seeking.  Along the banks of the river tents
of all shapes and sizes, many of which had
gay flags fluttering in the breeze, formed lines
that appeared to us quite martial. The white
smoke wreathing upwards from the hundreds
of fires before the tents marked the
meandering course of the river as far as the eye
could reach, with a pale blush shade, that
contrasted finely with the dark tint of the trees.

Down-hill, and forward for a mile or two,
and we were fairly on the Turon. Too tired
to notice much, we picked out a convenient
spot for the erection of our tent, near to
Commissioners' Hill; and, after an hour or
so of work in fixing it, were glad to rest
under its shade and go to sleep.

The next day we became Turonites; and I
shall now describe generally the character of
a day spent among the Turon diggings. Early
morning and the work of the day not
commenced. Bright and clear in the first
sunbeams the stream, yet undisturbed, runs
placidly along. In half-an-hour the cradles
will be playing, and the pure current taking
the colour of pea-soup. Turn where you will
the ground is opened up and burrowed into
by the gold-seekers. In the river itself,
wherever the stream will allow them, holes
are sunk, and these are only to be kept
workable by the incessant use of pumps and
bailers. "Bed Claims," as they are technically
called (though often very rich), are
troublesome in full proportion to their richness.
On the river banks, which are in some
places precipitous and elsewhere slope gently
upwards, the dry diggings at least furnish
equal proof of energy and industry. Excavations
dug of every size and shape, and
sometimes of immense depth, are to be seen or
tumbled into on all sides. From these "bank
claims," which are often two or three
hundred yards from the spot where the cradles
are fixed, the washing stuff is carried down
by steps and passages to the water side. In
some places I saw that the diggers had
preferred the more dangerous plan of careless
tunnelling. Afterwards that became the
usual practice, and some serious accidents
occurred, two or three lives being lost
through the falling in of top stuff upon
labourers below. I went to see a set of
Germans—Burra Burra miners from Adelaide—
who had in this way dug a subterranean
gallery, and were, as I was told, doing a great
stroke. They were at work by candle light,
and though impressed with admiration of
their skill and energy, I was not sorry to
escape out of their hole.

But to go back to my day's programme.
It is early morning, and as yet the only
labour going on bears upon breakfast. The
air is perfumed with the scent of mutton,
for pans of chops are being fried at every fire
down all the miles of tent that line the river.
Stretched on the grass, with the pots of tea
by their sides, and with huge cuts of damper
covered with mutton in their fists, the
diggers breakfast. As the sun makes its appearance
over the Wallaby Rocks the morning
meal comes to an end, and the men walk off
to their claims and cradles; the tools left in
the holes last night are taken up, and in a
short time the gold-hunters are filling the
whole place with noise. Those at work in
the claims wield picks, shovels, and crowbars;
others, who carry washing stuff from
the holes to the cradles, trot continually
backwards and forwards with the precious
dirt, either contained in bags hung over their
backs or in buckets slung by a yoke from
their shoulders. Those whose duty it is to
wash the stuff so brought to them are not
less busy, and the air resounds with the loud
clatter of hundreds of cradles in full play.
The sun rises brighter and higher, and its
heat makes the severe labour oppressive; but
though the perspiration pours from the
diggers' brows, good humour prevails, and the
work is carried on with a gaiety that robs
the really hard life of its worst fatigues.
Occasionally, high above the rattle of the
cradles or the echoing strokes of pick and
crowbar, rises a hearty laugh begotten of a
rough practical joke perhaps, or a song
shouted at the top of the voice in time to the
movement of the rockers, unlooses a chorus
of imitative tongues all down the river. At
noon a general cessation of labour. Eight
bells is struck upon a prospecting pan by
some nautical digger, doubtless a runaway
sailor. Nature is again perfumed with mutton;
damper, tea, and chops are again
consumed. On Sundays the attempt at cookery
is generally more ambitious—a joint of meat
baked in the camp oven is sometimes
substituted for the usual fried mutton, and a plum-
duff or pudding is also a common luxury
upon the day of rest. An hour at the most
is allowed on work-days for the dinner and a
draw at the pipe; labour is then
recommenced. The afternoon passes away; the sun
begins to cast long shadows. When it
altogether disappears behind a range of hills
our work is over—the diggers in the holes
throw down their tools and take up their
serge shirts; the cradles are washed out for
the last time, and men in groups begin to
saunter to their tents, conversing as they go
on what each may have done. There is one
duty still incomplete, namely, the washing in
large pans of the stuff that has remained at
the bottoms of the cradles, and that contains
of course the gold produced from all the soil
passed through during the day. This
"panning out," as it is termed, is a delicate operation
The pan is dipped into the stream by
the operator, shaken, worked, and sifted
about in a peculiar manner; and the gold
being thus driven to the bottom, the lighter
soil is allowed to run off with the water. It
requires both knack and practice to prevent
the fine gold from escaping. A glance in the
evening at the different pans will enable us to