Sin' auld lang syne.

The kitchen grows dimmer, and the forms of the digger-singers
seemed suddenly vague and unsubstantial, fading back rapidly
through a misty veil. But the words ring strong and defiant
through hard years:

And here's a hand, my trusty frien',
And gie's a grup o' thine;
And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

. . . . .

And the nettles have been growing for over twenty years on the spot
where Granny Mathews' big bark kitchen stood.




A Vision of Sandy Blight



I'd been humping my back, and crouching and groaning
for an hour or so in the darkest corner of the travellers' hut,
tortured by the demon of sandy blight. It was too hot to travel,
and there was no one there except ourselves and Mitchell's cattle pup.
We were waiting till after sundown, for I couldn't have travelled
in the daylight, anyway. Mitchell had tied a wet towel round my eyes,