ience of this
cattle-driving work; and of all the aggravating jobs I know, it
certainly is the very worst.

We usually send up our fat steers in batches of a dozen or so at a time,
and prefer now to have them conveyed by water. When we have arranged to
do so, there is a grand muster of the herd. Mob after mob is brought up
and enclosed in the fenced clearings, until we have collected together
all we deem necessary.

Then comes the job of drafting out the steers selected for market. This
is a work of difficulty. All hands are required to achieve it, and often
several neighbours will come over to assist. A small paddock, or a
stockyard, opens out of the larger one wherein the herd is assembled.
The slip-panels between are guarded by four men. Others on horseback,
armed with the formidable loud-cracking stock-whips, drive the cattle
slowly towards the gate. Then comes the tug of war. Each man uses all
his endeavours to drive the chosen steers through the gate, while the
rest are excluded.

A regular battle is fought over every steer; for the guardians of the
gate often fail in preventing other beasts from getting through as well,
as they will not separate. Then the driving is renewed from the other
side. The cattle get wild and furious, charging and rushing at
everything and everybody, and the men on foot have to look out for
themselves very warily. The racket and row make up an indescribable din.

As each four-year-old is finally drafted out, it is driven into a
separate yard, until all are secured there. Then the bulk of the herd
are turned loose into the bush again. By-and-by, perhaps a day or two
later, comes the job of shipping the steers. In order to effect this
they are transferred to a stockyard on the beach.

We have chartered a sea-going cutter, and she lies off in the river,
possibly two or three hundred yards from the beach. A rope connects her
with the beach; and the noosed end of this is passed over the horns of
one of the steers in the yard. Then comes a tussle to get that
particular beast out of the yard while the others shall be kept in.
Often, in spite of the dreaded stockwhips, one of the guardians of the
slip-panels gets knocked over, and then away goes the mob of terrified
beasts, tearing along the beach, and giving no end of trouble to get
them back again. Once, I remember, a heavy steer bounded clean over the
eight-foot fence of the stockyard, and got away.

When the roped animal is got out on