44 BUSH HORSES 



green tennis-courts, well-groomed hackneys, and 

 young ladies fashionably dressed are seldom if 

 ever met within a radius of 200 miles from the 

 Gulf of Carpentaria. 



When an old settler speaks of* the Flinders 

 River and the adjoining district, he sums it 

 up drily as a "holy terror." He knows that 

 Northern Queensland must have altered con- 

 siderably if it has ceased to be a land of 

 drought, snakes, and mosquitoes, where the 

 Bushmen do not necessarily bear the names 

 of their childhood, are half-blinded by sandy 

 blight, and pestered with flies, fleas, and the 

 " Barcoo rot." 



Fresh mounts were driven on ahead with the 

 pack-horses, and the expedition kept up a slow 

 canter of about six miles an hour. After halting 

 to escape the extreme heat, a camp was made at 

 a suitable " billy-bong," or water hole. Dead 

 boughs were collected and a fire lit. Saddles were 

 taken off, and the horses hobbled and left to their 

 own devices. A "billy," or tin pot, was soon 

 boiling with water for the tea, and the salt beef 

 was unpacked, while an amateur cook made a 

 " damper " (a rough kind of loaf) in the hot ashes. 

 When the meal was over pipes were lit, and the 

 bushmen rolling themselves in coarse, coloured 

 blankets, put their toes towards the fire, and soon 

 fell asleep underneath the stars. In the morning, 

 after a beef and damper breakfast, a black boy 

 drove up the hobbled horses, each man caught 

 and saddled his own mount, and they continued 

 the journey until the cattle were sighted. There 



