them. Poor, bold hearts! Though they were
only bound to Forest Creek (about eighty
miles from Melbourne), yet, in the then
condition of the roads, it was almost impossible
that they could ever reach their destination,
and the miseries of such a journey cannot be
imagined. Following the Germans come,
perhaps, specimens of a race occupying another
corner of the world—a train of Chinamen, in
single file, extending for some miles along the
road; others appear, long after we had
thought the whole procession past. They jog
along at a slow trot, bending under immense
loads, which they carry hanging from each
end of a long bamboo, the middle resting on
the shoulder. Their slight figures, smooth
brown faces, hair carefully twisted up into a
huge tail, the coils of which are hidden
beneath their immense hats; their short
frocks and voluminous petticoat-trousers,
form a strange contrast to the stout forms,
long beards, and close-fitting dresses of the
European diggers, who are sometimes
mingled with them. Each party has its own
leader, and they usually travel in such
numbers, that their small tents form, when they
camp for the night, quite a little township on
the roadside. Such are a few only of the
passengers and vehicles who usually pass us
whilst we eat bread and mutton in the
forest.

Dinner over, we ourselves go with the
train, and are soon deep in the labyrinth of
trees, our whole attention fully engaged by
the difficulties of the road. Occasionally we
pass some unlucky fellow who has had the
misfortune to start from town with a jibbing
horse—a very common animal here—which
does not kick, or rear, or perform any of the
evolutions common with English horses in
such case, but stands stock still, his feet
advanced, his head down, ears drawn back,
lips slightly apart, eyes dull, half closed, and
turned back towards the dray, and his whole
body hanging heavily in the breechings.
Stroking and swearing, kinds words and hard
blows, might as well be expended on a
gumtree as upon this statue of a horse. At length
some carrier unyokes his leaders and hooks
on to the stuck dray; the stubborn anaimal is
fairly drawn out of his strong position, and,
once on the move, goes on until another soft
place brings him up, or another fit of the
sturdies comes upon him.

The Black Forest is one succession of hills,
short and steep, with swampy creeks between
them. Sometimes, in order to avoid these
creeks, we run along the sides of the hills,
and thus subject ourselves to another common
accident of the roads. As we are paid for
carrying by the ton, our loads—when they
consist of light goods—are piled high above
the dray, which thus becomes rather
topheavy, when siding a hill, this tendency to
capsize necessitates great care, but, in spite of
all that can be exercised the lower wheel will
occasionally drop into a hole, or the upper
one rise over a stone or a log large enough to
destroy the wavering equilibrium. Then
away goes the dray, turning completely over,
the wheels spin in the air, and the
shafthorse, thrown on the broad of his back, twists
and untwists his huge legs, with a force that
threatens to demolish harness, dray, and
driver. Then there is cutting of straps and
unhooking of chains, with all the usual
accompaniments of such accidents, including plenty
of advice gratis. The dray is turned over,
and the load, left on the ground, is, by
willing help of many hands, afterwards
restored to its original position. Then we
go on again.

We meet many returning drays, but all
make way for us, for it is a tacitly understood
rule of the road here, that no loaded dray shall
on any account, make way for, or be impeded
by, an empty one. But this rule scarcely
extends to the bullock-drays—of which there
are vast numbers, so long as the grass lasts,—
for their long, unmanageable teams take up so
much room, and occupy so much time in leaving
and returning to the track, that we are
generally glad enough to leave it clear for them.
How, it may well be asked, do their drivers
steer lumbering vehicles and awkward cattle
through the narrow openings betwixt the
trees without very frequent accidents? They
draw immense loads, and the worse the roads
are, the greater is their advantage over
horses, for they are continually on the move,
crawling slowly through the mud, or creeping
up the steep hills, getting the ground by
inches, it is true, but still getting it.
Sometimes they stick fast, and then, if teams are
together, Babel breaks loose. The other
drivers range themselves, with their long
heavy whips on each side of the team, and
then commences such shouting and yelling,
such long rolls of strangely-worded oaths and
whip-cracks that go off like pistol-shots, that
even the opossums own themselves startled,
and come out into the daylight. At first the
bullocks only turn mild eyes on their
tormentors, and bend down their heads to avoid
the heavy shower of blows. By degrees,
however, they get into line, and one after
another throws his weight into the iron yoke,
the long chain tightens, strains, the wheels
move, and with a deafening crash the dray
rises slowly out of the mud, and is safely
landed on the comparatively dry patch beyond.
Then the word is "Spell, oh!" The little
keg is turned out from its resting-place in the
back of the dray, and a pint pot filled with
rum passes round the party, each one of
whom accompanies his nobbler with the
usual toast of our colony, "Here's luck!"
Occasionally, when the dray has sunk very
deep and its own team is unable to
extricate it, others are added; I have thus seen
four teams or thirty-two bullocks yoked
before a single dray. The drivers attach
strips of silk twisted into a hair-cord to
their long lashes, and, in the hands of men