tering, grew green, thick, and strongly,
and gave out a good bloom nearly all the summer through.

By the beginning of November, full summer seems already upon us, it is
so hot at midday. Only towards the evening, when the sun goes down--as
it does almost suddenly, with very little twilight--it feels a little
chilly and even cold. By the middle of the month, however, it has
grown very warm indeed, and we begin to have a touch of the hot wind
from the north. I shall not soon forget my first experience of walking
in the face of that wind. It was like encountering a blast from the
mouth of a furnace; it made my cheeks quite tingle, and it was so dry
that I felt as if the skin would peel off.

On the 16th of November I found the thermometer was 98 deg. in the shade.
Try and remember if you ever had a day in England when it was so hot,
and how intolerable it must have been! Here, however, the moisture is
absent, and we are able to bear the heat without much inconvenience,
though the fine, white dust sometimes blows in at the open door,
covering ledger, cash-book, and everything. On the 12th of December I
wrote home: "The weather is frightfully hot; the ledger almost
scorches my hands as I turn over the leaves." Then again, on the 23rd,
I wrote that "the heat has risen to 105 deg., and even 110 deg., in the shade;
yet, in consequence of the dryness and purity of the atmosphere, I
bear it easily, and even go out to walk."

My favourite walk in the bush, in early summer, is towards the summit
of a range of hills on the south of the township. I set out a little
before sunset, when the heat of the day is well over, and the evening
begins to feel deliciously cool. All is quiet; there is nothing to be
heard but the occasional note of the piping-crow, and the chatter of a
passing flock of paroquets. As I ascend the hill, passing an abandoned
quartz-mine, even these sounds are absent, and perfect stillness
prevails. From the summit an immense prospect lies before me. Six
miles away to the south, across the plain, lies the town of Talbot;
and beyond it the forest seems to extend to the foot of the Pyrenees,
standing up blue in the distance some forty miles away. The clouds
hang over the mountain summits, and slowly the monarch of day descends
seemingly into a dark rift, leaving a track of golden light behind
him. The greeny-blue sky above shines and glows for a few minutes
longer, and then all is suffused in a soft and mournful grey