us careful about crossing, T can tell

you. Even the men look out since Harry Wilson got bogged another time,
trying to get over after a bullock. Of course he wouldn’t wait to go round,

and he had an awful job to get his horse out of the mud--it’s something like
a quicksand. After that father had two or three good crossings made very
plain and clear, and whenever a new man is put on they’re explained to him.

See, there’s one now."

They came suddenly on a gap in the scrub, leading directly to the creek,
which was, indeed, more of a river than a creek, and in winter ran in a
broad, rapid stream. Even in summer it ran always, though the full current

dwindled to a trickling, sluggish stream-let, with here and there a deep,
quiet pool, where the fish lay hidden through the long hot days.