Murder Here -
Murder There - Revolvers Cracking - Blunderbusses Bombing - Rifles
Going Off - Balls Whistling - One Man Groaning With A Broken Leg
-
Another shouting because he couldn't find the way to his hole, and a
third equally vociferous because he has tumbled
Into one - this man
swearing - an other praying - a party of bacchanals chanting various
ditties to different time and tune, or rather minus both. Here is one
man grumbling because he has brought his wife with him, another ditto
because he has left his behind, or sold her for an ounce of gold or a
bottle of rum. Donnybrook Fair is not to be compared to an evening at
Bendigo.
Success at the diggings is like drawing lottery tickets - the
blanks far outnumber the prizes; still, with good health, strength, and
above all perseverance, it is strange if a digger does not in the end
reap a reward for his labour. Meanwhile, he must endure almost
incredible hardships. In the rainy season, he must not murmur if
compelled to work up to his knees in water, and sleep on the wet
ground, without a fire, in the pouring rain, and perhaps no shelter
above him more waterproof than a blanket or a gum tree; and this not
for once only, but day after day, night after night. In the summer, he
must work hard under a burning sun, tortured by the mosquito and the
little stinging March flies, or feel his eyes smart and his throat grow
dry and parched, as the hot winds, laden with dust, pass over him.
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