accustomed to their use, these whips become
terrible instruments of torture. It is, indeed,
horrible to witness the savage brutality with
which the cattle are treated, and the
mercilessness of the drivers. These men are
generally of the lowest class, and though I have
met with some very good exceptions, they
certainly are not raised by their occupation.
For deep drinking and hard swearing they
may challenge the world, though for the
latter practice they say that they have an
express privilege. The story runs, that a
clerical settler, in New South Wales,
overtaking his bullock-driver on the edge of a
creek, stood for few minutes to watch the
crossing of the team. This was accomplished
with the assistance of the usual number of
expletives, and the parson, shocked by their
abundance, remonstrated with his man for
his profanity.

"It's no use," said John, "bullocks won't
go without swearing. Just you try 'em."

The master dismounted, and taking the
whip from John, walked on by the team.
Strawberry, and Damper, and Blackbird, and
Nobbler, and their brethren in the yoke,
stepped along very quietly on the level road,
probably wondering at the meaning of the
gentle tones of their new driver. But,
another creek appeared. The dray ran down
the bank, the wheels sunk in the mud, moved
through it a few inches, and stopped. In vain
the reverend driver expostulated with his
ungrateful charges, and twisted the long lash
round his own face in his endeavours to reach
the leaders with it. Indeed, when the end of
it did fall harmlessly upon them—as Sterne
says of the mules of the Abbess of
Andouilettes, under similar circumstances—they
simply lashed their tails, and stood stock
still. At length the parson gave up in
despair, and resigned the whip to his
bullockdriver. A sharp crack, a few well-directed
blows, and a torrent of loud oaths, and the
chain tightened again, the dray moved, and
the whole team were soon standing on the
opposite bank. "Well, John," said the
parson, mounting his horse, "bullock-drivers are
allowed to swear; but only, mind, when they
have a creek to cross."

The Black Forest differs much from the
gum and box forests common in Australia.
They are usually more lightly timbered,
spread over extensive flats, and seldom
possess much undergrowth beyond a wiry grass
and a few flowering shrubs. But in the
Black Forest the majority of the trees are
rough, stringy barks, which have their loose
fibrous covering blackened by the frequent
bush fires, that take no such hold on the
smooth bark of the white and blue gums.
Many of the huge trees are completely
hollowed by the fire, the massive trunk and lofty
branches being upheld only by a thin shell,
burned through in many places, and covered
on its inner side with a thick coat of
charcoal. A strong blast of wind rarely
sweeps through the forest without levelling
some of these sooty veterans; and the
numbers of fallen logs, in every stage of decay,
show that the wind here is no rare visitor.
New saplings spring from all the ruins—
their tall, tapering barrels become blackened
in their turn; but thick masses of brushwood
and green patches of fern and silky
grass spread over the blackened surface that
the fires have left upon the soil. Here and there
a huge white gum will stand out in startling
contrast with the blackness round about it;
and the dark-leaved black-wood, feathery
shiac, light tea-tree, silver wattle, and gnarled
honeysuckle grow singly, or in groups,
beneath the forest shadow. Though many
travellers have bewailed the scentless nature of
Australian flowers, few have spoken of the
rich fragrance that pervades Australian
forests. Near a group of forest young gums,
with the dewy jewels of a recent shower
glistening on their broad leaves, the scent is
almost overpowering. The rich aromatic
odour spreads through the whole forest, and
amply compensates us for the absence of the
spice groves which, Easterns tell us, make the
air of Indian Islands heavy with perfume.
It is a libel, too, on our Flora to say that it
is all scentless. I have gathered violets in
Australia as sweet as if they had been born
under a hedge of hawthorn. Many of
our shrubs have the grateful perfume of
the almond-blossom, and the thousand
yellow flowers of the mimosa spread around
them a perpetual fragrance. Even the slight
scent emitted by many of our small wild
flowers—fleeting though it be—is sufficient
to redeem them from the sweeping charge
that has been so often brought against them.
The most common, and the dearest of home
flowers, are plentiful in some parts of the
country. I have travelled for miles over
plains white with daisies, and over rich
alluvial flats thickly-powdered with the
yellow buttercup. Only once—on the banks
of Loddon—have I met with another
homeflower, the dandelion; it was a solitary
stalk, crowned with its light globe of feathery
seeds. We were camped near the spot and I
could not resist the inclination to lie down on
the grass beside it—as we used to do in the
meadows—and try what o'clock it was, in the
old boyish way.

The Black Forest is twelve miles through,
and in wet weather several days are often
occupied in travelling that distance. But,
as the roads are now dry, we get along
rather faster, and as the sun leaves us
to show his broad face in an English winter
picture, we emerge from the forest, and
get to the township of Woodend, or Five-
mile Creek, which marks the forest boundary
on this side, as Gisborne marked it on the
other. Passing through Woodend, we follow
the metalled road, which appears here again
for a couple of miles, and then turn off into
the bush, where there is plenty of grass, and