round the paddock. Poor old woman, nothing but the black stalks and dusty leaves of saltbush day after day. The little Tank near the hut is still half full so she at least has good water a luxury indeed in these parts. She is one of the grand old stamp of Lachlan horses, that could carry a man 80 or 90 miles in a day and not be one bit the worse for it. She is old now & poor, so poor that with a crupper in hilly country you might almost [sever] her tail, with streams of tears running down each cheek, caused by the millions of cursed flies, her lot indeed is not a happy one. Where were the old horses bred? Why don’t you see the same stamp now? Where were the Bushmen bred? Why don’t you see the same stamp now? I see a good many travelers at Shearing time – the cockie-farming shearer with his mongrel hack & pack horse, carrying the same shears & stone from shed to shed but with a big ringed steel bit & plated three bar irons, surcingle, breastplate etc, etc., as tho’ he had a thoroughbred under him, the two jockey boys, suspended license men