fill the "skillions" (from whence the shearers take them as they
want them), and the newly-shorn ones, white, clean, and
bewildered-looking, being turned out after they have passed through
a narrow passage, called a "race," where each sheep is branded, and
has its mouth examined in order to tell its age, which is marked in
a book. It was a comfort to think all their troubles were over, for
a year. You can hear nothing but barking and bleating, and this
goes on from early morning till dark. We peeped in at the men's
huts--a long, low wooden building, with two rows of "bunks" (berths,
I should call their) in one compartment, and a table with forms
round it in the other, and piles of tin plates and pannikins all
about. The kitchen was near, and we were just in time to see an
enormous batch of bread withdrawn from a huge brick oven: the other
commissariat arrangements were on the same scale. Cold tea is
supplied all day long to the shearers, and they appear to consume
great quantities of it.

Our last visit was to the Dip, and it was only a short one, for it
seemed a cruel process; unfortunately, this fine station is in
technical parlance "scabby," and although of course great
precautions are taken, still some 10,000 sheep had an ominous large
S on them. These poor sufferers are dragged down a plank into a
great pit filled with hot water, tobacco, and sulphur, and soused
over head and ears two or three times. This torture is repeated
more than once.

I was very glad to get away from the Dip, and back to the manager's
house, where we refreshed ourselves by a delicious cup of tea, and
soon after started for a nice long drive home in the cool, clear
evening air. The days are very hot, but never oppressive; and the