Years ago there was a blackfellow

on Wooroowoolgen Station, Richmond

River, called Big Harry, who was

Wales, and was known as The Black

to the same station, were also bigger than the average, though the tribes folk thereabouts were a sturdy, robust lot. Harry’s father was known as

Black Jack—to distinguish him from

Yellow Jack and White Jack, who

also worked on the run (writes E. C.

Sorenson in the “Australasian”). .

Black Jack was a kind and peaceable

man; it was said that he and his wife Ellen, had nevier had a quarrel; and after Ellen died he became a recluse.

His home was a well-built bark hut, half a mile away from the blacks’ camp,

where his two sons, Big Harry and

Towyan, lived with a mob of o-her

blacks. Not even a dog shared Black Jack’s lonely camp fire.

“Dog want too much meat,” he said, “and make flea sit down all about my house.”

He had a neat bunk and table, and everything in the hut, which was lighted at night with a fat lamb, was kept clean and tidy. Often he was seen in the morning sitting on his bunk, gazing into a mirror and carefully combing his black beard; and sometimes he was noticed at the fire with a jam tin making candy.