andkerchiefs, though the use of them is limited, and
substitutes are employed. Razors, of course, were discarded long ago,
but some antique brushes, and a small piece of cracked looking-glass,
represent the toilette accessories of the shanty.

Our custom is to wear our clothes just as long as they will hold
together, before we renew any garment by purchasing another of its kind
at the township store. There is no time for mending in the bush, so we
are often rather ragged. Washing is a nuisance, but we feel bound to go
through it sometimes; and very knowing laundrymen are we, up to every
dodge for economizing elbow-grease, and yet satisfactorily cleansing the
things. But we do not undertake this work too often. Old Colonial has
laid down a law upon the subject. He says--

"Frequent washing spoils clothes, and causes them to rot sooner.
Besides, it is unnecessary where there are no women about, and a loss of
time if it trenches on more important work."

Dandy Jack is an exception to the common sumptuary habits of the bush.
In fact, he is an exceptional character altogether. Place him where you
will, and he always looks fit for a drawing-room. How he manages it, no
one knows. Many have tried to imitate him, but without success. They
have expended much money, and time, and thought, in the endeavour to
compete with our dandy chum, but have had, sooner or later, to give up
in despair, and return to tatters and grime like the common run of folk.
Dandy Jack always carries a small swag about with him from place to
place, wherever he may temporarily pitch his tent. If he rides, it is
behind his saddle; if he boats, it is beside him; if he walks, it is on
his back. Yet it is not only this that enables him to appear as he does.
Other people can carry swags as well as he. But Dandy Jack has a
peculiar genius which other persons lack. That must be it!

There is one portion of our domicile that we are accustomed to speak of
with a certain fond and lingering reverence. This is THE LIBRARY. High
up in one corner, festooned with cobwebs, are a couple of shelves. Upon
them are a pile of tattered newspapers and periodicals, a row of greasy
volumes, mostly of the novel sort, one or two ancient account-books, and
the fragmentary relics of a desk containing pens, ink, and paper. Such
as it is, our library is more than every establishment like ours can
boast of. There is precious little time for reading or writing in the
bush.

The smalle