He sang three stanzas, and was silent.  Then someone said:  “Poor old fellow; I hope he may be happy yet.”

Next morning he was sitting with his back against the gum tree.  His fire had gone out, and he seemed to be late in awaking, and in no hurry to resume his journey.  But his travels were finished; he never awoke.  His body was quite cold, and he must have died soon after he had sung the last note of his song.  He had only sixpence in his pocket—­the sixpence I had given him for his biography.  The police took him in charge once more and put him in his last prison, where he will remain until we shall all be called together by the dread blast of the Archangel’s trumpet on the Judgment Day.