BY HON. A. NORTON, M.L.C. 85 



to, I expreaaecl my feelings curtly enough in the rough diary I 

 kept — " Came 20 miles to-day without seeing enough grass to 

 feed a bandicoot," and again — " 25 miles along the creek to-day. 

 It is most desolate and wretched looking country." There were 

 few human habitations along the route I had chosen, and these 

 were of the most primitive character — small huts constructed of 

 rough split slabs with shingled roofs. The floor, if it could be 

 so called, was the natural formation trampled by rough boots 

 into a dusty smoothness ; the openings, which were by courtesy 

 called windows, in some cases were supplied with wooden 

 shutters, others were open to such breezes as chose to enter. 

 The furniture consisted of a table of split slabs nailed together, 

 two or more three-legged wooden stools, and one or two wooden 

 bunks formed of ill-fitting split battens. These huts were occupied 

 by stockmen who had learnt in this droughty country to use 

 water sparingly. A tin dish held the salt junk, and a butcher's 

 knife to cut it, a tin billy the tea, and tin pints to drink from, 

 the bread was damper. These places they spoke of as their 

 "home." On a previous occasion, when I rode up to a blacks' 

 camp in more civilized country, a blackboy, with extremely 

 scant clothing was playing " Home, sweet home," on a jewsbarp 

 as he squatted on the ground under the shelter of a bark humpy 

 — I should have felt more at home where he sat, than in those 

 stockmens' huts on the Marra Creek. George Davis, like 

 myself, was born in New South Wales, and an open camp suited 

 us admirably ; the brilliancy of the stars never interrupted our 

 slumbers, and we received no attention from those treacherous 

 blacks against whom we had been so particularly warned. 



On the evening of October 1st, twenty days after we had 

 left Sydney, we selected our camp on the left bank of the 

 Barwon River. The channel of the Macquarie continues to 

 contract after leaving Dubbo, until at last it becomes lost in 

 the reedbeds which give shelter to innumerable wild fowl. Below 

 these, a narrow channel conducts the overflow water, when 

 there is any, to the Barwon, a river worthy of the name. 

 From our camp that evening we looked down into a 

 magnificent sheet of water of considerable width and depth. 

 Giant gumtrees grew beside and overhung the banks ; the river 

 flats were covered with abundant grass and herbage in fairly 

 good condition, and the horses showed unmistakably their 

 appreciation of it. On the clear water hundreds of ducks and 

 other aquatic birds floated lazily, having no thought of a possible 



