In summer, it is almost impossible to
find a square yard of ground in the bush
wholly free from them. Allowance made for
these exceptions, and the occasional visit of a
tarantula or a centipede, we find ourselves
quite comfortable in our room under the
dray. An opossum-skin rug laid upon the
ground, and a couple of blankets spread over
it, make a famous bed; such preparations
completed, billy boils, the frying-pan is
spluttering and screeching on the fire, and our
supper of bread, meat, and tea is ready.
Frying-pan and billy are then brought under
the dray, where we dip our tin pannikins
into the tea, and carve, with our clasp-knives,
chops placed upon huge lumps of bread.

By the time supper is over, the horses have
come back, and are standing round the dray,
expectant of their oats. The nose-bags are
put on; and, whilst they feed, we light our
candle, fix it cleverly between the spokes of
the wheel which constitutes a side wall of
our chamber, fill our pipes, and are at ease.
In the box appropriated to the wants of the
road, I generally carry a favourite book or
two, or a late English newspaper,if—through
some oversight of the post-office clerk, who
usually makes himself a present of each of
my papers—I receive one of a tolerably recent
date. By and by the grinding of oats ceases,
and the chains of the hobbles rattle as the
nags begin to move away. The nose-bags
are removed, and a bell is strapped round
the neck of one of the horses; then, after a
few minutes occupied in noting the direction
they take, we creep into our bed-room again.
Each putting his heavy boots into a bag;
this is used for a pillow, and, in two
minutes, all of us are fast asleep.
Sometimes, if feed is scarce, and the horses are
likely to stray far, we turn out once during
the night, and look them up, as otherwise
they are not easily recovered in the morning.
Indeed, it is a common accident for a carrier
to lose his horses for some days, often
altogether; though in places where this accident
is likely to occur, or where horse-thieves are
suspected, it is customary to tether them to a
tree, sometimes even to watch them through
the night.

At sunrise we are up, the horses fed, billy
and frying-pan again in requisition. The
tarpaulin is doubled and lashed over the load,
and, hastily swallowing breakfast, we yoke
up, and are away again. The birds occupy
our vacated nest, to pick up any crumbs we
may have scattered; the grass, bent down by
our weight, springs up again; and, in a day,
the only mark of our encampment is the
handful of white ashes which the next shower
will wash away.

We pass on over a few miles of rough road,
crossing three awkward creeks, which in
winter are bogs, dreaded by carriers; and
then we come again upon a bit of government
road, made and macadamised; another public
house; more refreshment-tents or sly
grogshops; and then we descend, by a steep hill,
into the pretty township of Gisborne, better
known by the name of its chief hotel, as
the Bush Inn. Here, is a tolerable collection
of shops and stores, with several good
inns; and here, as at Keilor and other places
on the road, we are assailed by a string of
youngsters, who torment us to buy milk (and
water) from them, at a shilling a pint. In
the neighbourhood the land is being rapidly
brought into cultivation; and there is every
indication that Gisborne will soon become a
populous town, especially as it possesses that
rare natural curiosity in Victoria—a constant
supply of pure water.

We water our horses at the stream, fill our
kegs, add a fresh loaf and a few pounds of
steaks to our store, and then climb slowly the
steep ascent leading from the township. In
a few minutes we enter the Black Forest.

This place is much dreaded by carriers, for,
winter or summer, it is the worst part of the
road, and, in the earlier days of the diggings,
was dreaded by all travellers as a place
infested by bushrangers—terrible as the
banditti in the Black Forest of Germany.
Many a poor fellow, returning to town with
his hard-earned gold, was compelled to stand
and deliver here, and not a few were coolly
shot down when they ventured to resist the
plunderers. Sometimes, however, these thieves
caught a Tartar. I was acquainted with one
of four diggers who, having obtained a
considerable quantity of gold at Bendigo,
unwisely determined to convey it to town
themselves, and thus save the escort-fees demanded
by the government. They engaged a returning
dray to take them down, and reached the
Black Forest without interruption. Aware
of the dangerous nature of the passage through
it, they prepared themselves for an attack,
one man being seated on each side of the
dray, one on the front of it, and one behind.
The gold was placed in the middle of the cart,
covered with blankets and bundles. In the
heart of the forest, five horsemen suddenly
burst upon the diggers, and, galloping up to
the dray pistol in hand, called upon them
to stand. The sudden reply was repeated
volleys of revolvers. Three of the robbers
rolled from their saddles. Two of them
were shot dead, the other was seriously
wounded, and one of the horses killed. Their
companions did not wait for the remaining
barrels of the four revolvers, but rode off,
leaving the diggers masters of the field. The
whole engagement did not occupy two
minutes. The attack, the repulse, and the
retreat were over before the smoke of the
pistol-shots had cleared away.

But, such stories are fast becoming legends
of the past. The exploits of some three years
ago, when a gang of armed men posted
themselves on the high-road to Brighton, at a
distance of only three miles from the city of
Melbourne, and held possession of it for a whole
afternoon, stopping all travellers, plundering