him
for the dog tax. He never enquired about the state of the money
market, nor bothered himself about the prices of land or cattle, wood,
wine, or wheat. Every bank, and brewery, and building society in the
world might go into liquidation at once for aught he cared. He had
retired from the Government service, had superannuated himself on a
pension of nothing per annum, and to draw it he required no voucher.

And yet, notwithstanding all these advantages, I don't think there
are many men who would voluntarily choose his lot. I watched him
from the end of the verandah, and began speculating about him. What
was he thinking about during his solitary watches in the night or
while he tramped alone through the bush year after year in heat and
cold, wind and rain? Did he ever think of anything--of his past
life, or of his future lot? Did he believe in or hope for a heaven?
or had he any fear of hell and eternal punishment? Surely he had
been punished enough; in this life he had endured evil things in
plenty, and might at least hope for eternal rest in the next.

He was sitting with his back against a gum tree, and his feet towards
the fire. From time to time he threw a few more sticks on the embers,
and a fitful blaze lit up his dark weatherbeaten face.

Then to my surprise he began to sing, and to sing well. His voice
was strong, clear, and mellow, and its tones rose and fell in the
silent night air with a pathetic and wonderful sweetness. The burden
of his song was "We may be happy yet."

"Oh, smile as thou wert wont to smile,
Before a weight of care
Had crushed thine heart, and yet awhile
Left only sorrow there;
We may be happy yet."

He sang three stanzas, and was silent. Then someone said: "Poor old
fellow; I hope he may be happy yet."

Next morning he was sitting with his back against the gum tree. His
fire had gone out, and he seemed to be late in awaking, and in no
hurry to resume his journey. But his travels were finished; he never
awoke. His body was quite cold, and he must have died soon after he
had sung the last note of his song. He had only sixpence in his
pocket--the sixpence I had given him for his biography. The police
took him in charge once more and put him in his last prison, where he
will remain until we shall all be called together by the dread blast
of the Archangel's trumpet on the Judgment Day.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Book of the Bush, by George Dunderdale