Tom ploughed and sowed wheat, but nothing came up to speak of--the
ground was too poor; so he carted stable manure six miles from the
nearest town, manured the land, sowed another crop, and prayed for
rain. It came. It raised a flood which washed the crop clean off the
selection, together with several acres of manure, and a considerable
portion of the original surface soil; and the water brought down
enough sand to make a beach, and spread it over the field to a depth
of six inches. The flood also took half a mile of fencing from along
the creek-bank, and landed it in a bend, three miles down, on a dummy
selection, where it was confiscated.

Tom didn't give up--he was energetic. He cleared another piece of
ground on the siding, and sowed more wheat; it had the rust in it, or
the smut--and averaged three shillings per bushel. Then he sowed
lucerne and oats, and bought a few cows: he had an idea of starting a
dairy. First, the cows' eyes got bad, and he sought the advice of a
German cocky, and acted upon it; he blew powdered alum through paper
tubes into the bad eyes, and got some of it snorted and butted back
into his own. He cured the cows' eyes and got the sandy blight in his
own, and for a week or so be couldn't tell one end of a cow from the
other, but sat in a dark corner of the hut and groaned, and soaked his
glued eyelashes in warm water. Germany stuck to him and nursed him,
and saw him through.

Then the milkers got bad udders, and Tom took his life in his hands
whenever he milked them. He got them all right presently--and butter
fell to fourpence a pound. He and the aforesaid cocky made
arrangements to send their butter to a better market; and then the
cows contracted a disease which was known in those parts as "plooro
permoanyer," but generally referred to as "th' ploorer."