The Barns Are Very
Large And Substantial, More So Than At Home; For No Produce Can Be Left
Out Of Doors In The Winter.
There were two hundred and fifty bushels of
wheat, the produce of a "thrashing bee," and various other edibles.
Oxen,
huge and powerful, do all the draught-work on this farm, and their stable
looked the very perfection of comfort. Round the house "snake-fences" had
given place to those of post and rail; but a few hundred yards away was
the uncleared bush. The land thus railed round had been cleared for some
years; the grass is good, and the stumps few in number. Leaving this, we
came to the stubble of last year, where the stumps were more numerous, and
then to the land only cleared in the spring, covered thickly with charred
stumps, the soil rich and black, and wheat springing up in all directions.
Beyond this there was nothing but bush. A scramble through a bush, though
very interesting in its way, produces disagreeable consequences.
When the excitement of the novelty was over, and I returned to the house,
I contemplated with very woeful feelings the inroad which had been made
upon my wardrobe - the garments torn in all directions beyond any
possibility of repair, and the shoes reduced to the consistency of soaked
brown paper with wading through a bog. It was a serious consideration to
me, who at that time was travelling through the West with a very small and
very wayworn portmanteau, with Glasgow, Torquay, Boston, Rock Island, and
I know not what besides upon it. The bush, however, for the time being,
was very enjoyable, in spite of numerous bruises and scratches. Huge pines
raised their heads to heaven, others lay prostrate and rotting away,
probably thrown down in some tornado. In the distance numbers of trees
were lying on the ground, and men were cutting off their branches and
burning them in heaps, which slowly smouldered away, and sent up clouds of
curling blue smoke, which diffused itself as a thin blue veil over the
dark pines.
This bush is in dangerous proximity to Mr. Forrest's house. The fire ran
through it in the spring, and many of the trees, which are still standing,
are blackened by its effects. One night in April, after a prolonged
drought, just as the household were retiring to rest, Mr. Forrest looked
out of the window, and saw a light in the bush scarcely bigger or brighter
than a glow-worm. Presently it rushed up a tall pine, entwining its fiery
arms round the very highest branches. The fire burned on for a fortnight;
they knew it must burn till rain came, and Mr. Forrest and his man never
left it day or night, all their food being carried to the bush. One night,
during a breeze, it made a sudden rush towards the house. In a twinkling
they got out the oxen and plough, and, some of the neighbours coming to
their assistance, they ploughed up so much soil between the fire and the
stubble round the house, that it stopped; but not before Mr. Forrest's
straw hat was burnt, and the hair of the oxen singed.
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