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us, so we will be their champion. Have you ever visited the Moorabool? If not, then take advantage of the first fine day which offers itself, and away with you afoot to judge for yourself of the natural charms of this much maligned stream; we had heard it called slow, and sluggish, and paltry, but to it nevertheless we went, for we are not of those who are led away by popular prejudice, and there we beheld enough to clear it, in our eyes at least, from the slur cast upon it; truly—
"Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata." — Virgil.
"Here are cooling springs, here grassy meads.
Let us walk now to the bridge at Fyansford, some two miles from Geelong; passing on our way the junction of the river which forms the subject of our paper, with the Barwon, just below the Falls:—here the banks remind us of the dark glen-like scenery of some parts of Ireland,—high hills, whose declivities reach to the water's edge, dark hollows intersecting, into which the daylight scarcely seems to glance, and for the various forms, animal and vegetable, which add to the charms of the picture—
"No breathing man
With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan
Nature's dear beauty, could pass lightly by
Objects that look out so invitingly
On either side."
First now are the glittering Dragon flies, either fluttering over the plants which grow here, or striking us with amazement at their rapid hawk-like flight, and there is the black fan-tailed Fly-catcher, whose breast is pure white, and the remainder of its plumage jetty black, restlessly darting from one spot to the
