day in our travels, it being no less than Mr. Tietkens’s nine-and-twentieth birthday.  We celebrated it with what honours the expedition stores would afford, obtaining a flat bottle of spirits from the medical department, with which we drank to his health and many happier returns of the day.  In honour of the occasion I called this Tietkens’s Birthday Creek, and hereby proclaim it unto the nations that such should be its name for ever.  The camp was not moved, but Mr. Tietkens and I rode over to the high mountain to-day, taking with us all the apparatus necessary for so great an ascent—­that is to say, thermometer, barometer, compass, field glasses, quart pot, waterbag, and matches.  In about four miles we reached its foot, and found its sides so bare and steep that I took off my boots for the ascent.  It was formed for the most part like a stupendous turtle back, of a conglomerate granite, with no signs of water, or any places that would retain it for a moment, round or near its base.  Upon reaching its summit, the view was most extensive in every direction except the west, and though the horizon was bounded in all directions by ranges, yet scrubs filled the entire spaces between.  To the north lay a long and very distant range, which I thought might be the Gill’s Range of my last expedition, though it would certainly be a stretch either of imagination or vision, for that range was nearly 140 miles away.

To the north-westward was a flat-topped hill, rising like a table from an ocean of scrub; it was very much higher than such hills usually are.  This was Mount Conner.  To the south, and at a considerable distance away, lay another range of some length, apparently also of considerable altitude.  I called this the Everard Range.  The horizon westward was bounded by a continuous mass of hills or mountains, from the centre of which Birthday Creek seemed to issue.  Many of the mounts westward appeared of considerable elevation.  The natives were burning the scrubs west and north-west.  On the bare rocks of this mountain we saw several white, bleached snail-shells.  I was grieved to find that my barometer had met with an accident in our climb; however, by testing the boiling point of water I obtained the altitude.

Water boiled at 206 degrees, giving an elevation of 3085 feet above the level of the sea, it being about 1200 feet above the surrounding country.  The view of Birthday Creek winding along in little bends through the scrubs from its parent mountains, was most pleasing.  Down below us were some very pretty little scenes.  One was a small sandy channel, like a plough furrow, with a few eucalyptus trees upon it, running from a ravine near the foot of this mount, which passed at about a mile through two red mounds of rock, only just wide enough apart to admit of its passage.  A few cypress pines were growing close to the little gorge.  On any other part of the earth’s surface, if, indeed, such another place could be found, water must certainly exist also, but here there was none.  We had a perfect bird’s-eye view of the spot.  We could only hope, for beauty and natural harmony’s sake, that water must exist, at least below the surface, if not above.  Having completed our survey, we descended barefooted as before.