“Now, let us make it look decent,” said the self-trained cook, as with his knife he cut the out-pieces off to improve its appearance. His trimmings were substantial cuttings, and displayed to advantage the fine quality of the beef; each cutting he threw to his dogs, as they watched at a respectful distance his operations. Now, though some of my readers may not much admire this bush-culinary art, and this mode of dishing-up a dinner, still there was in the whole scene so much of honest hospitality, so much of cheerful and good humoured hilarity, exhibiting in the most pleasing form the simple manners of a primitive people,—the germs, in fact, of the class of English yeomanry, too often unable to flourish in their own native land, ingrafted and revived in a foreign distant shore, that even the most fastidious and refined could not but feel at such a moment a peculiar zest in joining a family so innocently happy and guileless as this, surrounded as they were by abundance of all the essential necessaries of life. Not a shade of care clouded the party, as they sat down with thankfulness to partake of those things with which God had blessed their labour. The arrangement of the table was something in unison with the rest. The pork, so well seasoned, graced the head of the table, while the burly piece of beef, now reeking and streaming from its late trimming, was placed before the honest master of this patriarchal family, with a plentiful supply of potatoes, peas, and greens, ranged in their proper places. As soon as the party had partaken of the substantials, the eldest daughter poured tea into the cups set by each one’s plate—for this is the custom amongst the Australian settlers; at the same time the good landlady cut up the peach pie. The eldest son could now be seen through an open doorway, peering again into the rudely constructed oven, from which he pulled, with a good deal of self-importance and glee, an orange tart, whilst his assistant-cook placed custards on the table in tumblers. The good wife looked amazed, the husband thoughtful. “How did you get the oranges,” asked the mother. “Why, Frank Gore brought ’em,” he replied. “And who made the custards?” “_I_ made ’em!” WANTED, A GOOD WIFE. “What! our Tom make custards!” exclaimed the mother. “Why not?” replied the young man, evidently anxious to show that he could turn his hand to anything useful. “I see, I see how it is,” said the father, “Tom heard that Mrs. C. was coming, and he wants a wife.” “A wife! the like of him want a wife,” said the mother, who, for the first time, looked on his athletic and manly form with sad anxiety. “Tom made the custard,” said Jane, “and William the tart.” “I did not bring the oranges,” replied Tom, as Frank Gore entered with a dish of grapes. “It’s a regular plot,” said the mother. “A down right contrivance—and I expect it is a settled affair,” observed the father. “Jane, don’t blush,” sportively remarked Lucy.