Gibson and I had a most miserable day at the camp.  The ants were dreadful; the hot winds blew clouds of sandy dust all through and over the place; the thermometer was at 102 degrees.  We repaired several pack-bags.  A few mosquitoes for variety paid us persistent attentions during the early part of the night; but their stings and bites were delightful pleasures compared to the agonies inflicted on us by the myriads of small black ants.  Another hot wind and sand-dust day; still sewing and repairing pack-bags to get them into something like order and usefulness.

At one p.m.  Mr. Tietkens returned from the west, and reported that the whole country in that direction had been entirely unvisited by rains, with the exception of the Cups, and there, out of several dozen rocky indents, barely sufficient water for their three horses could be got.  Elder’s Creek, the Cob tank, the Colonel’s Range, Hughes’s Creek, and all the ranges lying between here and there, the way they returned, were perfectly dry, not a drop of moisture having fallen in all that region.  Will it evermore be thus?  Jupiter impluvius?  Thermometer to-day 106 degrees in shade.  The water supply is so rapidly decreasing that in two days it will be gone.  This is certainly not a delightful position to hold, indeed it is one of the most horrible of imaginable encampments.  The small water supply is distant about a mile from the camp, and we have to carry it down in kegs on a horse, and often when we go for it, we find the horses have just emptied and dirtied the tank.  We are eaten alive by flies, ants, and mosquitoes, and our existence here cannot be deemed a happy one.  Whatever could have obfuscated the brains of Moses, when he omitted to inflict Pharaoh with such exquisite torturers as ants, I cannot imagine.  In a fiery region like to this I am photophobist enough to think I could wallow at ease, in blissful repose, in darkness, amongst cool and watery frogs; but ants, oh ants, are frightful!  Like Othello, I am perplexed in the extreme—­rain threatens every day, I don’t like to go and I can’t stay.  Over some hills Mr. Tietkens and I found an old rocky native well, and worked for hours with shovel and levers, to shift great boulders of rock, and on the 4th of December we finally left the deceitful Shoeing Camp—­never, I hope, to return.  The new place was no better; it was two and a half miles away, in a wretched, scrubby, rocky, dry hole, and by moving some monstrous rocks, which left holes where they formerly rested, some water drained in, so that by night the horses were all satisfied.  There was a hot, tropical, sultry feeling in the atmosphere all day, though it was not actually so hot as most days lately; some terrific lightnings occurred here on the night of the 5th of December, but we heard no thunder.  On the 6th and 7th Mr. Tietkens and I tried several places to the eastwards for water, but without success.  At three p.m. of the 7th, we had thunder and lightning,