There's My Story; And Little I Thought When I
Went Into Gregory's Store To-Day, That I Should Find My Curly-Pated
Nephew Ready To Hear It."
Next day we travelled on, and halted near Saw-pit Gully; it was early
in the afternoon, and we took a walk about this most interesting
locality.
The earth was torn up everywhere - a few lucky hits
had sufficed to re-collect a good many diggers there, and they were
working vigorously. At dusk the labour ceased - the men returned to
their tents, and for the last time our ears were assailed by the
diggers' usual serenade. Imagine some hundreds of revolvers almost
instantaneously fired - the sound reverberating through the mighty
forests, and echoed far and near - again and again till the last faint
echo died away in the distance. Then a hundred blazing fires burst upon
the sight - around them gathered the rough miners themselves - their
sun-burnt, hair-covered faces illumined by the ruddy glare. Wild songs,
and still wilder bursts of laughter are heard; gradually the flames
sink and disappear, and an oppressive stillness follows (sleep rarely
refuses to visit the diggers' lowly couch), broken only by some
midnight carouser, as he vainly endeavours to find his tent. No fear of
a "peeler" taking him off to a police-station, or of being brought
before a magistrate next morning, and "fined five shillings for being
drunk."
Early on Tuesday morning I gave a parting look to the diggings - our dray
went slowly onwards - a slight turn in the road, and the last
tent has vanished from my sight.
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