Page:In bad company and other stories.djvu/351

 it! No herd of cattle, no stud—Traveller and Clifton, The Premier, Tramp, Triton and Trackdeer, St. George, The Margravine, Lord of Clyde, Mormon—all dead and gone! Equine shadows and phantoms of the 'brave days of old.'

Hospitably received by the present proprietor of Squattlesea Mere, with whom I had much in common, as we had shared the changing seasons and varying profits of the Riverina in the sixties, I stayed a day at the old place. Once more I slept in the old chamber, sat at the table in the parlour where so many a cheerful evening had been passed by the young people who then formed our family circle, and for whom for a decade it was so safe and healthy a shelter. Again I heard the roll of the surges, as they beat in days of old on the shore. Again I felt as I rose at sunrise the fresh, pure air of early morn, and wondered if I should have the horses run into the stock-yard to pick out those wanted for the day's work.

Tempora mutantur, indeed. Where are now the overseer, the groom, the stock-rider, who, well mounted, and high-mettled as their steeds, were wont to fare forth with me for a long day's muster of 'the lower end of the run'? Where, indeed? Frank, the groom, most patient and cool-couraged of rough-riders good alike on camp or road is dead. The trusty overseer, who could ride all day and night at a pinch, or stride through the Mount Eeles rocks for hours at a time, now walks with a stick and is restricted to a buggy with a quiet horse for locomotion. And the gay Irish stock-rider, who took so kindly to the trade, though not to 'the manner born,' would, I fear me, distinctly decline to sit in the saddle for ten hours of a winter's day, wet to the waist and splashed to the eyes, as many a time and oft was our custom.

There is no doubt we are Rip Van Winkle. All the intervening life which has passed like a dream and left so few traces, must be in the nature of a magic slumber.

We could think so, were it not for certain changes we wot of.

The knight has been to the wars, and though shrewdly wounded, has escaped with life, and once more beholds the walls of the old keep. It sadly recalls the ballad—