Hygeia had covered the hillside with corn and lowing kine. And here, beside ike lake, a new settlement had arisen, where only women moved, vieing with the magpie and canaries in song. Girls sit in the sun and sew, others with writing-pad on lap hold the pen, while maidens descend laughing, with brimming pails of milk in either hand, from the farmyard on the hill.
Beneath a golden wattle, about which paroquets are shrieking as they flit amongst the white waxy gum-blossom, a girl is painting.
"Will he pause a moment," Millie Cole timidly requests, "while she sketches his gliding coracle?"
Seizing a bough, the white man acceded. In a few moments Millie had caught the outlines of a picture that brought her fame when the grey man was famous.
Across the rippleless lake, towards the quay, where the band is playing, and knots of men, women, and children are lounging, the venerable voyager proceeds. All crowd to the pier-end to observe him. Speculations are rife as to who he may be.
"Some 'wild man of the woods' from the sources of the Silverbourne," suggested one.
"An old 'hatter' been in hiding most like," hazards another.
"A log hollowed Out into a boat," screech some children with glee; "and got a little log aside it. I'd like to ride on it."
"Why don't he have one on t'other side?" laughs Sar' Ann Smith, "to match it?"
"Blowed if the old cove hasn't his 'bluey' for a sail!" exclaims Mike Milligan.
"He's not wore no new suit, nor seen no barber, for many a day, I reckon," cries Sar' Ann.
Oblivious, seemingly, of the curious eyes fixed upon
