I 
MOUNT MORGAN 
9 
beasts and the cracking of stock-whips, as the riders 
pressed them forward, shouting and urging them on, 
took me back to the old station life. How angrily 
they looked at us, tossing their shaggy heads ; how they 
plunged and snorted, and then, with dripping sides and 
reddened nostrils, eyed us defiantly from the other side 
of the stream, as if we had been the cause of all their 
woes. But let them toss their heads, for we are now 
over the shallow crossing, which in winter time has been 
the camping-ground of many a broken-down, mud-stuck 
waggon, and where not a few bones of wretched animals 
have been left behind, bleaching in the sun and rain. 
The first glimpse of Mount Morgan gives one the 
idea of a huge red landslip, for the top has all been 
quarried away. Suddenly, numerous chimneys and the 
scattered bandbox-looking town come into sight. A 
quick sweep round the Chinamen’s gardens and we are 
in front of the pretty cottage occupied by the manager 
of the famous mine, where, after our long drive, we do 
full justice to a sumptuous lunch. An hour’s rest after- 
wards and we start for the mine, partly walking, but 
doing the steepest bits in trollies. Everything wears 
the busiest of airs, everything is in motion, and we see 
all that is to be seen, even to the bars of precious metal 
ready for the escort to take into town. Candles 
in hand, we go through the tunnels of white pipeclay, 
one after another. Enough of this clay is in sight, they 
say, to last for seven years, giving all round 2 oz. to 
the ton. Then we go on to the top, where the men 
just now are busy blasting, and we have to hide ourselves 
for a minute or two until the explosion is over and the 
blackened, bubbly, burnt-up looking stuff is exposed, 
which gives, we are told, sometimes 20 and 30 oz. to 
the ton. The bright yellow-looking clay just beside it 
is richer still, while other stuff close alongside yields 
