In the absence of Lord Douglas, an old horse-artilleryman, Richardson by name, was my usual comrade.  A splendid fellow he was too, and one of the few to be rewarded for his dogged perseverance and work.  In a pitiable state the poor man was when first we met, half dead from dysentery, camped all alone under a sheet of coarse calico.  Emaciated from sickness, he was unable to follow his horses, which had wandered in search of food and water, though they constituted his only earthly possession.  How he, and many another I could mention, survived, I cannot think.  But if a man declines to die, and fights for life, he is hard to kill!

Amongst the prospectors it was customary for one mate to look after the horses, and pack water to the others who worked.  These men, of course, knew several sources unknown to the general public.  It was from one of them that we learnt of the existence of a small soak some thirteen miles from Coolgardie.  Seeing no hope of rain, and no prospect of being able to stop longer at Coolgardie, Mr. Davies, who camped near us, and I, decided to make our way to this soak, and wait for better or worse times.  Taking the only horse which remained to us, and what few provisions we had, we changed our residence from the dust-swept flats of Coolgardie to the silent bush, where we set up a little hut of boughs, and awaited the course of events.  Sheltered from the sun’s burning rays by our house, so low that it could only be entered on hands and knees, for we had neither time nor strength to build a spacious structure, and buoyed up by the entrancement of reading “The Adventures of a Lady’s Maid,” kindly lent by a fellow-digger, we did our best to spend a “Happy Christmas.”

Somehow, the climate and surroundings seemed singularly inappropriate; dust could not be transformed, even in imagination, into snow, nor heat into frost, any more easily than we could turn dried apples into roast beef and plum-pudding.  Excellent food as dried fruit is, yet it is apt to become monotonous when it must do duty for breakfast, dinner, and tea!  Such was our scanty fare; nevertheless we managed to keen up the appearance of being quite festive and happy.

Having spread the table—­that is, swept the floor clear of ants and other homely insects—­and laid out the feast, I rose to my knees and proposed the health of my old friend and comrade Mr. Davies, wished him the compliments of the season, and expressed a hope that we should never spend a worse Christmas.  The toast was received with cheers and honoured in weak tea, brewed from the re-dried leaves of our last night’s meal.  He suitably replied, and cordially endorsed my last sentiment.  After duly honouring the toasts of “The Ladies,” “Absent Friends,” and others befitting the occasion, we fell to on the frugal feast.

For the benefit of thrifty housewives, as well as those whom poverty has stricken, I respectfully recommend the following recipe.  For dried apples:  Take a handful, chew slightly, swallow, fill up with warm water and wait.  Before long a feeling both grateful and comforting, as having dined not wisely but too heavily, will steal over you.  Repeat the dose for luncheon and tea.