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Updated: May 14, 2025
Near the end of February 1857, I think about the 20th or so, though it don't much matter; I only know it was near the latter end of summer, burning hot, with the bushfires raging like volcanoes on the ranges, and the river reduced to a slender stream of water, almost lost upon the broad white flats of quartz shingle. We had sat silent for some time, too lazy to speak, almost to think.
Maybe Joe "knocks about" the farm a bit before going into the Great North-West with another mob of cattle. The last time I saw the Old Year out at Eurunderee the bushfires were burning all over the ranges, and looked like great cities lighted up. No need for bonfires then.
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