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 smaller half of the shanty, divided from the rest and from the chimney-place by the incomplete partition already spoken of, is termed by us the dairy. It is not in any way separate from the rest of the house, though, since we use it and sleep in it as part of the general apartment. But here, arranged on shelves all round the walls, are tin dishes and billies, a churn, a cheese-press, and the various appurtenances of a dairy. Humble and primitive as are these arrangements, we do yet contrive to turn out a fair amount of butter and cheese. At such seasons as we have cows in milk, this makes a fair show to our credit every week, in the ledger of the township storekeeper, our good friend the Mayor.