December, 1853. Oh, Lord! what a pack
of ragamuffins over that way! I got acquainted with the German party
who found out the Tarrangower den; shaped my hole like a bathing tub,
and dropped "on it" right smart. Paid two pounds to cart one load down
the Loddon, and left two more loads of washing stuff, snug and wet
with the sweat of my brow over the hole. Got twenty-eight pennyweights
out of the load. Went back the third day, brisk and healthy, to cart down
the other two loads. Washing stuff! gone: hole! gone: the gully itself!
gone: the whole face of it had been clean shaved. Never mind, go ahead again.
Got another claim on the surface-hill. No search for licence: thank God,
had none. Nasty, sneaky, cheeky little things of flies got into my eyes:
could see no more, no ways. Mud water one shilling a bucket! Got the
dysentery; very bad. Thought, one night, to reef the yards and drop
the anchor. Got on a better tack though. Promenaded up to the famous Bendigo.
Had no particular objection to Celestials there, but had no particular taste
for their tartaric water. Made up my mind to remember my days of innocence,
and turned shepherd. Fine landscape this run on the Loddon: almost a match
for Bella Italia, but there are too many mosquitoes. Dreamt, one day,
I was drinking a tumbler of Loddon wine; and asserted that Providence
was the same also in the south.
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