There are few sights more weird, or more typically Australian, than a
paddock at night with burning-off in process. Low and high, the red
columns of fire stand in a darkness made blacker by their lurid glow.
Where the fire has taken hold fairly the flames are fierce, and showers
of sparks fall like streams of gold. Sometimes a dull crack gives
warning of the fall of a long-dead giant; and the burning mass leans
slowly over, and then comes down with a crash, while the curious
bullocks, which have poked as near as they dare to the strange scene,
fling round and lumber off in a heavy gallop, heads down and tails up.
From stump to stump flit the little black figures of the workers,
standing out clearly sometimes, by the light of a blaze so fierce that
to face it is scarcely possible; or half seen in the dull glow of a
smouldering tree poking vigorously--seeming as ants attacking living
monsters infinitely beyond their strength. Perhaps it is there that the
fascination of the work comes in--the triumph of conquering tons of
inanimate matter by efforts so small. At any rate it is always hard to
leave the scene of action, and certainly the first glance next morning
is to see "which are down."
Then there were days spent among the cattle--days that always meant the
high-water mark of bliss to Norah.
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