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"We cleared off the scrub, we lifted the stones into heaps, we planted corn and wheat—"

"The babe in the tartan frock steering the plough."

"Yes, sir, later on.—Our flocks prospered, our land bore fruit, our family flourished—"

"On milk and honey—"

"Oh, cry off, Swallow!" ejaculated Mr. Bell. "Your father fought flood and drought for forty odd years. The floods of '62 broke his heart, and the floods in '72 ruined you. And this is '82, so don't talk too loud."

"Ruined! When was I ever ruined?" cried Mr. Swallow. "Sheep one-hundred-and-ten per cent—for some herds, as you know, gentlemen, throw twins and triplets. Cattle ninety per cent, horses fifty: and a ready market for 'em all."

"Pests," Mr. Bell was saying, "one million per cent. Rust destroys fourteen thousand acres of wheat crop, just as the country is getting on its feet. Dingoes breed 135 per cent, and kill sheep to match. Cattle run wild and are no more seen. Horses cost the eyes out of your head before you can catch 'em, break 'em, train 'em and ship 'em to the Indian market."