account in comparison. Had she lived a century or two ago she would
infallibly have been burnt.

A few miles past the Brockman the auriferous country is cut off by what
is locally known as the "Sandstone"--a sheer, wall-like range named the
Albert Edward.

Just below the gorge where the Elvire River (a tributary of the Ord
River) breaks through the range is situated Flora Valley Cattle Station,
the property of the brothers Gordon. A charming little place, after the
rains; the homestead stands on a high bank above the river, here fringed
with high, shady trees. Beyond the homestead and the yards, a fine plain
of grass stretches out, surrounded by rough and rocky hills. As charming
as their little place were the owners, the most kind-hearted and
hospitable folk it is possible to imagine. Here we stayed a few days to
get some meat salted for our journey; nothing would satisfy the two
brothers but that they must find the finest bullock on their run, kill
it, and give it to us. Flora Valley is a great place for the blacks, who
live there in scores, camped by the river, and fed by the kind-hearted
squatters. Leaving the station and travelling South-East, our route lay
through a few low hills, and then we came out upon the Denison Downs,
most magnificent plains of grass.

The first few days of a journey are most unsettled, saddles do not fit,
packs will not ride, the animals will not agree, and dozens of like
annoyances. Our three new camels, Bluey, Hughie, and Wattie, were almost
unmanageable; for not only had they been running loose for some time, but
had never been well behaved or well looked after. Bluey was a dreadfully
wild brute, and all but brought Warri, who was riding him, to grief;
after bucking and plunging and trying all manner of tricks, he stampeded