The sandhills still roll away towards the setting sun, but get less and less elevated.

The wild fowl are still holding their mysterious flight to the north-west, but I have not wings to follow them.

Oh, my God! if I only knew what those silly birds know.

It is hopeless to go on, and, I begin to fear, hopeless to go back.

Will it never rain again?
"Afternoon .-- My servant Hawker, one of the convicts assigned to me by Government, died to-day at noon.