AN ANGLER AT THE ANTIPODES. 107 
And believe me, he who has launched his boat from 
one of the quays of Sydney, with the first streak of a 
summer dawn, and stealing down the harbour has 
marked the sun come forth above the eastern sea, 
throwing out in clear relief islet after islet and head- 
land behind headland, lighting up the spires and 
villas of the many-ridged city, and deepening the 
purple shadows on many a northern creek and inlet, 
has seen a sight of ‘beauty, not unsurpassed perhaps, 
but in its own kind unrivalled. Nor will the rambles 
of the Australian angler be wanting in living objects 
of interest. The common complaint as to the scanti- 
ness of the fauna of New Holland applies only to its 
quadrupeds, which, with a few unimportant excep- 
tions, are all marsupials. Even in these there is 
greater variety than Englishmen generally suppose. 
Sometimes on a grassy slope, between hill and stream, 
you surprise a group of tall kangaroos, and perhaps 
see “Joey” throw a somerset into the maternal pouch, 
before the whole party, and make off with those 
amazing bounds which it is scarce a metaphor to 
describe as flight. Sometimes a rock Wallaby, whisk- 
ing his bushy tail, scuttles along an overhanging cliff. 
In the bare scrub of the uplands, the nimble little 
kangaroo-rat starts up at your feet. In the semi- 
tropical brushes which fringe the rivers towards the 
coast, you have the brush Wallaby and Paddy-melon 
dodging and doubling among the tangled growth of 
