where the equator girdles the earth, the indian ocean and the amorous waters of the pacific have their marriage bed. afire with the passions of the tropics, excited by breezes from a thousand islands of palm, of spice, of coral, of pearl, jewelled for the ceremony with quick-lived phosphorous lights, the oceans move to each other, and mingle hot kisses under high red suns and fierce white moons. they have begotten many children; and one of these—the sea of carpentaria—leans deep into the northern coast of australia, and wears itself against a thousand miles of barren shore.

as a young girl, dreaming her dreams, spends affection careless of the cost, so these romantic waters woo the stern northern land with warm and tireless embrace. and, as a man, busy on his own affairs, cares nothing for such soft entreaty, so the north land gives no sign; but remarks in silence the passage of the years.

yet who shall say that passion has no place there—because a giant broods, dreaming a giant's dreams? who shall say—because long waiting may have brought crabbed age—that the north land has not its sorrows? morose countenance it keeps, yet freely can it spend. its pulse beats no feeble strokes. fierce suns travel across it, the heavens are torn for its rains, its floods laugh at restraint, the drought is slave of its ill-humours.

its face is rough with frequent ranges where scanty vegetation climbs, where barren rock-faces catch the sunlight, and clefts run in, and shadowy cave-mouths open out. here the wallaby finds harbourage, the bat hangs himself in the shadows, the python unrolls his coils, and the savage stays a space for shelter.

its face is smooth with dreary plain. stunted trees find living there, and hold out narrow leaves to cheat the suns. the spinifex battles with the thrifty soil, and porcupine grass weaves its spikes for the unwary. score of miles by score of miles the country rolls away, brown or red where shows the bare earth, grey or yellow or smoky blue where the sun weds the dried grassland, shining white where the quartz pushes out of the ground. through half the hours the sun stares from the centre of the sky, the leaves hang unmoved, the grasses are unstirred: silence only lives. the savage is dreaming of the feast to come, the kangaroo has taken himself to the roots of a tree in the dried water-course. the sun passes to the journey's end: life again draws breath. the kangaroo seeks the tenderer grasses; the dingo rises in his lair to stretch, and loll his tongue; the parrot screams from the tree-top; tiny finches, in splendid coats, swing among the bushes; a brown kite takes high station in the sky. yet the waste seems empty, and the white ants only may boast of conquest where their red cones rise everywhere about the plain.

a belt of greener timber stands out bravely from the faded vegetation to mark the river on its passage to the sea. to the parching waterholes the pelican comes at dawn to fish and to pout his breast: snowy spoonbills and divers splash in the lonely shallows. the alligator comes up to sun himself; the turtle bubbles from the hot mud; and the quick striped fishes play at hide and seek among the languid weeds. the kingfisher busies himself along the bank, and with evening the ducks push their triangles about the sky.

the conquest of this northern land will bring the fall of one of savagery's last fortresses. already the outposts of south and east press in. the ramparts are crumbling, and soon the gates[pg 4] must tumble to a victor who never yet has been denied. the white man has turned here his covetous gaze. vainly the burning winds and angry rains shall beat at the ashes of his first fires and shall scatter his first solitary bones. the silences shall not fright him, nor the lean places turn his purpose. though he fall, yet will he come on again, for this foe is fashioned of stern stuff. in ones, in twos, already he toils over the face of the wilderness, seeking the kindlier ways for his herds: in ones, in twos, he passes about the hills and watercourses, wresting from their bosoms the objects of his avarice. alike he invades the sternest and gentlest retreats, raising his shelters to mock at sun and storm. his long fences are breaking the distances, his beasts of burden trample the virgin waterholes, his iron houses defile the hermit vales. not easily does he work his will. lean and brown he becomes, and his women grow haggard before their time. but children patter upon the bitter places, and them the wilderness has less power to hurt.

the sea of carpentaria woos the north land. the north land gives no sign.

. . . . . . .

the mining camp of surprise valley lies in the folds of those ranges which break the long plains of the gulf country. ten years ago it grew along the bottom of a cup of the hills, and since that season neither has waxed nor waned, being nothing troubled by the wilderness which marches to the door-ways of its tents and humble iron houses.

the traveller, by circumstance brought thither from the east, with ill grace leaves his steamer at the coast, boards the casual train, and presently finds himself jerking forward on the second stage of the journey. he bumps westward for five hundred miles. he moves through plains which—right and left—push into the horizon. the ocean has not seemed to him more immense. a curtain of heat is about their edges, a haze dwells about them. the clamour of his coming scatters sheep at their grazing, alarms the kangaroo at matins, sends the wild turkey into the taller grasses. for a night, for a day, for half another night, he is held in thrall. he alone appears eager for the journey end. he smokes, he reads, he eats: a dozen ways he sets himself to hurry time. the cool of the evening takes him to the outside platform of the car to reflect and watch the darkening of the skies—to remark the first white stars. at such hour maybe he takes his lot in better part.

sunrise renews the stale prospect, and the heated air of noon finds him with sticky collar and drowsy brain. he dozes, wakes, dozes again. ever and anon the brakes grind, and the train jerks to a standstill. from the window he looks upon a siding, where a platform of blistered planks and an iron shed are emblems of railway authority. a dozen stockmen and loafers of the township crowd the patch of shade, to smoke and spit and await the train's advance. first to the eye comes the hotel, beside it lies the store; and haphazard stand the wooden houses, with iron roofs glaring back into the sun's fierce face. never a church lifts up its cross as of old the tabernacle made signal in the wilderness. a dusty way leads into the plain, and along this presently the stockmen will turn their horses.

the second evening brings the journey-end. from his platform the traveller sees a township's lights grow upon the plain—lights closer and redder than the stars that meet them. the iron rails have ended. thankfully he gets down to stretch his limbs in the cool, wide night.

but a hundred miles still frown him from the goal. with morning he clambers into a seat of the mail coach—a battered carriage. his luggage has been strapped behind. he sits solitary beside the driver, who accepts him with easy familiarity. the reins run slack to the horses' heads, and the five lean beasts draw him forward at even pace. the dust climbs up and hangs upon the air. all day he rolls over empty plain.

the second afternoon brings the ranges marching from the horizon, and by evening the coach rises and dips upon a see-saw roadway. as the sun leans down to the horizon, the driver draws taut his reins before surprise valley hotel. surprise valley ends the coach journey—ends the direct mail service—ends the bush parson's endeavors—ends the travelling school-master's rounds—ends civilization—ends everything. when humour so inclines them—which is seldom—the people of surprise valley may walk from their doorways into the great unknown of the west.

fortune has given to surprise the greenest fold of the western ranges. easy hills stand up about the camp, tracing a zig-zag rim against the sky. the camp lies in the hollow, as in the bottom of a cup. it clambers about the lower slopes, following the whim of the latest comer. the hotel boasts a roof and walls of iron, that much boasts the store, that much the manager's house. the staff barracks and the mine offices equally are favoured. wooden piles lift the buildings high from the ground. elsewhere stand weather-worn tents; and sometimes a bough shed, thatched with gum-leaves, serves its architect as parlour.

towering over all rise the poppet-heads and bins of the mine. goats take a siesta beneath the scrubby trees, explore the rubbish heaps, and clamber about the dump; fowls of more breeds than joseph's coat knew colours, employ themselves in the dusty places, or keep the shade of the broken rocks. here and there an optimist nurses a garden, and finds reward in a few drooping vegetables. goats and fowls peer through the netting with evil in their hearts. this is surprise valley to the stranger eye.

three score burnt men and a handful of shabby women here find living. they dig for the green copper hidden jealously in the bosom of the hills. from distant parts they have drifted, they stay awhile; again they drift; but the camp endures, and the wilderness is powerless to harm it. forward and backward from the railroad, a hundred miles away, the weekly coach crawls on its journey, keeping open the track to civilization, and bringing such news and comforts as that world has leisure to send. the mail bags disgorge stale papers; the driver delivers stale news. round and round turns the wheel of affairs. a whistle begins the day for this community: a whistle ends it. deep in the earth the men labor with hammer and drill. overhead the women bend at their pots and pans, and peg the weekly washings under cloudless skies. the children, untaught, unchecked, patter among the stones and tussocks, and send abroad their cries. summer follows winter. the suns climb up; in season the rains roar down; the frost comes in its turn. but the men of surprise valley dig always in the bowels of the hills, and the women busy themselves about their doors.