has a summer and a winter aspect. Many a
summer carrier vanishes like a fair weather
friend during the winter, to re-appear only
when he can travel without being compelled
to wade knee-deep during the day, and sleep
at night in six inches of water. Victoria, let
all geographers be careful to record, is famous
for producing mud and dust. When one of
these products is not to be met with, there is
certainty of finding plenty of the other. I
write this in December, our midsummer,
bedazed with sun, and dust, and flies.
Melbourne, as we leave it, is totally hidden from
us by the gritty cloud that her increasing
traffic raises; that hangs above her as the
smoke hangs over London.

The road, for a few miles out of the city
(barring dust) is very good. It is bordered by
cultivated lands and is tolerably pleasant
travelling. We pass through the thriving
townships of Flemmington, Moonee Ponds, and
Essendon; and, descending a steep hill, nine
miles from town, we cross a small stream by
a massive timber bridge. The bridge is
something more than massive: not content
with forming a stout road-way, its heavy
beams rise, high above our cart, in three huge
wooden walls, and roof us over; making of the
bridge too lofty tunnels, that might be a
portion of a bomb-proof citadel. There is good
reason for this. The thread of water that now
trickles below, will swell, and rush, and roar;
and, during the heavy winter rains, become a
giant against which a giant only could contend.
Beyond the bridge, a little encampment of
tents, a few houses of wood and two or three
of stone, form the township of Keilor. We
fill our water-kegs at the stream; and, after
climbing a long steep hill, road and fences
end abruptly, and we are turned out upon the
open plain. Away it stretches back towards
Melbourne, its boundary there being the
masts of the shipping in the bay, of which we
have not yet lost sight. On either hand it
touches the horizon, and it rolls before us to
break at the foot of a low range of wooded
hills, beyond which Macedon heaves his dark
head.

Now we feel the worst of summer. The
thick grass of the plains is parched and
withered, and the heat lies visibly tremulous
over the brown surface as it does over a
burning kiln. Along the hundreds of tracks
which intersect the plain, vehicles are
moving, all accompanied by clouds of dust.
During the early part of the day the air is
still, and the dust falls where it rises; but, as
the sun climbs higher, the land-breeze comes
down, hot and unrefreshing; and, as it gathers
strength, it catches up the heavy clouds of
grit, and, dashing them together, sweeps
across the open ground, half-smothering both
men and horses, and producing a thick
darkness, very like that of a London
fog. The wind usually starts up in sudden
gusts, and, sometimes twisted in a creek or
hollow, it becomes a whirlwind, erecting
in a moment a tall monument of dust,
which dances down the road until it breaks
upon a line of drays, startling the horses from
their steady pace, and, throwing everything
into confusion.

Along the line of the government road a
few refreshment tents and one or two public
houses stand. A notice is posted outside one
of the tents to the effect that water may
be had within, at sixpence a bucket. Beer,
I should say, rises to two shillings a pint at
the distance of only two hours' journey from
Melbourne. We halt for an hour, to refresh
our horses and ourselves, and then plod on,
over the plain. By sunset, we have reached
the Gap Inn, where there is a small settlement,
and where the road is about to cross,
by a low saddle, the hills that we have had
in sight all day. Here we turn off into the
bush, to camp down for the night.

The three great requisites for a camping-
ground are, grass, water, and fire-wood; yet,
in summer, grass and water are not always
to be found, and the horses suffer. On the
chosen spot, we draw the dray over a smooth
place, unharness the horses, and, first having
fastened their fore-legs together by a short
chain and two straps, turn them adrift, to
graze. Then the fire is to be lighted, and, in
order to prevent it from running through the
dry grass, we prepare the fire-place by first
burning a circle, and then beating it out.
Over the lighted fire we sling the billy, or, in
home phrase, put the kettle on; the kettle
being usually a tin pan with a loose wire
handle, which attaches it to the dray during
the journey. Whilst the water is boiling, we
retire to our apartments. The sheet of
canvas, which is doubled over the load during
the day, is opened out to its full extent, and,
falling over both wheels and the back of the
dray, converts the space between the wheels
and beneath the body into a room. The
shafts of the dray are raised, resting upon the
crossed prop-sticks, and—as we approve of
ventilation—this part of the enclosure is not
covered. The door of our impromptu
bedroom is thus left open, and occupies one
entire side of the enclosure. But as we take
care to keep the wind at the back, and the
fire at the front, the open door is no source
of discomfort. The worst of our room is,
that the axletree crosses the centre of the
ceiling at a rather low elevation, and thus a
sleeper, suddenly awakened, is not unlikely to
knock his head against it. In rainy weather,
too, we get water beds, and do not like them;
while, in dry weather, the ants moisten their
clay too frequently at the expense of ours.
They appear by hundreds, and are industrious
insects, each about half-an-inch long, being
usually of the species distinguished as the
bull-dog ant, from the tenacity with which
they retain their hold of anything on which
they fasten. The pain of their bite may be
compared to the pricking of a red-hot
pin. The whole country swarms with them.