of a quiet horse into a close yard ending in a 'crush' or lane so narrow that turning round was impossible. A strong, high gate in front was well fastened. Before the captive could decide upon a retrograde movement, long, strong saplings were thrust between his quarters and the posts of the crush. He was therefore trapped, unable to advance or retire. If he threatened to lie down, a sapling underneath prevented that refuge of sullenness.
Mostly the imprisoned animal preserved an expression of stupid amazement or harmless terror, occasionally of fierce wrath or reckless despair. Then he kicked, plunged, reared—in every way known to the wild steed of the desert expressed his untameable defiance of man, occasionally even neighing loudly and fiercely. 'Twas all in vain. The prison was too high, too strong, too narrow, too everything; nothing but submission remained—'not even suicide,' as Mr. Stevenson declares concerning matrimony, 'nothing but to be good.'
This, of course, with variations, as happens perchance in the married state irreverently referred to.
Before the colt has done thinking what unprincipled wretches these bush bipeds are, a 'blind' (ingeniously improvised from a gentleman's waistcoat) is placed over his eyes, a snaffle bridle is put on, a bit is forced into his mouth; at the same time two active young men are thrusting a crupper under his reluctant tail, have put a saddle on his back, and are buckling leather girths and surcingle (this latter run through slits in the lower portion of the saddle flaps) as if they meant to cut him in two.
This preparatory process being completed in marvellous short time, the manager calls out 'First horse, Mr. St. Aure,' and a well-proportioned young man from the Upper Murray ascends the fence, standing with either leg on the rails, immediately over the angry, terrified animal.
What would you or I take, O grey-besprinkled reader, to undertake the mount Mr. St. Aure surveys with calmest confidence? (We are not so young as we were, let us say in confidence.)
Deftly he drops into the saddle, his legs just grazing the sides of the crush. 'Open the gate!' roars the manager. 'Look out, you boys!' and, with a mad rush, out flies the colt through the open gate like a shell from a howitzer.
