The roads leading to the new
diggings become infested with bushrangers; stories of being "stuck up"
(or robbed) are more and more frequent; till at length a cartload of
ruffians, heavily handcuffed, is seen moving towards the Government Camp
well guarded by mounted troopers. These are the bushrangers who have
been hunted down and just captured by the troopers. And now for a time
the roads are safe.
No life can be more independent and free than that of the Australian
digger; no travelling more agreeable than summer travelling in the Bush;
carrying about with you in your cart your tent, your larder, and all
your domestic appointments. In choosing a halting place for the night
you have the whole country open to you--no walls or hedges to shut you
in to a dusty turnpike road. You drink from the clear running creek; the
soft green turf is your carpet; your tent your bedroom. Your horse duly
hobbled, enjoys the fresh pasturage around. The nearest fallen tree
supplies you with fuel for your evening fire.
Pages:
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313