(Footnote.  They understand our looks better than our speech.)

A colonist.

December 2.

The party moved off at seven, and passing, soon after, near the farm of an old man, whom I had assisted some years before, in the selection of his land, I rode to see him, accompanied by Mr. White.  He was busy with his harvest, but left the top of his wheat-stack on seeing me, and running up, cordially welcomed us to his dwelling.  A real scotch bonnet covered the brow of a face which reminded me, by its characteristic carving, of the land of the mountain and the flood.  The analogy between the respective features, was at least so strong in my mind, and the sight of the one was so associated with the idea of the other, that had I seen this face on a stranger, in a still more distant corner of the earth—­it must have called to mind the hills of my native land.  The old man was very deaf, but in spite of age and this infirmity his sharp blue eye expressed the enduring vigour of his mind.  He had buried his wife in Scotland, and had left there a numerous family, that he might become its pioneer at the antipodes.  He had thus far worked his way successfully, and was beginning to reap the fruits of his adventurous industry.  Sleek cattle filled his stockyard, his fields waved with ripe grain, and I had the satisfaction of learning from him, that he had written for his family, and that he soon expected their arrival in the colony.  He immediately gave grain to our horses, and placed before us new milk; and, what we found a still greater luxury, pure water from the running burnie close by; also a bottle of the mountain dew, which, he said, was from a still which was no far aff.  When I was about to mount my horse, he enquired if I could spare five minutes more, when he put into my hands the copy of a long memorial addressed to the government, which he had taken from among the leaves of a very old folio volume of Pitscottie’s History of Scotland.  This memorial prayed, that whereas Scoone was in the valley of Strathearne, and that the pillow of Jacob which had been kept as the coronation stone of the Kings of Scotland, was fated still to be, where their dominion extended; and as this valley of the Kingdon Ponds, had not received a general name, that it might be called Strathearne, etc. etc.  We were finally compelled, although it still wanted two hours of noon, to drink a stirrup-cup at the door—­when he most heartily drank success to our expedition, and I went on my way rejoicing that, on leaving the last man of the white race we were likely to see for some time, the ceremony of shaking hands was a vibration of sincere kindness.