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Sunrise renews the stale prospect, and the heated air of noon finds him with sticky collar and drowsy brain. He dozes, wakes, dozes again. Ever and anon the brakes grind, and the train jerks to a standstill. From the window he looks upon a siding, where a platform of blistered planks and an iron shed are emblems of railway authority. A dozen stockmen and loafers of the township crowd the patch of shade, to smoke and spit and await the train's advance. First to the eye comes the hotel, beside it lies the store; and haphazard stand the wooden houses, with iron roofs glaring back into the sun's fierce face. Never a church lifts up its cross as of old the tabernacle made signal in the wilderness. A dusty way leads into the plain, and along this presently the stockmen will turn their horses.

The second evening brings the journey-end. From his platform the traveller sees a township's lights grow upon the plain—lights closer and redder than the stars that meet them. The iron rails have ended. Thankfully he gets down to stretch his limbs in the cool, wide night.