As the first grey streak of
dawn filtered through the pines, a long-drawn out cry of "Day-li-ght"
Dan's camp reveille rolled out of his net, and Dan rolled out after it,
with even less ceremony than he had rolled in.
On our way back to the homestead, Dan suggesting that the "missus might
like to have a look at the dining-room," we turned into the towering
timber that borders the Reach, and for the next two hours rode on through
soft, luxurious shade; and all the while the fathomless spring-fed Reach
lay sleeping on our left.
The Reach always slept; for nearly twelve miles it lay, a swaying garland
of heliotrope and purple waterlilies, gleaming through a graceful fringe
of palms and rushes and scented shrubs, touched here and there with
shafts of sunlight, and murmuring and rustling with an attendant host of
gorgeous butterflies and flitting birds and insects.
Dan looked on the scene with approving eyes. "Not a bad place to ride
through, is it?" he said.
