search of Vivian; perhaps that cursed squatter, whose sheep are always migrating to ours. Never mind, a hearty welcome to all--friend or foe. The door opens; one, two, three, strangers. More plates and knives; draw your stools; just in time. First eat, then--what news? Just as the strangers sit down, a voice is heard at the door-- "You will take particular care of this horse, young man: walk him about a little; wash his back with salt and water. Just unbuckle the saddle-bags; give them to me. Oh! safe enough, I daresay--but papers of consequence. The prosperity of the colony depends on these papers. What would become of you all if any accident happened to them, I shudder to think." And here, attired in a twill shooting-jacket, budding with gilt buttons, impressed with a well-remembered device; a cabbage-leaf hat shading a face rarely seen in the Bush--a face smooth as razor could make it: neat, trim, respectable-looking as ever--his arm full of saddle-bags, and his nostrils gently distended, inhaling the steam of the banquet, walks in--Uncle Jack. PISISTRATUS, (_leaping up_.)--Is it possible! _You_, in Australia--you in the Bush! Uncle Jack, not recognising Pisistratus in the tall, bearded man who is making a plunge at him, recedes in alarm, exclaiming--"Who are you?--never saw you before, sir! I suppose you'll say next that _I owe you something_!" PISISTRATUS.--Uncle Jack! UNCLE JACK, (_dropping his saddle-bags_.)--Nephew!--Heaven be praised. Come to my arms! They embrace; mutual introductions to the company--Mr Vivian, Mr Bolding, on the one side--Major MacBlarney, Mr Bullion, Mr Emanuel Speck on the other. Major MacBlarney is a fine portly man, with a slight Dublin brogue, who squeezes your hand as he would a sponge. Mr Bullion--reserved and haughty--wears green spectacles, and gives you a forefinger. Mr Emanuel Speck--unusually smart for the Bush, with a blue satin stock, and one of those blouses common in Germany, with elaborate hems, and pockets enough for Briareus to have put all his hands into at once--is thin, civil, and stoops--bows, smiles, and sits down to dinner again, with the air of a man accustomed to attend to the main chance. UNCLE JACK, (_his mouth full of beef_.)--Famous beef!--breed it yourself, eh? Slow work that cattle-feeding! (_Empties the rest of the pickle-jar into his plate._) Must learn to go ahead in the new world--railway times these! We can put him up to a thing or two--eh, Bullion? (_Whispering me_,)--Great capitalist that Bullion! LOOK AT HIM! MR BULLION, (_gravely_.)--A thing or two! If he has capital--you have said it, Mr Tibbets. (_Looks round for the pickles--the green spectacles remain fixed upon Uncle Jack's plate._) UNCLE JACK.--All that this colony wants is a few men like us, with capital and spirit. Instead of paying paupers to emigrate, they should pay rich men to come--eh, Speck?