responsible for weeks and often months. These men take up the work of distributing goods where the railways end. Their duties are arduous and responsible, and they deserve more consideration than they generally receive. THE TRAMP. "My life is a failure, the weary one said, And the days of my youth are past; But I still tramp along, and am not afraid, While grub in the bush shall last. "My shirt is patched, and my trousers are torn, My hat is a sight to see, The nap of my blanket has long been worn, And is patched with an old soogee." The tramp is found everywhere in the world. The bush tramp is only another variety, and since the big strikes took place in Queensland some years ago, the tribe has multiplied, as it taught them to loaf on the stations for rations. Now they make a practice of getting all their supplies for the road from the station stores, pleading they have no money, and from policy rations are given them, and no questions asked. Many men carrying their swags on their backs are really looking for work, and deserve encouragement by the gratuity of a little rations to help them along, as stations are far apart in the outlying districts. As station owners are dependent on these same swagmen for the extra labour they require from time to time, it is policy to keep on good terms with a class that can work incalculable damage to station men that have miles of grass in sheep paddocks to burn, woolsheds to demolish, and gates on the main road to be left open, with no evidence forthcoming as to how fires were started, etc., and no police to supervise or control the actions of these irresponsible wanderers. But the tribe of "whalers," as they were called in New South Wales, men who tramped up one side of the Darling River, and tramped down on the other side, never betraying any desire to find work, these can be found in the Queensland bush too, but not far out, where there are long dry stages between the stations, and a shortness of water which terrifies these old "bummers." There are men who have tramped all over the colonies--every colony in Australia they have been through, and know all the tracks. They come up to a station and ask for work in a sort of a way, and then ask for rations to carry them on, even asking for a bit of tobacco; they say they have no money (and their appearance confirms all they say), and have done no work, for six months past, or longer, tramping all the way, and never a job. Their rags and swag betray dire poverty; their clothes patched in every colour, so that a blackfellow would hardly wear them, and they are dirty in the extreme. These men are not decrepid or weak, but are simply lazy, whilst the fine dry climate enables them to live without hard work. Occasionally, in order to procure some tobacco or a little money for a spree at a shanty, they will take a job for a time as rouseabout or wood-chopper, but they are soon off on the "wallaby track" again. It is