themselves of various resources. Some go to look at their horses, now
in clover, or its equivalent, in the Riverina graminetum. Some play
cards, others wash or mend their clothes. A large proportion of the
Australians having armed themselves with paper, envelopes, and a
shilling's worth of stamps from the store, bethink themselves of
neglected or desirable correspondents. Many a letter for Mrs Leftalone,
Wallaroo Creek, or Miss Jane Sweetapple, Honeysuckle Flat, as the case
may be, will find its way into the post-bag tomorrow. A pair of
youngsters are having a round or two with the gloves; while to complete
the variety of recreations compatible with life at a woolshed, a
selected troupe are busy in the comparative solitude of that building,
at a rehearsal of a tragedy and a farce, with which they intend, the
very next rainy day, to astonish the population of Anabanco.

At the home-station a truce to labour's "alarms" is proclaimed except
in the case and person of Mr de Vere. So far is he from participation
in the general holiday that he finds the store thronged with shearers,
washers, and "knock-about men," who being let loose, think it would be
nice to go and buy something "pour passer le temps." He therefore
grumbles slightly at having no rest like other people.

"That's all very fine," says Mr Jack Bowles, who, seated on a case, is
smoking a large meerschaum and mildly regarding all things, "but what
have you got to do when we're all HARD AT WORK at the shed?" He speaks
with an air of great importance and responsibility.

"That's right, Mr Bowles," chimes in one of the shearers, "stand up for
the shed. I never see a young gentleman work as hard as you do."

"Bosh!" growls de Vere, "as if anybody couldn't gallop about from the