at about £90 per ton of pure ore. The supply, too, of late (within the Cook district at least) has fallen considerably, though to make up for this several new lodes have been discovered and, if systematically worked, will no doubt turn out satisfactory to the promoters. Herberton is the principal tin-mining centre in Queensland, as it has many permanent lodes, whereas in the Cook district the claims are for the most part alluvial. A rich tin claim is quite as valuable as a rich gold claim. The "stream tin" is found in the beds or banks of streams or creeks, at a depth varying from a few inches to several feet. Box drains are placed in the creek, and the dirt is placed in them. A good sluice of water is constantly brought to bear on it, and a fork or spade is continually at work stamping it, to get rid of the loose stones and dirt. The heavy matter of course remains at the bottom of the sluice box, and is afterwards cleaned and put through two sieves and dried in the sun. It is then put in sacks, after which it is packed in flour bags ready for the packer and his mules to take away to the port of Cooktown, whence it is shipped by steamer to Sydney for sale. Of course a great quantity is sold on the field to the merchants and storekeepers of the town, who, in some instances, send their own teams of pack-horses to cart it away. They also supply the miners with provisions and all requisites, such as tools, and by their stores, erected on the field, often make a rattling good thing out of the tin-miner. The latter is proverbially a hard worker, and when he has made "a big cheque" he goes into town with his mates for a spell, and spends it "like a man," which means that he never sees daylight until all his hard-won earnings are in the till of the publican. He then returns to his claim a poorer, but seldom a wiser, man, as he will, in all probability, repeat the debauch a few months afterwards. It is no use talking to him about the virtue of thrift, and the follies of a spendthrift, as it is his idea of "life," and he would enjoy no other. He prefers to live modestly, and work hard for six months, and then to come into town and live at the rate of £1,000 a year for a fortnight. "Chacun à son goût." It pleases him and hurts no one else, so why carp at him? Take him as a whole, he is a genial, good-hearted man, hail fellow, well met, rough in exterior, but true at heart. Though he knows how to swear and to drink, he is free from mean vices, and we must remember that he has never known refinement of manners or thought. I like his rough ways and his honest character, and I take him just as he is, with all his faults, which in many instances are but the cloak of hidden virtues.

Sugar growing has always been an important industry in Queensland, and was most profitable, but if the Government carry out their present intention of prohibiting the importation of Kanaka labour, the above industry will be crushed, and the immense capital sunk in mills and machinery will be irretrievably lost. In North Queensland the climate is very hot, and it is impossible for white men to work in the fields, cutting the cane, also the high rate of wages that would have to be paid them would take away most of the planter's profits. It must be borne in mind that the capital necessary to erect a sugar mill and plant, and to work a plantation properly, is very great, and naturally the planters expect to receive a fair return for their enormous outlay. Taking these facts into consideration, I consider the policy of the Government in prohibiting black labour to be suicidal and foolish. In the Cook District there are only two sugar plantations, the Weary Bay Company's and Messrs. Hislops' of Wyalla, both in the Bloomfield District. The Weary Bay has turned out some very high-class sugar, but has been unfortunate in its management. Twelve months ago it was closed, owing to some financial difficulty, but I heard that it was intended to work it again. The scenery on the Bloomfield River is superb. It is thoroughly tropical. Dense scrubs reach close to the bank's edge, and the bush is filled with the most beautiful orchids, which, when in full flower, is a sight never to be forgotten. The ferns, too, are many, and of varied species, and the clearings are covered with the succulent cane, and circling the plain stand precipitous mountains, notably Stuckey's Gap; whilst from a gentle rise can be seen, over the tops of the dense scrub, the broad and undulating bosom of the Pacific Ocean. These scrubs are rather dangerous in wet weather, as then the numerous creeks become flooded and are unfordable, and sometimes the traveller is unwillingly made a prisoner, or has to run the risk of crossing a swollen stream. Another danger is that of getting lost in the bush, which is a very simple matter, but a very difficult one to get out of. Many a good bushman even has been lost in the trackless forest, where his bones have suggested a terrible story of death by hunger or thirst. The bush has, indeed, furnished many a sad tale of woe. In some instances men have gone mad from despair, having given up all hope of extricating themselves from the trap.

Some years ago a great friend of mine, Bob S——n, went through some terrible experiences. He was a thoroughly experienced bushman and a well-educated man, and to listen to his thrilling yarns of peril and adventure by sea and by land was a never-ending source of pleasure. Of all the good fellows I have ever met, he was, without doubt, one of the most entertaining and pleasant of companions. The particular story to be related is this. He started with a small party of men, equipped with tents and all the necessary supplies of provisions, which were carried on pack-horses, on an expedition for the purpose of finding new country that would be suitable for carrying stock, i.e. cattle. They travelled about 400 miles west from Cooktown, pitched their camp and were fortunate in finding some good-looking country. Bob S——n went some distance away from the camp, and on returning in the evening, to his great astonishment found his friends had struck their tents and left. He now realized that he was deserted 400 miles from civilization, alone in the pathless bush, the home of wild and treacherous blacks, with nothing to protect him but a revolver, and without a morsel of food.

Fortunately he was an experienced bushman, and a plucky fellow to boot, or he would never have survived the awful ordeal. There was nothing else for it but to face the inevitable, so he started on his weary journey, often suffering the fearful pangs of hunger. Now and then he managed to get a few berries to eat, and water to drink, and so day after day, weak from privation, without a covering at night, save the trees overhead, he wearily jogged along. One morning at sunrise as he was descending a rise, to his dismay, about 50 yards beneath him, he saw a large camp of blacks. One of them had just risen, and was stretching himself immediately facing him. The black fellow was equally taken aback, but before he could recover from his surprise, Bob S——n, with two or three piercing shouts, rushed into the camp, firing his revolver. The blacks, evidently thinking that there was a large force behind, took to ignominious flight across the river. This plucky conduct saved him.

Some more days' suffering, and, on the eleventh day out, he sank to the ground faint and exhausted, unable to move. He was, although he knew it not, within a short distance of a cattle station, where, luckily, one of the stockmen, who was out riding, stumbled across him, brought him to the homestead, where he received every care and attention, and eventually quite recovered his health and strength.

Had he not been a strong and hardy man he would assuredly have perished.

On one occasion I, together with five others, left the port of Cooktown in a small cutter at midnight, for the purpose of fishing at D Reef. The night was fine, a fresh breeze had sprung up, and the boat sped merrily on her way. Three of the party,