gathering armfuls of sticks, while the clothes clung to our backs with a
muddy perspiration. Sometimes Dan and Dave would sit in the shade beside
the billy of water and gaze at the small patch that had taken so long to
do; then they would turn hopelessly to what was before them and ask Dad
(who would never take a spell) what was the use of thinking of ever
getting such a place cleared? And when Dave wanted to know why Dad
did n't take up a place on the plain, where there were no trees to grub
and plenty of water, Dad would cough as if something was sticking in his
throat, and then curse terribly about the squatters and political jobbery.
He would soon cool down, though, and get hopeful again.

"Look at the Dwyers," he'd say; "from ten acres of wheat they got seventy
pounds last year, besides feed for the fowls; they've got corn in now,
and there's only the two."

It was n't only burning off! Whenever there came a short drought the
waterhole was sure to run dry; then it was take turns to carry water from
the springs--about two miles. We had no draught horse, and if we had
there was neither water-cask, trolly, nor dray; so we humped it--and talk
about a drag! By the time you returned, if you had n't drained the
bucket, in spite of the big drink you'd take before leaving the springs,
more than half would certainly be spilt through the vessel bumping against
your leg every time you stumbled in the long grass. Somehow, none of us
liked carrying water. We would sooner keep the fires going all day
without dinner than do a trip to the springs.

One hot, thirsty day it was Joe's turn with the bucket, and he managed to
get back without spilling very much. We were all pleased because there
was enough left after the tea had been made to give each a drink. Dinner
was nearly over; Dan had finished, and was taking it easy on the sofa,