I know their names well enough, but there's no use in bringing them up now.
Jim and I cuts off into the town, thinking we was due for a little fun.
We'd never been in a big town before, and it was something new to us.

Adelaide ain't as grand quite as Melbourne or Sydney, but there's something quiet and homelike about it to my thinking--great wide streets, planted with trees; lots of steady-going German farmers, with their vineyards and orchards and droll little waggons.

The women work as hard as the men, harder perhaps, and get brown and scorched up in no time--not that they've got much good looks to lose; leastways none we ever saw.
We could always tell the German farmers' places along the road from one of our people by looking outside the door.

If it was an Englishman or an Australian, you'd see where they'd throwed out the teapot leavings; if it was a German, you wouldn't see nothing.

They drink their own sour wine, if their vines are old enough to make any, or else hop beer; but they won't lay out their money in the tea chest or sugar bag; no fear, or the grog either, and not far wrong.