The Last Lemurian: A Westralian Romance

THE following morning I awakened with the dawn, and, slipping out so as not to disturb the still slumbering Hatter, I went to the door of the humpy and watched the sun rays struggling through the morning mist which hung over the gumtrees in the vicinity. The tops of the ridges round about the place were already lit up with faint, rosy hues, and overhead the sky was of that wonderfully clear blue only seen when the sun rises on an Australian morning. The bush birds were chirping and twittering, and a gentle, cool breeze fanned my cheeks, and brought to my nostrils the peculiar scent of the eucalypt. I expanded my chest to breathe in the delicious air, and felt my pulses tingle and my blood rush through my veins. What was London, with all its joys and attractions that it offers so lavishly to a man of wealth, compared with this sublime delight of breathing in the scented air of this dear sunlit southern land?

I walked from the door to where a fallen log lay on the ground, and sat upon its bulky form and watched, as I had often watched before in the bygone days of station toil, the glow of sunshine spread over the country. It was difficult to imagine that only a few weeks ago I was in a city where such a sunrise was unknown, and where a glimpse of such a sky would have thrown the population into ecstasies. And yet I had voyaged half round the world to see it, and for no better reason than to----