ing in impetuous headlong rush upon a jagged point there, now rolling over on itself, and tumbling in unrestrained exuberance among the boulders; and then with a swift dash, spreading its bosom, calm and unruffled to the kiss of the sun, as it leaves the rocky defile, and careers along through the plain. At the mouth of the gorge a wide basin is formed by the junction of a mountain stream; and here a massive "boom" of great logs, chained together, is cast across the river. Within the barrier thus formed, immense quantities of sawn timber and logs are spinning and curling, chafing and fretting, as if anxious to escape from durance and resume their rapid flight down stream.
A strange fodder here takes the place of the lucerne, to which, as a New South Welshman, I am more accustomed. Let our coast farmers take a hint. Along with grasses, turnips are sown. Cattle, horses, and sheep are turned in to eat down the crop, bit by bit, when it has attained a good growth; and all animals alike seem to thrive and get fat on the succulent feed thus provided. When the crop is sufficiently grazed down, a disc harrow is next put through the field, which brings the turnip roots to the surface, and the cattle and sheep are again turned in to regale themselves afresh. A curious instance of adaptation to circumstances is given by the sheep here. They learn in time to paw the earth away from the turnip roots, and actually eat them out of the soil. In the black alluvial plains of New South Wales, too, where wild carrots are a common growth, the
