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 gardens, rich lawns, handsome stone houses. Ever and anon one of these quaint old inns. Churches are plentiful. Some have square towers, and are covered with red tiles, which give a warm touch of colour to the landscape. We pass the old orphan schools, now used as an invalid station. Yonder is a pottery—there a bone mill. Here the show and cricket grounds. On all hands grand orchards of great extent, trim rows of cottages, country houses standing back amid great plantations of symmetrically planted fruit-trees. On the right the Elwick racecourse, with its grand stand of red brick, and the Launceston railway, running close by; and now in front, the silvery Derwent opens out like a lake; and as we gaze across Glenorchy, with its hop kilns and tannery, and the pretty village of Bryant's Bridge sheltered by high wooded ranges, and nestling cosily round the old square-towered rustic church, we feel the whole charm of the place stealing upon us, and no longer wonder at the fair daughters of Tasmania so loyally maintaining the supremacy of their little island for natural beauty against all rivals.

Having heard so much of the fruit-growing industry of Tasmania, I was anxious to see an orchard for myself. Fortunately, we shared common interests with one of the fine old pioneers of the island, a grand old English gentleman, with cheeks as rosy as his own apples, and a heart as sound and ripe as the sweetest and best of them, though his hair was now whitening, like the almond blossom before the door of his hospitable mansion.