Each man feels for the mouth of his
sugar-bag with one hand while he keeps the bearings of his pot with
the other.

The Irishman has lost his match-box, and feels for it all over the
table without success. He stoops down with his hands on his knees,
gets the table-top on a level with the flicker of firelight, and
"moons" the object, as it were.

Time to turn in. It is very dark inside and bright moonlight without;
every crack seems like a ghost peering in. Some of the men will roll
up their swags on the morrow and depart; some will take another day's
spell. It is all according to the tucker.




THE UNION BURIES ITS DEAD


While out boating one Sunday afternoon on a billabong across the
river, we saw a young man on horseback driving some horses along the
bank. He said it was a fine day, and asked if the Water was deep
there. The joker of our party said it was deep enough to drown him,
and he laughed and rode farther up. We didn't take-much notice of him.

Next day a funeral gathered at a corner pub and asked each other in to
have a drink while waiting for the hearse. They passed away some of
the time dancing jigs to a piano in the bar parlour. They passed away
the rest of the time skylarking and fighting.