heavy log fencing on rough country like Bruggabrong was no picnic to
contemplate.

This was the feasible light in which father shaded his desire to leave.
The fact of the matter was that the heartless harridan, discontent, had
laid her claw-like hand upon him. His guests were ever assuring him he
was buried and wasted in Timlinbilly's gullies. A man of his
intelligence, coupled with his wonderful experience among stock, would,
they averred, make a name and fortune for himself dealing or
auctioneering if he only liked to try. Richard Melvyn began to think so
too, and desired to try. He did try.

He gave up Bruggabrong, Bin Bin East and Bin Bin West, bought Possum
Gully, a small farm of one thousand acres, and brought us all to live
near Goulburn. Here we arrived one autumn afternoon. Father, mother, and
children packed in the buggy, myself, and the one servant-girl, who had
accompanied us, on horseback. The one man father had retained in his
service was awaiting our arrival. He had preceded us with a
bullock-drayload of furniture and belongings, which was all father had
retained of his household property. Just sufficient for us to get along
with, until he had time to settle and purchase more, he said. That was
ten years ago, and that is the only furniture we possess yet--just enough
to get along with.

My first impression of Possum Gully was bitter disappointment--an
impression which time has failed to soften or wipe away.

How flat, common, and monotonous the scenery appeared after the rugged
peaks of the Timlinbilly Range!