Ground," where, alas! kangaroos have long ceased to browse and skip. The distant mountain range loomed up before us gloomy and threatening. Every stream we crossed had its course marked by a ribbon of wattle flashing among the sombre eucalyptus. Boys were going out rabbiting this spring morning with bags of ferrets; the whole countryside lay open to these infant patriots intent on slaying their country's enemies. The day was like a showery April morning at home, with heavy drifting clouds, that threw deep shadows on the dark mass of the mountains rising on our left. Sometimes we ran through cleared open country with pale patches of early crops, oats or barley, springing here and there, or lean store cattle, brought from up-country to be fattened for sale, and feeding on the richer pastures. Sometimes our way led through the bush, sometimes through occasional villages.
At last we had climbed Christmas Hill, and stopped to survey the famous view from its summit. Here the road runs between banks with the dark shining gum trees stretching away on either side. We climbed through a fence, where a little cleared space enabled us to look over the tops of the trees to the valley of the Yarra spread out beneath; a wide, wide plain with the stern-looking ranges in the background. Below us the
