"
"Bush kiddies grow a stock of common sense quite early," said Wally's
voice from the door. "It leaves them in later life, and they stay
gossiping with immigrants in new riding-kit, leaving their unfortunate
fathers grilling in the sun. Which he says--" But at this point Norah
and Tommy brushed the orator from their path, and hastened out to the
horses--finding all the men comfortably smoking under a huge pepper
tree, and apparently in no hurry to start.
Bob bewailed his yellow paddocks as they rode down to the gate.
"They were so beautifully green a few weeks ago," he said. "Now look at
them--why, they're like a crop. The sun has burnt every bit of moisture
out of them."
"Don't let that worry you, my boy," David Linton said. "The stock are
doing all right; as long as they have plenty of good water at this time
of the year they won't ask you for green grass." He gave a low chuckle.
"You wouldn't think this was bad feed if you had seen the country in the
drought years--why, the paddocks were as bare as the palm of your hand.
Now you've grass, as you say yourself, like a crop." He looked at it
critically. "I could wish you hadn't as much; fires will be a bit of an
anxiety later on."
"Grass fires?" queried Bob.
"Yes. There's not enough timber here to have a real bush fire. But this
grass is dry enough now, and by February it will go like tinder if any
fool swagman drops a match carelessly.
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