The wild cattle invariably keep on high ranges, and from their acuteness of smell, are difficult to get at, and it is only to leeward that one can approach them. The bulls being the leaders of the herds are always singled out, and after a desperate and trying gallop over a rugged country, the huntsman finds himself going stride for stride alongside one of these Kings of the Forest, and wondering how an animal so ungainly in his gait, can get over the country at such a pace. Jumping over fallen trees, and dodging round others, he at last finds himself on a clear spot, when drawing a pistol from his holster, and riding up so as almost to touch the animal's side, he lodges a well directed ball just behind the fore shoulder. This is the most critical moment. Great command of your horse is required, for the bull, if not mortally wounded, turns suddenly half mad with rage on his pursuer, and puts his nerves and judgment to a severe test. On these occasions almost incredible feats of horsemanship are performed; and nearly precipitous slopes are descended. I have seen similar exploits nowhere but in Chile, where horses are ridden down the sides of frightful ravines on their haunches at half speed for bets; but in that country the severity of the bit gives the rider a power over his steed unknown elsewhere. INCIVILITY OF A SETTLER. We crossed the Williams river, about fifteen miles South-West from Stroud, and after nearly another hour's ride came to a place called Wallaroba. I was here doomed to experience the only instance of incivility I ever found in Australia. It was late in the afternoon of a cold blustering day, and having breakfasted early, we were prompted to test the hospitality of a Mr. Chapman, whose station we were passing. It was the only one we had seen during the day, and knowing the possibility of our being mistaken for bush-rangers,* we turned back our rough coats, and rode up to the house as smart as we could make ourselves. We met the owner standing in the gateway of the garden fronting the house, which he nearly filled; but although presenting a John Bull's exterior, there was a great deficiency of the national character within. After introducing ourselves we asked for a little milk, but were refused on the plea that there was none at the station. Our surly informant added, that we should find a comfortable inn eight miles farther on. First looking at the number of fine milch cows that were grazing near, and then at the speaker, we turned and left him in silent disgust.