It was a hard struggle, but we succeeded in saving the bulk of the barley,
and cut it down with a scythe and three reaping-hooks. The girls helped
to bind it, and Jimmy Mulcahy carted it in return for three days' binding
Dad put in for him. The stack was n't built twenty-four hours when a
score of somebody's crawling cattle ate their way up to their tails in it.
We took the hint and put a sapling fence round it.

Again Dad decided to go up country for a while. He caught Emelina after
breakfast, rolled up a blanket, told us to watch the stack, and started.
The crows followed.

We were having dinner. Dave said, "Listen!" We listened, and it seemed
as though all the crows and other feathered demons of the wide bush were
engaged in a mighty scrimmage. "Dad's back!" Dan said, and rushed out in
the lead of a stampede.

Emelina was back, anyway, with the swag on, but Dad was n't. We caught
her, and Dave pointed to white spots all over the saddle, and said--"Hanged
if they have n't been ridin' her!"--meaning the crows.

Mother got anxious, and sent Dan to see what had happened. Dan found Dad,
with his shirt off, at a pub on the main road, wanting to fight the
publican for a hundred pounds, but could n't persuade him to come home.
Two men brought him home that night on a sheep-hurdle, and he gave up the
idea of going away.

After all, the barley turned out well--there was a good price that year,
and we were able to run two wires round the paddock.