Down the valley runs a deep but narrow creek which eventually finds its way round the foot of the headlands into a ti-tree-encircled red lagoon enclosed by sand-ridges.  Near the head of the valley the creek splits; near the head of the left-hand branch is Godfrey’s Tank; in the other, just before it emerges from the cliffs, is the small pool found by Breaden.  Several kinds of trees new to me were growing in the valleys, one, a very pretty crimson-blossomed tree, not unlike a kurrajong in size, shape, and character of the wood, but with this difference, in leaf, that its leaves were divided into two points, whilst the kurrajong has three.  One of these trees had been recently chopped down with a blunt implement, probably a stone tomahawk, and a half-finished piece of work—­I think a shield—­was lying close by.  The wood is soft, and must be easily shaped.  It is rather curious that the natives, of whom, judging from the smoke seen in all directions, there must be a fair number, should not have been camped at such a splendid water as Godfrey’s Tank, the reason of their absence being, I suppose, that camping in the barren hills would entail a longish walk every day to any hunting grounds.  To the native “enough is as good as a feast,” and a wretched little well as serviceable as a large pool.  The nights were so cloudy that I was unable to see any stars, but by dead reckoning only the position of the pool is lat. 20 degrees 15 minutes long. 126 degrees 25 minutes.

From the top of the highest headland, which is divided into two nipple-like peaks, an extensive view can be obtained.  To the South and the South-East, the Southesk Tablelands; to the East, broken tablelands and sandhills; to the North, the same; to the North-West, nothing but hopeless ridge upon ridge of sand as far as the horizon.  To the West, some ten miles distant, a line of cliffs running North and South, with sand-ridges beyond, and a plain of spinifex between; to the North of the cliffs an isolated table-top hill, showing out prominently—­this I named Mount Cornish, after my old friend and tutor in days gone by.

Leaving the hills on the 21st, we soon reached a little colony of detached hills of queer shapes, one, as Breaden said, looking “like a clown’s cap.”  From the top of the highest, which I named Mount Ernest, after my brother-in-law, a dismal scene stretched before us, nothing but the interminable sand-ridges, the horizon as level as that of the ocean.  What heartbreaking country, monotonous, lifeless, without interest, without excitement save when the stern necessity of finding water forced us to seek out the natives in their primitive camps!  Every day, however, might bring forth some change, and, dismal as the country is, one was buoyed up by the thought of difficulties overcome, and that each day’s march disclosed so much more of the nature of a region hitherto untraversed.  It would have been preferable to have found good country, for not only would that have been of some practical benefit to the world at large, but would have been more pleasant to travel through.  So far we had had nothing but hard work, and as the only result the clear proof that a howling wilderness of sand occupies the greater area of the Colony’s interior