Life in the Heart of the Bush.

This note will be left at an established depot five and a half miles out, where it will be and again, could be picked up through a break in the trees over head. I had one eye on the star and the other on the ground, which was broken and rough. Suddenly my foot caught in the end of a fallen log and I went headlong down hill, my packs one way, my lantern another. An Australian born bushman, whose variegated vocabulary is the envy of the world, might have been able to give vent to expressions suitable to the occasion, but I was both winded and speechless, so I got up, found and relit my lamp, and recovered by lost luggage—no charge—and set off again, reaching the camp without further mishap. A survey of the damage revealed pants hopelessly settled. That did not matter much. Public decency does not compel one to wear them where I am living. Two breakfasts lost in the egg department, page 36 biscuits broken up, sugar “bust,” and other minor damage. That was a lesson—I do the job in daylight now.