There were the two R—–­s, who came to work and to make others work; my good brother-in-law, who had volunteered to be the Grog Boss, and a host of other settlers, among whom I recognised Moodie’s old acquaintance, Dan Simpson, with his lank red hair and freckled face; the Youngs, the hunters, with their round, black, curly heads and rich Irish brogue; poor C—–­ with his long, spare, consumptive figure, and thin sickly face.  Poor fellow, he has long since been gathered to his rest!

There was the ruffian squatter P—–­, from Clear Lake,—­the dread of all honest men; the brutal M—–­, who treated oxen as if they had been logs, by beating them with handspikes; and there was Old Wittals, with his low forehead and long nose, a living witness of the truth of phrenology, if his large organ of acquisitiveness and his want of consciousness could be taken in evidence.  Yet in spite of his derelictions from honesty, he was a hard-working, good-natured man, who, if he cheated you in a bargain, or took away some useful article in mistake from your homestead, never wronged his employer in his day’s work.

He was a curious sample of cunning and simplicity—­quite a character in his way—­and the largest eater I ever chanced to know.  From this ravenous propensity, for he eat his food like a famished wolf, he had obtained his singular name of “Wittals.”

During the first year of his settlement in the bush, with a very large family to provide for, he had been often in want of food.  One day he came to my brother, with a very long face.

“Mr. S—–­ I’m no beggar, but I’d be obliged to you for a loaf of bread.  I declare to you on my honour that I have not had a bit of wittals to dewour for two whole days.”

He came to the right person with his petition.  Mr. S—–­ with a liberal hand relieved his wants, but he entailed upon him the name of “Old Wittals,” as part payment.

His daughter, who was a very pretty girl, had stolen a march upon him into the wood, with a lad whom he by no means regarded with a favourable eye.  When she returned, the old man confronted her and her lover with this threat, which I suppose he considered “the most awful” punishment that he could devise.

“March into the house, Madam ’Ria (Maria); and if ever I catch you with that scamp again, I’ll tie you up to a stump all day, and give you no wittals.”

I was greatly amused by overhearing a dialogue between Old Wittals and one of his youngest sons, a sharp, Yankeefied-looking boy, who had lost one of his eyes, but the remaining orb looked as if it could see all ways at once.

“I say, Sol, how came you to tell that tarnation tearing lie to Mr. S—–­ yesterday?  Didn’t you expect that you’d catch a good wallopping for the like of that?  Lying may be excusable in a man, but ’tis a terrible bad habit for a boy.”

“Lor’, father, that worn’t a lie.  I told Mr. S—–­ our cow worn’t in his peas.  Nor more she wor; she was in his wheat.”