the day, because the world has just had his face washed, and the air smells like Pears' soap.

'Aha,' said Bill Barnacle, cutting up slices of the Puddin', 'this is what I call grand. Here we are, after a splendid night's sleep on dry leaves, havin' a smokin' hot slice of steak-and-kidney for breakfast round the camp fire. What could be more delightful?'

'What indeed?' said Bunyip Bluegum sipping tea.

'Why, as I always say,' said Bill, 'if there's one thing more entrancin' than sittin' round a camp fire in the evenin' it's sitting round a camp fire in the mornin'. No bed and blankets and breakfast tables for Bill Barnacle. For as I says in my "Breakfast Ballad"—

There was a hearty round of applause at this song, for as Bunyip Bluegum remarked, 'Singing at breakfast should certainly be more commonly indulged in, as it greatly tends to enliven what is on most occasions a somewhat dull proceeding.'

'One of the great advantages of being a professional Puddin'-owner,' said Sam Sawnoff, 'is that songs at breakfast are always encouraged. None of the ordinary breakfast rules, such as scowling while eating, and saying the porridge is as stiff as glue and the eggs are as tough as leather, are observed. Instead, songs, roars of laughter, and boisterous jests are the order of the day. For example, this sort of thing,' added Sam, doing a rapid back-flap and landing with a thump on Bill's head. As Bill was unprepared for this act of boisterous humour, his face was pushed into the Puddin' with great violence, and the gravy was splashed in his eye.