to make our way to this soak, and wait for better or worse times. Taking
the only horse which remained to us, and what few provisions we had, we
changed our residence from the dust-swept flats of Coolgardie to the
silent bush, where we set up a little hut of boughs, and awaited the
course of events. Sheltered from the sun's burning rays by our house, so
low that it could only be entered on hands and knees, for we had neither
time nor strength to build a spacious structure, and buoyed up by the
entrancement of reading "The Adventures of a Lady's Maid," kindly lent by
a fellow-digger, we did our best to spend a "Happy Christmas."

Somehow, the climate and surroundings seemed singularly inappropriate;
dust could not be transformed, even in imagination, into snow, nor heat
into frost, any more easily than we could turn dried apples into roast
beef and plum-pudding. Excellent food as dried fruit is, yet it is apt
to become monotonous when it must do duty for breakfast, dinner, and tea!
Such was our scanty fare; nevertheless we managed to keen up the
appearance of being quite festive and happy.

Having spread the table--that is, swept the floor clear of ants and other
homely insects--and laid out the feast, I rose to my knees and proposed
the health of my old friend and comrade Mr. Davies, wished him the
compliments of the season, and expressed a hope that we should never spend
a worse Christmas. The toast was received with cheers and honoured in weak
tea, brewed from the re-dried leaves of our last night's meal. He suitably
replied, and cordially endorsed my last sentiment. After duly honouring
the toasts of "The Ladies," "Absent Friends," and others befitting the
occasion, we fell to on the frugal feast.

For the benefit of thrifty housewives, as well as those whom poverty has
stricken, I respectfully recommend the following recipe. For dried apples: