BLACK THURSDAY
Autumn and winter passed in the ordinary succession of regular duties
and peaceful employments, now become easy and habitual. These the
expatriated family had learned to love. The departure of the old
stock-rider was felt as a temporary inconvenience, but the brothers with
Dick Evans’s aid and counsel felt themselves qualified to supply his
place, and decided not to employ a successor.
Guy, indeed, had grown into a stalwart youngster, taller and broader
than his elder brother; so much had the pure air, the healthful bush
life, the regular exercise and occasional labour demanded by the station
exigencies done for his development. He was apt at all the minor rural
accomplishments—could ride the unbroken colts, which their own stud now
produced, and was well acquainted with the ways and wanderings of
outlying cattle. The lore of the Waste, in which old Dick was so able an
instructor, was now his. He could plait a hide-rope, make bullock-yokes,
noose and throw the unbranded cattle, drive a team, split and put up
‘fencing stuff’; in many ways do a man’s work, when needed, as
efficiently as his preceptor. Dick prophesied that he would become ‘a
great bushman’ in years to come. Indeed, by tales of ‘taking up new
country’ and of the adventurous branches of station life, he had
fostered a thirst for more extended and responsible action which gave
his parents some uneasiness.
He had begun to acquire the Australian boy’s contempt for the narrow
bounds involved by a residence on ‘purchased land.’ He impatiently
awaited the day when he should be able to sally forth, with a herd of
his own and the necessary equipment, to seek his fortune amid romantic,
unexplored wilds. He began to lose interest in the daily round of home
duties; and though from long habit and an affectionate nature, as yet
dutifully obedient to his parents’ bidding, he more than once confessed
that he longed for independent action.
* * * * *
The season was ‘setting in dry.’ There had been no rain for months.
Around Lake William and near that wide expanse of water an appearance of
verdure was preserved by the more marshy portion of the great flats.
Amid these the cattle daily revelled and fed. They might have been seen
grouped in large droves far out on the promontories, or wading amid the
shallowing reed-beds which fringed the shore, long after the sun had
set, and the breathless night, boding of storms which came not, had
closed in.
Among the neighbours this state of matters by no means passed without
observation and remark. Nought save desultory discussion ensued. Except
O’Desmond, no one had been long enough in the colony to have had
experience of abnormal seasons. Curiously, he was the one who took the
more despondent view of matters, from which men augured ill.
‘I hope to heaven that we are not going to have a repetition of 1827,’
he said; ‘one experience of that sort is enough to last a man for his
lifetime.’
‘Was it so very awful?’ said Hamilton, the conversation taking place at
Benmohr, at which convenient rendezvous Wilfred and Churbett had
encountered that gentleman. ‘One fancies that the ancient colonists were
not fertile in expedients.’
‘No doubt we have much to learn from the accomplished gentlemen who have
done us the honour to invest in our colony of late years,’ said
O’Desmond grandly, with a bow of the regency; ‘but if you had seen what
I have, you would not undervalue the danger. I don’t care to talk about
it. Only if this year ends badly, I shall leave Badajos to my old couple
and the overseer, muster my stock, and start into the wilderness without
waiting for another.’
‘What direction shall you take?’ said Hamilton.
‘Due south, until I strike the head waters of the Sturt and the
Warburton. These I shall follow down, and make my depôt wherever I
discover a sufficiently tempting base.’
‘It has quite the heroic ring about it,’ said Wilfred. ‘But for certain
reasons, I would like to follow you. How about provisions?’
‘I take a year’s supply of rations and clothing. We drive our meat
before us.’
‘And the blacks?’
‘I know all that can be known about them,’ said O’Desmond. ‘They
recognise chiefs among the white men. If one does not fear them, they
are to be dealt with like children.’
‘You will find it hard to quit your pleasant life at Badajos for the
desert,’ said Wilfred.
‘Not at all; the sharper the contrast, the more easily is the change
made. Besides, on such occasions mine is a well-organised expedition. I
take my cook, my groom, my four-in-hand. What do you say? Come with me
for the first week or two. I can promise you a chop broiled to
perfection. I must show you my “reversible griller,” of which I am the
proud inventor.’
Here the door was loudly knocked at, and being opened without further
ceremony, disclosed the serious countenance of Wullie Teviot, apparently
out of breath.
‘Maister Hamilton and gentlemen a’,’ he said, ‘I’m no in a poseetion to
do my errand respectfully the noo, but hae just breath to warn ye that
there’s a muckle bush-fire comin’ fast frae the direction o’ Maister
Effingham’s. I trust we’ll no be the waur o’t.’
This ended migratory speculations abruptly. Each man started to his
feet. Hamilton left the room to secure a horse and order out his
retainers, Wilfred to try and make out whether the heavy spreading cloud
on the horizon was across his boundary.
‘I and my man will go with Hamilton,’ quoth O’Desmond. ‘Effingham had
better make for home, and see how it is likely to affect him.’
Hamilton was dashing down the paddock on a bare-backed horse by this
time, to run up the hacks, and also one for the spring-cart, to be
loaded with spare hands for the scene of action, besides that invaluable
adjunct in a bush fire, a cask of water.
‘I hardly like leaving,’ said Wilfred; ‘it looks selfish.’
‘Don’t mind about the sentiment,’ said O’Desmond. ‘If your run is afire
you will need to help Dick Evans and his party. I’ll be bound the old
fellow is half-way there already. He is not often caught napping.’
Then Wilfred mounted too, and sped away, galloping madly towards the
great masses of ever-increasing smoke-cloud. It proved to be farther off
than he expected. He had ridden far and fast, when he reached the border
where he could hear the crackling of the tender leaflets, and watched
the red line which licked up so cleanly all dry sticks and bush, with
every stalk and plant and modest tuft of grass. He then found that the
chief duty, not so much of meeting the enemy, as of guiding and
persuading him to turn his fiery footsteps in a different direction, was
being satisfactorily performed by Richard Evans and his assistants. Guy,
in wild delight at being made lieutenant of the party, was dashing ever
and anon into the centre of the smoke and flame, and dealing blows with
his bough like a Berserker.
‘Head it off, lads,’ Dick was saying when Wilfred rode up. ‘It’s no use
trying to stop it in the long grass; edge it off towards the ranges.
There it may burn till all’s blue.’
‘Why, Dick,’ said he to his trustworthy veteran, ‘how did you manage to
get here so quickly? They’ve only just seen it at Benmohr.’
‘They’ll find it out pretty quick, sir, if there’s a shift of wind
to-night. It don’t need much coaxing our way, but it means Benmohr, with
a southerly puff or two. If it gets into that grassy bit by the old
stock-yard, it will burn at the rate of fifty mile an hour.’
Hour after hour did they work by the line of fire, ere Dick’s vigilance
could permit any kind of halt or relaxation. It was exciting, not
unpleasant work, Wilfred thought, walking up and down the red-gleaming
line of tongues of fire which licked up so remorselessly the tangled
herbage, the lower shrubs, the dead flower-stalks, and all scattered
branches of the fallen trees.
The night was dark, sultry, and still. As ever and anon the fire caught
some tall, dead tree, and running up it, seized the hollow trunk,
holding out red signals from each limb and cavity, high up among the
branches, the effect against the sombre sky, the dull, massed gloom of
the mountain, was grandly effective. In the lurid scene the moving
figures upon whose faces the fierce light occasionally beat, seemed
weird and phantasmal. Patiently did the wary leader watch the line of
fire, which had been extinguished on the side next to the lower lands,
now casting back a half-burned log far within the blackened area, and
anon beating out insidious tussocks of dried grass, ignited by a
smouldering ember.
When once the defensive line had been subdued, it was easily kept under
by sweeping the half-burned grass and sticks back from the still
inflammable herbage into the bared space now devoid of fuel. But care
was still needed, as ever and again a half-burned tree would crash down
across the line, throwing forth sparks and embers, or perhaps lighting
up a temporary conflagration.
All the night through, the men kept watch and ward beside the boundary.
The strangeness of the scene compensated Wilfred and Guy for the loss of
their natural rest as well as for the severity of the exertion. As they
watched the flame-path hewing its way unchecked up the rugged
mountain-side, lighting up from time to time with wondrous clearness
every crag, bush, and tree, to the smallest twig—a nature picture,
clear, brilliant, unearthly, framed in the unutterable blackness of the
night, it seemed as if they were assisting at some Walpurgis revel; as
if in the lone woods, at that mystic hour, the forms of the dead, the
spectres of the past, might at any moment arise and mingle with them.
As they lay stretched on the dry sward, in the intervals of rest, they
watched the gradual progress of the flame through the rugged,
chasm-rifted, forest-clothed mountain. With every ascent gained, the
flame appeared to hoist a signal of triumph over the dumb, dark,
illimitable forest which surrounded them. Finally, when like a crafty
foe it had climbed to the highest peak, the fire, there discovering upon
a plateau a mass of brushwood and dry herbage, burst out in one
far-seen, wide-flaming beacon, at once a Pharos and a Wonder-sign to the
dwellers at a lower elevation.
The bush fire had been fought and conquered. It only remained for Dick
and a few to go back on the following day and make sure that the
frontier was safe; that no smouldering logs were ready to light up the
land again as soon as the breeze should have fanned them sufficiently.
The main body of the fire had gone up the mountain range, where no harm
could be done; where, as Dick said, as soon as the first rain came, the
grass would be all up again, and make nice, sweet picking for the stock
in winter.
The Benmohr people had not been quite so lucky; the wind setting in that
direction, the flames had come roaring up to the very homestead, burning
valuable pasture and nearly consuming the establishment. As it was, the
garden gate caught fire. The farm and station buildings were only
preserved by the desperate efforts of the whole force of the place, led
on by Argyll and Hamilton, who worked like the leaders of a forlorn
hope. After the fight was over and the place saved, Charlie Hamilton,
utterly exhausted with the heat and exertion, dropped down in a faint,
and had to be carried in and laid on a bed, to the consternation of Mrs.
Teviot, who thought he was dead.
It was now the last week of March, and all things looked as bad as they
could be. Not a drop of rain worth mentioning had fallen since the
spring. The small rivers which ran into Lake William had ceased to flow,
and were reduced each to its own chain of ponds. That great sheet of
water was daily receding from its shores, shallowing visibly, and
leaving islands of mud in different parts of its surface, unpleasantly
suggestive of total evaporation. Strange wild-fowl, hitherto unknown in
the locality—notably the ibis, the pelican, and the spoonbill—had
appeared in great flocks, disputing possession with the former
inhabitants. The flats bordering upon the lake, once so luxuriantly
covered with herbage, were bare and dusty as a highroad. The constant
marching in and out of the cattle to water had caused them to be fed
down to the last stalk. Apparently there was no chance of their renewal.
The herd, though still healthy and vigorous, was beginning to lose
condition; if this were the case now, what tale would the winter have to
tell? The yield of milk had so fallen off that merely sufficient was
taken for the use of the house. The ground was so hard that it was
impossible to plough for the wheat crop, even if there had been
likelihood of the plant growing after the seed was sown.
Andrew was clearly of the opinion that Australia much resembled Judea,
and that for some good reason the Lord had seen fit to pour down His
wrath upon the land, which was now stricken with various plagues and
grievous trials.
‘I’m no sayin’,’ he said, ‘that the sin o’ the people has been
a’thegither unpardonable and forbye ordinair’. There’s nae doot a wheen
swearin’ and drinkin’ amang thae puir ignorant stock-riders and splitter
bodies. Still, they’re for the maist pairt a hard delvin’, ceevil
people, that canna be said to eat the bread o’ idleness, and that’s no
wilfu’ in disobeyin’ the Word, siccan sma’ hearin’ as they hae o’t. I’m
lyin’ in deep thocht on my bed nicht after nicht, wearyin’ to find ae
comfortin’ gleam o’ licht in this darkness o’ Egypt.’
‘It’s a bad look-out, Andrew,’ said Guy, to whom Andrew was confiding
his feelings, as he often did to the lad when he was troubled about the
well-doing of the community. ‘And it will be worse if the cattle die
after next winter. Whatever shall we do? We shall never get such a lot
of nice, well-bred ones together again. What used the Jews to do in a
season like this, I wonder, for they got it pretty bad sometimes, you
know, when Jacob sent all his sons into Egypt?’
‘I mind weel, Maister Guy,’ said the old man solemnly. ‘And ye see he
had faith that the Lord would provide for him and his sons and dochters.
And though they were sair afflicted before the time of deliverance came,
they were a’ helped and saved in the end. He that brocht ye a’ here nae
doot will provide. Pray and trust in Him, Maister Guy, and dinna forget
what ye learned at your mither’s knee, hinny, the God-fearin’ lady that
she ever was. We must suffer tribulation, doubtless; but dinna fear—oh,
dinna lose faith, my bairn, and we shall sing joyful songs i’ the
ootcome!’
As the season wore on, and the rainless winter was succeeded by the
hopeless spring, with drying winds and cloudless days, it seemed as if
the tribulation spoken of by Andrew was indeed to be sharp, to the verge
of extermination.
Not only were great losses threatened by the destruction of the stock,
but the money question was commencing to become urgent. For the past
year no sales of stock had been possible. Few had the means of keeping
the stock they were possessed of. They were not likely to add to their
responsibility by buying others, at however tempting a price. As there
was no milk, there was naturally no butter, cheese, or the wherewithal
to fatten the hogs for bacon. These sources of income were obliterated.
Having no produce to sell, it became apparent that the articles
necessary to be bought were suddenly enhanced in value. Flour rose from
twelve and fifteen to fifty, seventy, finally, _one hundred pounds per
ton_. Not foreseeing this abnormal rise, Wilfred had sold their
preceding year’s crop, as usual, as soon as it reached a better price
than ordinary, merely retaining a year’s supply of flour. That being
exhausted, he was compelled, sorely against the grain, to purchase at
these famine rates. Rice, which could be imported cheaply, was largely
mingled with the flour, as a matter of economy. The bread was scarcely
so palatable, but by the help of Jeanie’s admirable baking, little
difference was felt.
Mr. Rockley confided that he felt deeply reluctant to charge him and
other friends such high prices for the necessaries of life. The
difficulties of carriage, however, were now amazing. Numbers of the
draught cattle had perished, and fodder was obliged to be carried by the
teams on their journeys, enhancing the cost indefinitely.
‘The fact is,’ said that unreserved merchant, ‘I am losing on all sides.
The smaller farmers in my debt have no more chance of paying me, before
the rain comes, than if they were in gaol. Everybody purchases the
smallest quantity of goods that they can do with, and I have great
difficulty in buying in Sydney at prices which will leave any margin of
profit. But you come in and dine with us this evening. I’ve got a bottle
of claret left, in spite of the hard times. And keep up your spirits, my
boy! We shall come out of this trouble as we’ve done through others.
This country wasn’t meant for faint-hearted people, was it? If all comes
right, we shall be proud of having stuck to the ship manfully, eh? If
not, it’s better to give three cheers when she goes down, than to whine
and snivel. Come along in. I’ve done with business for the day.’
And so Wilfred, who had ridden to Yass in a state of despondency, went
in and was comforted, as happened to him many a time and often, under
that hospitable roof. The dinner was good though the times were bad,
while Rockley’s claret was unimpeachable, as of old. Mrs. Rockley and
Christabel were more than usually warm and sympathetic of manner. As he
sat in the moonlight with Rockley and the ladies (who had joined them),
and heard from his host tales of previous hard seasons and how they had
been surmounted, he felt his heart stir with unwonted hope and a resolve
to fight this fight to the end.
‘I’ve seen these seasons before,’ said the energetic optimist, ‘and I’ve
always remarked that they were followed by a period of prosperity. Think
of the last drought we had, and what splendid seasons followed it! This
looks as bad as anything _can_ look, but if I could get long odds, I
wouldn’t mind betting that before 1840 we’re crowded with buyers, and
that stock, land, and city property touch prices never reached before.
Look forward, Wilfred, my boy, look forward! There’s nothing to be done
without it, in a new country, take my word.’
‘You must admit that it’s hard to see anything cheering just at
present.’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ said his host, lighting another cigar.
‘Christabel, go in and sing something. It’s all a matter of calculation.
Say that half your cattle die—mind you, you’ve no business to let ’em
die, if you can help it—hang on by your eyelids, that’s the idea—but say
half of ’em _do_ die, why, the moment the rain comes the remainder are
twice as valuable as they were before, perhaps more than that, if a new
district is discovered. By the way, there _is_ a report of a new
settlement down south; if it comes to anything, see what a rush there’ll
be for stock, to take over on speculation. That’s the great advantage of
a new country; if one venture goes wrong, there are a dozen spring up
for you to choose from.’
‘Do you think it would be a good idea to take away part of the stock,
and try and find a new station?’
‘I really believe it would; and if I were a young man to-morrow it’s the
very thing that I would go in for. We have not explored a tenth part of
the boundless—I say boundless—pasture lands of this continent. No doubt
there are millions of acres untouched, as good as we have ever
occupied.’
‘But are they not so far off as to be valueless?’
‘No land that will carry sheep or cattle, or grow grain, can be
valueless in Australia for the next century to come. And with the
increase of population, all outer territories will assume a positive
value as soon as the present depression is over.’
While in Yass, Wilfred consulted their good friend and adviser, Mr.
Sternworth, who had indeed, by letter, when not able to visit them
personally, not ceased to cheer and console during the disheartening
season.
‘This is a time of trial, my dear Wilfred,’ he said, ‘that calls out the
best qualities of a man, in the shape of courage, faith, and
self-denial. It is the day of adversity, when we are warned not to
faint. I can fully enter into your distress and anxiety, while seeing
the daily loss and failure of all upon which you depended for support.
It is doubly hard for you, after a term of success and progress. But we
must have faith—unwavering faith—in the Supreme Ruler of events, and
doubt not—doubt not for one moment, my boy—but that we shall issue
unharmed and rejoicing out of this tribulation.’
Among their neighbours, unusual preparations were made to lighten the
impending calamity. Unnecessary labourers were discharged. The daily
work of the stations was, in great measure, done by the proprietors. The
Teviots were the only domestic retainers at Benmohr; they, of course,
and Dick Evans were a part of the very composition of the
establishments, and not to be dispensed with. The D’Oyleys discharged
their cook and stock-rider, performing these necessary duties by turns,
week alternate.
Fred Churbett retained his married couple and stock-rider, declaring
that he would die like a gentleman; that he could pay his way for two
years more; after which, if times did not mend, he would burn the place
down, commit suicide decently, and leave the onus on destiny. He could
not cook, neither would he wash clothes. He would be as obstinate as the
weather.
O’Desmond made full preparations for a migration in spring, if the
weather continued dry and no rain fell in September. There would be a
slight spring of grass then, rain or no rain. He would take advantage of
it, to depart, like a patriarch of old, not exactly with his camels and
she-asses, but with his cattle and brood mares, his sheep and his oxen,
his men-servants and his maid-servants—well perhaps not the latter, but
everything necessary to give a flavour of true colonisation to the
movement. And he travelled in good style, with such observances and
ceremony as surrounded Harry O’Desmond in all that he did, and made him
the wonder and admiration of less favoured individuals.
He had his waggonette and four-in-hand, the horses of which, corn-fed at
the commencement, would, after they got on to the grasses of the great
interior levels, fare well and indeed fatten on the journey. A roomy
tent, as also a smaller one for his body-servant, cook, and kitchen
utensils, shielded him and his necessaries from the weather. Portable
bath and dining-table, couch, and toilette requisites were available at
shortest notice; while a groom led his favourite hackney, upon which he
mounted whenever he desired to explore a mountain peak or an unknown
valley. The cottage was handed over to the charge of the gardener and
his wife, old servants of the establishment. And finally, the
long-expected rain not appearing in September, he departed, like a
Spanish conquistador of old, to return with tales of wondrous regions,
of dusky slaves, of gold, of feather-crowned Caciques, and palm-fanned
isles, or to leave his whitening bones upon mountain summit or lonely
beach.
It was believed among his old friends that Harry O’Desmond would either
return successful, with hardly-won territory attached to his name, or
that he would journey on over the great desert, which was supposed then
to form the interior of the continent, until return was hopeless.
His servants would be faithful unto death. None would ever question his
order of march. And if he were not successful in founding a kingdom, to
be worked as a relief province for Badajos, he would never come back at
all. Some day there would be found the traces of a white man’s
encampment, amid tribes of natives as yet unknown—the shreds of tents,
the waggonette wheels, the scattered articles of plate, and the more
ordinary utensils of the white man. From beneath a spreading tree would
be exhumed the bones of the leader of the party. Such would be the
memorials of a pioneer and explorer, who was never known to turn back or
confess himself unsuccessful.
As to the labour question, Dick Evans and his wife were indispensable
now, more than ever, as the brothers had resolved not to remain _in
statu quo_. Wilfred had determined to organise an expedition, and to
take the greater part of the herd with him. In such a case it would have
been suicidal to deprive themselves of Dick’s services, as, of course,
he would be only too eager to make one of the party. He cheerfully
submitted to a diminution of wages, stating that as long as he and the
old woman had a crust of bread and a rag to their backs they would stand
by the captain and the family.
‘If we could only get through the winter,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t have no
fear but we’d box about down south with the cattle till we dropped on a
run for them. There’s a lot of fine country beyond the Snowy, if we’d
only got a road over the mountains to it. But it’s awful rough, and the
blacks would eat up a small party like ours. I don’t hardly like the
thoughts of tacklin’ it. But what I’m afraid on is, that if the winter
comes on dry we’ll have _no cattle to take_. They’re a-gettin’ desprit
low now, and the lake’s as good as dried up.’
The outlook was gloomy indeed when even the sanguine Dick Evans could
make no better forecast. But Wilfred was the sailing-master, and it did
not become him to show hesitation.
‘We must do our best, and trust in God, Dick,’ he said. ‘This is a
wonderful country for changes; one may come in the right direction yet.’
As for Andrew and Jeanie, they would not hear of taking any wages until
times improved. They had cast in their lot with the family, and Jeanie
would stay with her mistress and the girls, who were dear to her as her
own children, as long as there was a roof to shelter them.
Andrew fully recognised it as a ‘season of rebuke and blasphemy.’ He who
ordered the round world had, for inscrutable reasons, brought this
famine upon them. Like the children of Israel, he doubted but they would
have to follow the advice given in 1 Kings xviii. 5: ‘And Ahab said to
Obadiah, Go into the land, unto all fountains of water, and unto all
brooks; peradventure we may find grass to save the horses and mules
alive, that we lose not all the beasts.’
‘And did they?’ asked Guy.
‘Nae doot; as maist like we shall do gin we use the same means as
gracious Elijah. No that I’m free to testify that I conseeder the
slayin’ o’ the prophets o’ Baal a’thegither a needcessity. It wad have
been mair wiselike on the pairt o’ Elijah to have disestablished their
kirk and garred them lippen a’ their days to the voluntary principle.
But let that flee stick to the wa’; dinna doot, laddie, that ae day the
heavens will be black wi’ clouds, and there will be a great rain.’
Perhaps the one of the whole party most to be pitied was Howard
Effingham. With the eagerness of a sanguine nature, he had become fixed
in the idea that the prosperity with which they had commenced was to be
continuous. Inspired with that belief he had, as we have seen, commenced
to indulge himself with the reproduction, on a small scale, of the
pleasant surroundings of the old country. He had fancied that the
production of cattle, cheese, butter, bacon, and cereals would go on
almost automatically henceforth, with a moderate amount of exertion on
Wilfred’s part and of supervision on his own. It was not in his nature
to be absorbed in the money-making part of their life; but in the
acclimatisation of birds, beasts, and fishes, in the organisation of the
Hunt Club, in the greyhound kennel, and in the stable his interest was
unfailing, and his energy wonderful.
Now, unfortunately, to his deep regret and mortification, he saw his
beloved projects rendered nugatory, worthless, and in a manner
contemptible, owing to this woeful season.
What was likely to become of the fish if the lake dried up, as it showed
every disposition to do? How was one to go forth fowling and coursing
when every spare moment was utilised for some purpose of necessity?
As for the hounds, some arrangement would have to be made about feeding
and exercising these valuable animals. The horseflesh was wanting, the
time was not to be spared, the meat and meal were not always
forthcoming. Terrible to imagine, the kennel was commencing to be an
incubus and an oppression!
In the midst of this doubt and uncertainty a letter came from a
well-known sportsman, Mr. Robert Malahyde, keenest of the keen, offering
to take charge of the hounds until the season became more tolerable. His
district was not so unfavourably situated as the neighbourhood of Yass,
and from his larger herds and pastures he would be able to arrange the
‘boiler’ part of the management more easily than Mr. Effingham.
A meeting of the subscribers was quickly called, when it was agreed that
the hounds be sent to Mummumberil till the seasons changed.
As for the pheasants and partridges, which had flourished so
encouragingly during the first season, the curse of the time had fallen
even on them. The native cat (dasyurus) had increased wonderfully of
late. Berries and grass seeds were scanty in this time of famine. In
consequence, the survival of the fittest, coupled with acts of highly
natural selection, ensued. The native cats selected the young of the
exotic birds, but few of the adult game seemed likely to survive this
drought.