nder a flood of memories, in which the old
man became absorbed. He leaned heavily upon his spade and thought.

"Arter all," he murmured sadly, "arter all--it were Brummy.

"Brummy," he said at last. "It's all over now; nothin' matters
now--nothin' didn't ever matter, nor--nor don't. You uster say as how it
'ud be all right termorrer" (pause); "termorrer's come, Brummy--come fur
you--it ain't come fur me yet, but--it's a-comin'."

He threw in some more earth.

"Yer don't remember, Brummy, an' mebbe yer don't want to remember--_I_
don't want to remember--but--well, but, yer see that's where yer got the
pull on me."

He shovelled in some more earth and paused again.

The dog rose, with ears erect, and looked anxiously first at his master
and then into the grave.

"Theer oughter be somethin' sed," muttered the old man; "'tain't right
to put 'im under like a dog. Theer oughter be some sort o' sarmin." He
sighed heavily in the listening silence that followed this remark and
proceeded with his work. He filled the grave to the brim this time, and
fashioned the mound carefully with his spade. Once or twice he muttered
the words, "I am the rassaraction." As he laid the tools quietly aside,
and stood at the head of the grave, he was evidently trying to remember
the something that ought to be said. He removed his hat, placed it
carefully on the grass, held his hands out from his sides and a little
to the front, drew a long deep breath, and said with a solemnity
that greatly disturbed Five Bob: "Hashes ter hashes, dus ter dus,
Brummy--an'--an' in hopes of a great an' gerlorious rassaraction!"

He sat down on a log near by, rested his elbows on his knees and passed
his hand wearily over his forehead--but only as one who was tired and
felt the heat; and presently he rose, took up the tools, and walked back
to the hut.

And the sun sank again on the grand Australian bush--the nurse and tutor
of eccentric minds, the home of the weird.

OUR PIPES

The moon rose away out on the edge of a smoky plain, seen through a
sort of tunnel or arch in the fringe of mulga behind which we were
camped--Jack Mitchell and I. The timber proper was just behind us, very
thick and very dark. The moon looked like a big new copper boiler set on
edge on the horizon of the plain, with the top turned towards us and a
lot of old rags and straw burning inside.

We had tramped twenty-five miles on a dry stretch on a hot day--swagmen
know wha