Page:Banking Under Difficulties- Or Life On The Goldfields Of Victoria, New South Wales And New Zealand (1888).pdf/19

10 My staff was called into requisition as a candlestick. A candle was duly fixed on the top, and after spreading the leaves, blankets, and oilskins, I got two of our party disposed of on one side and three on the other, blew out the candle, said ‘Good night,’ and gently wedged myself between the lot. I don’t know if we had got the length of the first snore before there was an alarm in the camp. It seemed to be the cry of a female, and we had only one. It was a wonder that in the scramble to get our weapons of defence some harm was not done. However, the old man’s voice was soon heard, “All right, lads; all right!” By daybreak we were all astir, shaking and folding blankets; kettle boiling, chops frying, and all the etceteras of a camping party. “What was up last night, old boy?” said I to the driver. “Oh, nothin’ particular” said he, turning his quid in his mouth; “Only, after I had a look at the bullocks, and saw that all was right, I went to take a snooze on the top of the dray, but it being on a balance, as I was getting up behind, the stick keeping up the pole fell, down went the dray, and the young bride fancied it was the bushrangers.”

I said, as I threw down my swag for the last time on the Saturday night, “Thank God, the morn is Sabbath.” I had never dreamt of starting at the usual hour, but the bustle of the bullock-driver made me ask him what he was after this morning, when his gruff voice, with a string of oaths, said, “A lot of lazy Scotchmen. Come, get up, and let us start.” “Why move,” said I. “This is the Sabbath.” “The better the day the better the deed,” said he “We have no Sabbaths in the bush;” and the poor bullocks got an additional share of cursing for my attempt to give us all a day’s rest. The roads were so bad that we did not even make a Sabbath day’s journey, for at the end of three miles we were fairly “stuck in the mud.” Evening came, and we camped for the night. The moon shone out in her glory, and we had a huge fire. Almost everyone had cut down a tree, taking the leaves as bush feathers for his bed, and the trunk and branches were added to the common fire. The bullock-driver was alone in his notions about a holy rest on the Sabbath, for, although we were almost all strangers to each other (for we had, like a snowball, grown larger as we had moved on), everyone seemed to feel that we had come from a Christian land. I was not the oldest, but I felt as a father, and, starting to my feet, said, “Come, let us remember that we have spent the Lord’s day in the bush. Let us sing to His praise the 23rd Psalm.” I am no singer, and the only tune I knew was “Stroudwater.” I began; a few joined in, and by the time the psalm was ended the “Black Forest” resounded with the song of praise. Bedtime came, and nearly all retired to rest. I was alone at the fire, and the only person I saw about was the driver, who was settling up for the night by looking