The washing season is a lively time, as nearly all are abroad. The merry joke is heard, and the loud laugh mingles with the rattling of stones in the hopper, the grinding of cradles, and splashing of water. There is some amusement in quizzing the machines employed. One day I saw an unfortunate Irishman without a mate, who had a most original contrivance for conducting his washing operations. The cradle, a very rude one, was two feet long, his dipper was a tin pannican cleverly fixed in a slit stick, and his puddling tub was a hole in the ground. Some in the dry season have taken known good stuff, put it over a fire and blown away the dust to get at the gold. In California, some have chosen a windy day to sift the dry stuff, placing a blanket or cloth on the ground to catch the heavy metal. A few at our mines have taken advantage of occasional summer showers to turn the water from a hill into a deserted hole, which they converted into a washing station. Though as a rule small parties had better pay cart-hire than keep a horse, yet I knew a couple of diggers who managed in the following manner. One got each day a load of stuff from a hole, which his mate carted to the creek, eight miles off, washed, and came in the next morning for another load. The latter, having his wife at head-quarters, would not only bring a supply of water to his worthy bachelor friend of the little _oilskin_ tent, but now and then a loaf, a cake or a tart. The chief washing stations in the dry season at the Mount were, the Forest and Campbell Creeks, and the river Loddon. Those of Bendigo were the Sheepwash, Emu, and Bullock Creeks. There is a story told of an old man, at Friar’s Creek, who put on his spectacles, and examining some stuff out of his hole, observed no gold in it. He was prevailed upon by somebody to wash a little of it in the morning, when the metal appeared. The old gentleman persisted in believing that none was there when he looked for it, exclaiming, “then sure the divil himself came in the night and put it there.”