which are the almost invariable adjuncts of the summer of Western Australia, temper the fierce sunbeams so greatly, to anyone in rapid motion, as to render a ride through the bush, even when the glass is at 90° in the shade, by no means disagreeable. A young friend most kindly lent me her favourite riding-horse; it was a lovely grey mare named 'Mercy,' and many a charming forest ride did I enjoy upon her back. When quite a young foal the poor little creature's dam had been killed by an accident, upon which my friend's brother had expressed the opinion that "it would be a mercy to shoot the poor thing." His sister, however, thought that it would be a greater mercy if she could manage to keep it alive, and in spite of fraternal sarcasms she proceeded, like Mr. Chick in 'Dombey and Son,' to try whether "something temporary could not be done with a teapot" to supply immediate wants, whilst trusting to the hope that care and kindness would eventually succeed in rearing the young animal. Whether its kind nurse "took it from the month," or whether more than four weeks had elapsed since its birth, I know not; at all events her pains were well rewarded, for the singularly named 'Mercy' grew up into one of the most delightful lady's horses possible, full of spirit and life, and yet not too eager, and as smooth as a rocking-horse in all its paces.
I have been often asked, since returning to England, whether the Australian native is not the lowest member of the human family—its shabbiest and least creditable relation; and my questioners generally seemed to have made up their minds beforehand that such was certainly the case, let my answer be what it might. Even the
