to take up land. They found it too slow at home, and besides there was
not room enough for them there when they passed childhood.

Nothing ever happened there. Time was no object, and the days slid
quietly into the river of years, distinguished one from another by name
alone. An occasional birth or death was a big event, and the biggest
event of all was the advent of a new resident.

When such a thing occurred it was customary for all the male heads of
families to pay a visit of inspection, to judge if the new-comers were
worthy of admittance into the bosom of the society of the neighbourhood.
Should their report prove favourable, then their wives finished the
ceremony of inauguration by paying a friendly visit.

After his arrival at Possum Gully father was much away on business, and
so on my mother fell the ordeal of receiving the callers, male and
female.

The men were honest, good-natured, respectable, common bushmen farmers.
Too friendly to pay a short call, they came and sat for hours yarning
about nothing in particular. This bored my gentle mother excessively. She
attempted to entertain them with conversation of current literature and
subjects of the day, but her efforts fell flat. She might as well have
spoken in French.

They conversed for hours and hours about dairying, interspersed with
pointless anecdotes of the man who had lived there before us. I found
them very tame.

After graphic descriptions of life on big stations outback, and the