CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.

Southland Times, Issue 877, 6 January 1868, Page 3

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.

BY* "W. W. A more black and dreary night I have scarcely encountered since I came to the colonies, it was mid-winter, in what had been a peculiarly wet, miserable season, and I was on my way homewards from a distant station, whence I had been obliged to ride thirty long miles over an unsettled bush country, and the most wretched bridle tracks imaginable. 'Twas in New South "Wales, not far from the border district Kurriwroo, and I had skirted Tathong Creek for the most part of my route. I have said it was a black and dreary night, and so you must have said too, could you have seen and felt its wild sky, and its cold piercing wind. No rain was falling, but such floods had swept the face of the country, that every level spot lay damp and sloppy like a swamp, and the roar" of the rushing creek was loud as distant thunder, and sadly sounding as the moan of departing life. There was a moon — a full one too — that was occasionally kid bare by the driving clouds. Cofd and watery, she looked down upon the wet earth, and, pale and shimmering, was reflected in the rippling current of the strong creek, as it swept hurriedly along, as if hastening to leave so dreary a scene behind it. In short, I was low-spirited ; and who would not have been, cold and tired and hungry as I was, with six miles yet to ride, and the night growing every moment colder and more bleak. " Coo-ec !" G-ood Heavens, what a cry it was ! It pierced into my very marrow, and even my horse stopped suddenly, and laid his ears back to listen. Where did it come from ? From the other side of the STathong, where stretched out, far and gleaming in the cold moonshine, a level swamp. Yes, it did appear to ring away in echoes over the swamp. A horrible sound it was, but of too brief an utterance to satisfy me confidently from whence it had certainly proceeded. " Coo-ec !" Again, piercing, shrill, and startling, it only awoke the echoes, once more to die out sadly in the distant swamp, and leave me trembling with un-

analysed horror, that appeared to have seized hold of me with a grip of iron. I listened again for a repetition of the sound, but it came not , and it was at length my own " Coo-ec !" that answered sharply on the cold night wind, and fled drearily over the roaring creek. " Coo-ec!" and "Coo-ec!" again and a^ain ; but no response — nothing but the surging water and the groaning of overhanging branches, and at last, the shrill, lonely, repeated scream of the complainin» curlew — the loneliest sound, in Australian nature, I have always thought, and more particularly so to me on that night, when my nerves seemed to be all unstrung, and my" body sadly in need of refreshment and rest. What was Ito do ! If some unfortunate soul was in need of help on that wretched swamp,l was utterly powerless to assist him. No living horse or man ( j could stem the terrible torrent into which { I I looked, nor could horse have done aught | 1 but meet a grave in that green "swampy | I morass on a night like that ; besides, no reply had come to my repeated calls, and the sufferer was either already beyond help, or the sound of the coo-ec had existed in my imagination alone. Might it not have been a flock of departing curlews that my approach had disturbed ? At any rate, go on I musty for my limbs are getting benumbed, and my very— kearfc— Bee tned—tremtlirig with h cold. I had waited a good while on the ! side of the creek, and my horse was as ready to move on as I was myself, when I once more turned his head homewards. "It't not a pleasant life that of a policeman. Take it on the whole, there are more to be envied billets; but, of course, there are occasions when the mind seems to place everything in the darkest light, and what at other times appear trifles too insignificant to furrow the brow, even momentarily, looms up before us with the-majesty and insurmountable roughness of a precipice in the Andes. There are such moments in the lives of all men, I assert, and I was in the middle of one of my instalments of them as I turned campwards, and left the tumbling waters of Tathong behind. Most likely I should be blamed for not making a more decided offort to find out from whence proceeded that cry — that i 3 if I mentioned the matter at all. Ten to one I should get snubbed, or reprimanded or fined, because I didn't ford an unfordable creek in the middle of a cold winter's night, and find out out the particular and indentical curlew that told his mate he'd got wet-footed for my particular delectation. Bah ! even so, I'd only be treated in the same way if a button happened to be off my jumper on parade, or the tassel of my counterpoint got a little frayed. To old Harry with the whole crew ! I wasn't going to be made a regular slave of, for all the disagreeable sergeants in the force! " Please will you tell me where this track leads ?" The sound of human voice took me so much by surprise in that desolate spot, and coming as it did so closely upon the heels of that word " coo-ec !" that it was two or three seconds before I could give utterance to a sylable. Neither did it at reassure me to perceive that it was a delicate-looking any respectably-dressed female that -stood shivering on the road near me, with the shadow of wind-tossed branches passing over her white face. " G-ood heavens ! what brought you here? You are at least five miles from the nearest hearth !" " I have lost my way." " Lost your way ! I should think so! Where on earth are you going" " I don't know. With you, I think, if you will permit, as I am afraid of being in the bush all night." I looked keenly at the speaker ; not, of course, that I hesitated for a moment to see her into some place of shelter ; but I could not get it out of my head that there was something very singular indeed in a woman, frail and delicate, standing there in the wet bush, in a late evening of winter. "You must have walked a very long way for a young person like you," I said. " Unless you have come from Balla, you cannot have seen a light within twenty miles." , '- 1 did not come from Balla, was the calm reply ; " but if you are going there, I shall be glad to follow." "Follow me! — Nonsense! Can you sit on the crupper ?— will you get up behind me?" - . " Thankfully— l am very tired. And the strange traveller approached, and placing her foot on mine, with the assistance of my hand, vaulted lightly behind me. ■ . . , I could not fail to remark, m the now clear cold night, as she did so, that the foot which rested for a moment on mine was bootless ; nor could I refrain from remarking upon it to the girl, reserved as she seemed determined to be with me. " Have you got no shoes on ? As sure as fate, you will get you very death of cold." " I lost one of my boots in a swampy spot down below there. It is of no consequence." "Of no consequence !" thinks Ito myself. " Surely I've got hold of a strange customer he|e," and I gave my horse the spur, to shorten the way between us and Balla. Where on earth had this woman come from? She sat behind me, holding on with an arm round my waist, but with an ease that bespoke one accustomed to the saddle. Where was she bound for? Nay, I might ask that question reasonably, without laying myself open to any charge of inqusitiveness. Slackening my horse's pace, then, I enquired—" Where do you mean to go, miss ? Where do you wish me to take you?" " I don't know. Its of no consequence whatever." . . . . Did ever any soul hear the like ot tnis i "Of no consequence! Perhaps you would like me to take you to the Camp ? " As well there as anywhere. I suppose you are going there yourself?" • 1 "As lam a policeman, there is nothing

more natural. But.permit me. to ?ay, that I suitable place for me cannot possibly be a suitable place for you." " You are not a married man?" " I am not." " Are there no women about the Camp — no boarding-houses ?" "There is one where we board, and it is kept by a married couple." " Please to put me down there." Very satisfactory indeed, and I was as wise as I was before. "However, my lady," I said to myself, as I once more urged my horse forward, "if you think I'm the chap to pick up a girl in the wet bush, of a winter's night, thirty miles from a fire's light, without finding out a little more than you seem disposed to tell me about it, you are most confoundedly, mistaken, that's all." And I didn't open my mouth to her for a good two miles. i At length, however, I began to " hark back." I recalled the shrill " Coo-ec !" in the dismal swamp; and only felt confirmed in my belief that something to be hidden had placed this female in the deserted forest at such an hour. It sounded like a warning voice ; nothing more likely than, that she had cried to attract attention when she found she had lost herself. ,-, -L ± i. i? ""W"as it you who coo-ec d about nail an hour ago?" I asked suddenly, turning at the 1 same time, to try and look into her face. I fancied she started as I asked the question, but the answer came shortly, and decided enough. " I did not coo-ee." I confess to being regularly " tempery," as this short answer was thrown at me, and to feeling that the strange female had done anything but make a friend of that clever trooper, Mat Fenton— bo let her look out," I muttered privately to myself; I can see a hole through a ladder as well as any man in the force, and that you may find yet, my lady. We at length reached Balla, to the regret of neither horse nor riders, I will warrant; and riding straight up to Mrs Withers' place, I pulled up. "Now, miss, this is the place you wanted to go to, I believe." " Is this the boarding-house ?" "It is." , . , ... And, with this answer, the girl slid from her seat and made straight for the door. She neither said good night or -thank you, but walked straight in at the open door, and disappeared. This, however, did not trouble me, as, of course, I knew I should be able to learn all about her from Mrs Withers ; and, most likely, see her when I went in to supper in a few minutes. So I led my horse into the stable, unsaddled and fed him, and then hastened curiously to the boarding establishment. Perhaps half an hour had elapsed since I left the strange girl at the door, yet when I entered there, she was apparently quite at home, with smoothed hair and arranged dress, calmly pouring out the tea for my mate, young Willard, who was engaged at supper. I could scarcely believe my senses that this was the shoeless wanderer in the lonely bush, who in so short a time had been metamorphosed into a table-maid, and who performed the duties thereto appertaining as if she had been accustomed to them all her life. „, , . ■, I almost fancied that my fellow-trave l<w saw and enjoyed my wonder, for she met my wide open gaze with a smile, and just such a smile as if she read my anxiety to penetrate her secret, and defied me. lhe smile roused all my ire again, and 1 could not help having a rap at her as i seated myself at table. m v " I hope you won't take cold, miss. " I hope not." " I'm very much afraid of it though ; walking without boots in a swamp at night for some hours is not likely to improve a young's lady's health. I hope you have seen to your feet." « i h aye — thanks- for your consideration. I have availed myself of Mrs Withers's slippers." There was a sort of grin on Willard s face as this bit of a spar occurred, but I laid it down to the possibility of my passenger having spoken of my evident curiosity before I entered. " Where's the missus, Withers ? was my next question. "Eaith,Mat, she's bad— had to take her to bed. This young lady you brought is a regular god-send, just now, for I can not manage the cooking at all." Well,- as I ate my supper, I took the opportunity of regularly examining the mysterious stranger. She was fair -and slight, with a very pale face, and sadcolored hair. Her eyes were blue, but keen ; and her whole appearance was that of a genteel girl— not exactly ladylike, you know, but with nothing of vulgarity about it either. She was passably Sood-looking, and no more ; and her dress was a plain dark merino, without any ornament whatever. (2b be Continued) Mas Brown ok Rbadin' and Wbitin.— Well in course, readin' and writin' is noble things, and werry proper in their places ; but I'm sure what that writin 1 is come to now-a-days with the penny post, nobody wouldn't believe; for that gal o: mine, she's a writin' 'er letters mornin , noon, and night. I says to 'er, "If ever I ketches you a-writin' your foolishness all over my dresser in the middle of the day again, and a-neglectm of Tour work, I'll put all the lot behind the fire, and you may suit yourself, ior you won t suit me Bless you, every hinstant of that gal's time she s a-writm',and wherever she can, get the money from for them antelopes and paper as she uses by oshun, you wouldn't credit. Not as she s a bit partickler about makin' free with them as belongs to others, as I'm sure the gal as lived along with me when I did used to let lodgin's, she did make free with their* things, as wasn't never no more stationery the iriinit as their backs was turned; and vetnot a gal as ever tampered with the teacaddy, nor yet purloined the pickles, and yc\i mbht have trusted with a cut joint by the week, and never miss a mouthful; not as ever any servant in my 'ouse need take the wittles as always 'as what 1 'aye myself, even to stewed petty toes for I'd scorn to eat up every bit myself, as I considers 'oggish.— Broadway, No. 11. Why is Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer a more per- » severing writer than Samuel Warren ?— The one wrote " Wight and Morning," and the other '^ow, f and Then,"