original tenants sold, as it were, the good-will and stock of their
run at enormous prices; but what always seemed to me so hard was,
that after you had paid any number of thousand pounds for your run,
you might have to buy it all, or at any rate, some portion of it,
over again. Land could only be purchased freehold from the
Government, for 2 pounds an acre; and if a "cockatoo" (i.e., a small
farmer), or a speculator in mines, fancied any part of your
property, he had only to go to the land office, and challenge your
pre-emptive rights. The officials gave you notice of the challenge,
and six weeks' grace in which to raise the money, and buy it
freehold yourself; but few sheep-farmers could afford to pay a good
many hundred pounds unexpectedly to secure even their best "flats"
or vallies. Hence it often happened that large runs in the most
favourable situations were cut up by small investors, "free
selectors" as they are called in Australia, and it used to be rather
absurd the way one grew to distrust any stranger who was descried
riding about the run. The poor man might be looking for a stray
horse, or have lost his way, but we always fancied he must be
"prospecting" for either gold or coals, or else be a "cockatoo"
disguised as a traveller.

Such was the state of things when my story opens. Shearing was just
over, and we knew to a lamb how rapidly our flocks and herds were
increasing. A succession of mild winters and early genial springs
had got the flock into capital order. The wool had all been sent
off to Christchurch by drays, the sheep were turned out on the
beautiful green hills for ten months of perfect rest and peace;
whilst the dogs, who had barked themselves quite hoarse, were
enabled to desist from their labours in mustering and watching the
yet unshorn mobs on the vallies. Although our run was as well