f our departed brother worth more
than my complexion?" A wattle-bark layman might have expressed himself
in stronger language, none the less to the point. But my priest seemed
unconscious of what was going on. Besides, the publican was a great
and important pillar of the church. He couldn't, as an ignorant
and conceited ass, lose such a good opportunity of asserting his
faithfulness and importance to his church.

The grave looked very narrow under the coffin, and I drew a breath of
relief when the box slid easily down. I saw a coffin get stuck once, at
Rookwood, and it had to be yanked out with difficulty, and laid on the
sods at the feet of the heart-broken relations, who howled dismally
while the grave-diggers widened the hole. But they don't cut contracts
so fine in the West. Our grave-digger was not altogether bowelless,
and, out of respect for that human quality described as "feelin's," he
scraped up some light and dusty soil and threw it down to deaden the
fall of the clay lumps on the coffin. He also tried to steer the first
few shovelfuls gently down against the end of the grave with the back
of the shovel turned outwards, but the hard dry Darling River clods
rebounded and knocked all the same. It didn't matter much--nothing
does. The fall of lumps of clay on a stranger's coffin doesn't sound any
different from the fall of the same things on an ordinary wooden box--at
least I didn't notice anything awesome or unusual in the sound; but,
perhaps, one of us--the most sensitive--might have been impressed by
being reminded of a burial of long ago, when the thump of every sod
jolted his heart.

I have left out the wattle--because it wasn't there. I have also
neglected to mention the heart-broken old mate, with his grizzled head
bowed and great pearly drops streaming down his rugged cheeks. He was
absent--he was probably "Out Back." For similar reasons I have omitted
reference to the suspicious moisture in the eyes of a bearded bush
ruffian named Bill. Bill failed to turn up, and the only moisture was
that which was induced by the heat. I have left out the "sad Australian
sunset" because the sun was not going down at the time. The burial took
place exactly at midday.

The dead bushman's name was Jim, apparently; but they found no
portraits, nor locks of hair, nor any love letters, nor anything of that
kind in his swag--not even a reference to his mother; only some papers
relating to Union matters. Most of us didn't