"Ah, well!" he said, in explanation of a long meditative silence on
his part; "ah, well--them saplings--the smell of them gum-leaves set
me thinking." And he thought some more.

"Well, for my part," said a tourist in the coach, presently, in a
condescending tone, "I can't see much in Australia. The bally
colonies are--"

"Oh, that be damned!" snarled the Australian-born--they had finished
the second flask of whisky. "What do you Britishers know about
Australia? She's as good as England, anyway."


"Well, I suppose you'll go straight back to the States as soon as
you've done your business in Christchurch," said the bagman, when
near their journey's end they had become confidential.

"Well, I dunno. I reckon I'll
just take a run over to Australia first. There's an old mate of mine
in business in Sydney, and I'd like to have a yarn with him."



A DAY ON A SELECTION


The scene is a small New South Wales western selection, the holder
whereof is native-English. His wife is native-Irish. Time, Sunday,
about 8 a.m. A used-up looking woman comes from the slab-and-bark
house, turns her face towards the hillside, and shrieks: