Thus, in a new guise, and in a new land, the old “Bunyip,” rejuvenated and embellished, with, so to speak, colours flying and band playing, leaves its long rest at moorings, and once more sets sail in modest confidence that age will not have rendered its timbers less seaworthy, but rather have preserved and toughened them in such wise as may enable the old vessel to successfully compete with the modern craft of her class that have since appeared. The Author. _INTRODUCTION._ There dwells a Wife by the Northern March And a wealthy Wife is she. She breeds a breed o’ rovin’ men And casts them over sea. And some they drown in deep water, And some in sight of shore; And word goes back to the carline Wife And ever she sends more. For since that Wife had gate or gear, Or hearth or garth or bield, She wills her sons to the white harvest, And that is a bitter yield— She wills her sons to the wet ploughing To ride the horse o’ tree, And syne her sons come home again Far spent from out the sea. The good Wife’s sons come home again Wi’ little into their hands But the lear o’ men that ha’ dealt wi’ men In the new and naked lands— But the faith o’ men that ha’ proven men By more than willing breath, And the eyes o’ men that ha’ read wi’ men In the open books o’ Death. Rich are they, rich in wonders seen, But poor in the goods o’ men: And what they ha’ got by the skin o’ their teeth They sell for their teeth again. Ay, whether they lose to the naked life, Or win to their hearts’ desire, They tell it all to the carline Wife That nods beside the fire. Her hearth is wide to every gust That gars the dead ash spin— And tide by tide and ’twixt the tides Her sons go out and in. [Out in great mirth that do desire Hazard of trackless ways, In wi’ great peace to wait their watch And warm before the blaze.] And some return in broken sleep And some in waking dream, For she hears the heels o’ the dripping ghosts That ride the long roof-beam. Home—they come home from all the seas— The living and the dead— The good Wife’s sons come home again For her blessing on their head. Rudyard Kipling. _Steve Brown’s Bunyip._ STEVE BROWN’S BUNYIP. The general opinion of those who felt called upon to give it was that Steve Brown, of the Scrubby Corner, ‘wasn’t any chop.’ Not that, on the surface, there seemed much evidence confirmatory of such a verdict—rather, indeed, the contrary. If a traveller, drover or teamster lost his stock, Steve, after a long and arduous search, was invariably the first man to come across the missing animals—provided the reward was high enough.