Chapter II: Part 2

"Then how do you think we shift the scenes?" cried the wee yellow man rather crossly. Then he suddenly became very busy about nothing, as he whispered, "Look out! Here's the head scene-shifter coming now."

Looking back, Neville saw, coming towards them, a man with very large ears. He was not a nice-looking man, and he was extremely like the cloud man that Neville had sometimes seen in the sky when he went to look at the sunset from the bald hill.

"Now then! Now then!" roared the man with the large ears. "Move yourself there, Goldie! We shut up the show here in a few minutes, and open at once on the next range. See that you have that curtain down on time."

"Certainly, sir," replied the little yellow man very humbly.

Then the man with the large ears noticed Neville for the first time. He frowned darkly, and his big ears seemed to flap with annoyance.

"Who is this on our Cloud Horse?" he roared in his great angry voice.

"Just a little boy," said the yellow man--for Neville was far too frightened to speak. "Just a little boy that the Cloud Horse has been playing tricks on. I think he'd like to be getting home--just over by the bald hill, if you don't mind, sir."

"Certainly not!" shouted the man with the large ears. "The Cloud Horse is not to go out there again to-night, nor the silly little boy either. I'm not going to have the sunset upset by any such silly nonsense. You mind what I say and attend to your work."

And, without another glance at Neville, the man with the large ears strode off to arrange for the sunset on the next range, miles and miles away.

Neville gazed at the wee yellow man hopelessly, and the wee yellow man gazed at Neville, and neither spoke a word until the man with the large ears was well out of the way. Then the Last Sunbeam grew quite cheerful again.

"Well," said he, "you heard what the head scene-shifter said. You certainly can't go home by the way you came. The only thing for you to do is to go round. You'll just about have time to do it, if you hurry."

"Go round?" repeated Neville in a puzzled voice. "Go round what, round where?"

"Round the world, of course," replied the little yellow man.

"Round the world?" cried Neville. "Why you must be making fun of me, and I think that is very unkind."

"Not a bit of it," laughed the little yellow man. "You need not make such as fuss about it. Why, I go round the world once every day with the sunset. You have only to go a bit faster so as to do it in a few minutes, and with the Cloud Horse to help you that's easily managed. Don't you worry about the Cloud Horse. He has got to do just whatever I tell him. Now, excuse me for one moment and I'll give you full directions."

With that the wee yellow man went behind a pink cloud and came back with a beautiful blue flower in his hand.

"This," he said, handing the flower to Neville, "is a Sky Flower. It is made entirely out of a genuine piece of sky, and it is a talisman--that's a longer word for charm, you know--which takes you free round the world. The one thing you have to remember is that you mustn't, on any account, lose that flower until you get home again. Now, just exactly what you have to do is to travel West and race round the world until you catch up with this evening again. It is quite simple."

"Simple!" cried Neville. "Why I don't understand it at all."

"Dear me!" said the wee yellow man rather impatiently, "you are very dense. Now listen carefully. The world, you know, turns round from West to East, and that makes it seem as if the sun is going round the world from East to West. Very well. So what you have to do is to ride West upon the Cloud horse much faster than the sun appears to travel, and catch him up again before he gets well away from here. The Cloud horse is in good condition, and you should easily do it in a few minutes."

"A few minutes!" gasped Neville.

"Keep quiet and listen," snapped the wee yellow man. "A few miles West from here you will come into broad daylight. That will be afternoon. After that you will meet mid-day, and, passing that, you will reach the place where it is only dawn. That's about half-way round the earth. Show the Sky Flower to the porter of the Dawn, and he will let you through. Then you get to the half of the world where it is night, and you must race round that till you reach the place where it is only evening. That will be THIS evening, somewhere about here, for you will have taken only a few minutes altogether. And when you see your own home or the bald hill again, grasp the Sky Flower tightly in your hand, jump off the Cloud horse, and you will float gracefully down to the earth. It won't hurt you. Then you can go home, and I hope you will not be late for dinner."

"But," began Neville, "I can't understand--"

"My time is valuable," said the wee yellow man, as he shook hands. "Good-bye, and a pleasant journey." With that he smacked the Cloud Horse smartly on the flank, and in a moment it was racing into the West at a most terrific pace.

Of course, now that aeroplanes have been invented, flying is not thought so wonderful as once it was. But loafing along through the air in a biplane or a monoplane at eighty or a hundred miles an hour is a very tame business when you compare it with racing the day round the world on a Cloud horse. And Neville is very probably the only person who has ever done that yet.

Almost before he knew what had happened, he had left evening far behind and was riding in broad daylight. The cloud Horse had ridden high in the air, and Neville saw the broad country, with plains and hills and forest lands, stretched far beneath him. An instant later, and the land was no longer below him, but the wide sea, sparkling in brilliant sunlight.

Before he had time to notice very much he had reached mid-day, high over a strange foreign land, and was racing through the morning toward the dawn. So quickly did he go that there was little chance of seeing anything clearly; but he had glimpses of many strange sights. Many ships he saw upon the sea--small ships and stately steamers crawling over the ocean like strange water-beetles. Once, as the Cloud Horse drifted low, Neville saw a beautiful sailing-ship, with all sails set, and strange-looking men upon the deck. They looked very like pirates, and perhaps they were; but Neville had no time to make sure, for the very next minute he was over a wild land where he saw a horde of black men, with spears and clubs, hunting an elephant through a clearing in a great jungle. As he looked, the elephant turned to charge the hunters; but what happened then Neville did not see, for in a moment more he was above a great city with crowds of people in the streets--people dressed in strange, bright-coloured clothes--and there were bells ringing and whistles blowing. Then a great desert spread beneath him, with no living thing in sight but a great tawny lion prowling over the sand. Then came the sea again, and more ships; and the light began to grow dim, for he was nearly half-way round the earth, and was approaching the dawn.

Dimmer grew the light, and dimmer yet, just as though evening were coming--and before him, Neville saw the dawn like a silvery gateway in the sky. Straight toward it the Cloud Horse rushed, and stopped so suddenly that Neville almost fell off.

"What's all this? What's all this?" cried a small voice; and Neville saw beside the silver gateway, a little man dressed from top to toe in silver grey. It was the Porter of the Dawn, sometimes called the First Sunbeam.

Before Neville could answer, the little grey man had caught sight of the Sky Flower.

"Ah, you have the talisman," said he. "Pass in! and don't stop to gossip, because I'm very busy this morning. A pleasant journey," he added as he smacked the cloud horse on the shoulder; and in an instant Neville had passed through the dawn and plunged into the night.

It was a dark night, with no moon, for the sky was overcast with dense clouds. Above these the Cloud horse flew, and overhead Neville saw the rushing stars, and below only the blackness of heavy clouds. But more often the Cloud horse flew low, and then there was little to be seen. By the lights of moving ships Neville knew that sometimes he was above the sea. Sometimes twinkling lights in towns or solitary farms, or the sudden blaze of a great city told him that the land was beneath him. Once, through the blackness, he saw a great forest fire upon an island, and the light of it lit up the sea, and showed the natives crowded upon the beach and in the shallows, and some making off in canoes.

Then darkness swallowed the Cloud Horse again, and the blazing island was left far behind.

After that, Neville began to feel a little drowsy. Perhaps he did sleep a little, for the next thing he saw was a faint light in the sky before him, as though the dawn were coming. But he knew it must be the evening, because he was coming back to the place from which he had started, and was catching up with the sun. You see, he had only been gone a few minutes.

The Cloud Horse flew very low now; and rapidly the darkness grew less. Then, long before he expected it, Neville saw the roof of his own home below him. He could see the garden in the twilight and his own dog sniffing about among the trees as though in search of him.

Neville began to think about jumping now, and he was rather nervous. He might land softly and he might not. He only had the wee yellow man's word for that.

Then, to his horror, he saw that they had passed his home and were over the bald hill. There was no time to lose. The Cloud Horse was taking him into the sunset again, and, if he did, what would the head scene-shifter say then?

So, grasping the Sky Flower very tightly, Neville closed his eyes and jumped. He half expected to fall quickly and be dashed to pieces upon the earth; but, instead, he floated in the air like a feather, swaying and drifting, and slowly sinking all the time towards the ground. It was a very pleasant sensation indeed.

The bald hill was beneath him as he came slowly down, down, down.

He could see the Cloud Horse--now little more than a small white speck--rushing on to catch the sunset. And still he sank down ever so slowly towards the top of the bald hill.

His little dog had caught sight of him now, and came rushing out the gate and up the bald hill, barking loudly. And he kept on sinking nearer to the earth, down, down, nearer and nearer--and then, quite suddenly, he seemed to forget everything.

The next thing Neville remembered was feeling something wet and warm upon his cheek. He opened his eyes and saw that the little dog was licking his face. Sitting up, he looked about him. He was in the grass on the top of the bald hill; night was very near, and the first star was just beginning to twinkle.

Then, quite suddenly, Neville remembered the Cloud horse and the little yellow man and the little silver man and the head scene-shifter and the wonderful journey and all the rest of it.

"Well, what a remarkable dream," said Neville, stretching his arms. And, as he did so, the Sky Flower fell from his hand.

So it was not a dream after all; for, if it was, how could he explain that Sky Flower? He picked it up and carried it very tenderly, as he set off home to dinner, his little dog trotting at his heels.

"What a beautiful flower!" said Neville's mother when he got home. "Where ever did you get it?"

"It is a piece of the genuine sky," said Neville proudly, as he gave it to her.

His mother smiled at him as she said, "That is a very nice thing to say, and it certainly does look like a little piece of the sky. But, of course, it couldn't possibly be a real piece."

Then Neville knew that if he were to tell the story of his wonderful ride, and tried to explain that he had been right around the world since since he went out to play, his parents would find it very, very hard to believe. So he said nothing, but ate a very good dinner.

But Neville's mother put the flower in a vase upon the mantel; and to this day it is still there, as fresh and bright as ever. It will not fade. Neville's mother thinks that is a very strange and wonderful thing. And so it is.

Since that day, when Neville goes to the top of the bald hill to watch a sunset, he is almost sure that, just as the golden light is fading, he can see a little yellow man by the gateway; and it seems to him that the little yellow man waves a cheery greeting. But, whether this is so or not, Neville always waves back; and he feels very happy to think that he has a good friend inside the sunset.

THE TRAM-MAN

I'd like to be a Tram-man, and ride about all day, Calling out, "Fares, please!" in quite a 'ficious way, With pockets full of pennies which I'd make the people pay. But in the hottest days I'd take my tram down to the Bay; And when I saw the nice cool sea I'd shout "Hip, hip, hooray!" But I wouldn't be a Tram-man if. . . . I couldn't stop and play. Would you?

THE AXE-MAN

High on the hills, where the tall trees grow, There lives an axeman that I know. From his little hut by a ferny creek, Day after day, week after week, He goes each morn with his shining axe, Trudging along by the forest tracks; And he chops and he chops till the daylight goes-- High on the hills, where the blue-gum grows.

(Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!) There's a log to move and a branch to lop. Now to the felling! His sharp axe bites Into a tree on the forest heights, And scarce for a breath does the axeman stop-- (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!) Bell-birds watch him; and in the fern Wallabies listen awhile, and turn Back through the bracken, and off they hop. (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!) Patient and tireless, blow on blow The axeman swings as the minutes go; While the echoes ring from the mountain-top. (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!)

Round about him the rabbits play, Skipping and scampering all the day, And the sweet young grass by the logs they crop. (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!)

Crimson parrots above him climb, Chattering, chattering all the time, As down from the branches the twigs they drop. (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! Chop!) Steadily, surely, on he goes, Shaking the tree with his mighty blows: There's never a pause and there's never a stop. (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!)

Out from the bush beyond is heard The swaggering song of the butcher-bird Seeking a joint for his butcher's shop. (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!) Deeper and deeper the cut creeps in, While the parrots shriek with a deafening din, And the chips fly out with a flip and a flop. (Chip! Chop! Chip! Chop!) Yellow robins come flocking round, Watching the chips as they fall to ground, Darting to catch the grubs that drop. (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!)

The blows come quicker. The axe-biade hums, Stand well back, there, before she comes! Hark! How the splinters crack and pop-- (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!) Listen! Listen! She's creaking now! Look, high up, at that trembling bough! Another second, and down she'll smash, Shaking the earth with a mighty crash; Look at her! Look at her! (Chip! Chop! Chip! . . . . . . . .Chip!) Wee--E--E--E--E--E--- FLOP!

THE DROVERS

Out across the spinifex, out across the sand, Out across the saltbush to Never Never land That's the way the drovers go, jogging down the track-- That's the way the drovers go. But how do they come back? Back across the saltbush from Never Never land. Back across the spinifex, back across the sand.

THE LONG ROAD HOME

When I go back from Billy's place I always have to roam The mazy road, the crazy road that leads the long way home. Ma always says, "Why don't you come through Mr Donkin's land? The footbridge track will bring you back." Ma doesn't understand. I cannot go that way, you know, because of Donkin's dog; So I set forth and travel north, and cross the fallen log.

Last week, when I was coming by, that log had lizards in it; And you can't say I stop to play if I just search a minute. I look around upon the ground and, if there are no lizards, I go right on and reach the turn in front of Mrs Blizzard's. I do not seek to cross the creek, because it's deep and floody, And Ma would be annoyed with me if I came home all muddy.

Perhaps I throw a stone or so at Mrs Blizzard's tank, Because it's great when I aim straight to hear the stone go "Plank!" Then west I wend from Blizzard's Bend, and not a moment wait, Except, perhaps, at Mr Knapp's, to swing upon his gate. So up the hill I go, until I reach the little paddock That Mr Jones at present owns and rents to Mr Craddock.

For boys my size the sudden rise is quite a heavy pull, And yet I fear a short-cut here because of Craddock's bull; So I just tease the bull till he's as mad as he can get, And then I face the corner place that's been so long to let. It's very well for Ma to tell about my dawdling habits. What would you do, suppose you knew the place was thick with rabbits?

I do not stay for half a day, as Ma declares I do. No, not for more than half-an-hour--perhaps an hour--or two. Then down the drop I run, slip-slop, where all the road is slithy. And have to go quite close, you know, to Mr Horner's smithy. A moment I might tarry by the fence to watch them hammer, And, I must say, learn more that way than doing sums and grammar.

And, if I do sometimes climb through, I do not mean to linger. Though I did stay awhile the day Bill Homer burst his finger. I just stand there to see the pair bang some hot iron thing And watch Bill Horner swing the sledge and hit the anvil--Bing! (For Mr Horner and his son are great big brawny fellows: Both splendid chaps!) And then, perhaps, they let me blow the bellows.

A while I stop beside the shop, and talk to Mr Horner; Then off I run, and race like fun around by Duggan's Corner. It's getting late, and I don't wait beside the creek a minute, Except to stop, maybe, and drop a few old pebbles in it. A few yards more, and here's the store that's kept by Mr Whittle-- And you can't say I waste the day if I 'ust wait . . . a little.

One day, you know, a year ago, a man gave me a penny, And Mr Whittle sold me sweets (but not so very many). You never know your luck, and so I look to see what's new In Mr Whittle's window. There's a peppermint or two, Some buttons and tobacco (Mr Whittle calls it "baccy"), And fish in tins, and tape, and pins. . . . And then a voice calls, "Jacky!"

"I'm coming, Ma. I've been so far-around by Duggan's Corner. I had to stay awhile to say 'Good day' to Mr Horner. I feel so fagged; I've tramped and dragged through mud and over logs, Ma-- I could not go short-cuts, you know, because of bulls and dogs, Ma. The creek, Ma? Why, it's very high! You don't call that a gutter? Bill Horner chews tobacco, Ma . . . . I'd like some bread and butter."

THE BAND

Hey, there! Listen awhile! Listen awhile, and come. Down in the street there are marching feet, and I hear the beat of a drum. Bim! Boom!! Out of the room! Pick up your hat and fly! Isn't it grand? The band! The band! The band is marching by!

Oh, the clarinet is the finest yet, and the uniforms are gay.
Tah, rah! We don't go home--
Oom, pah! We won't go home--
Oh, we shan't go home, and we can't go home when the band begins to play.

Oh, see them swinging along, swinging along the street! Left, right! buttons so bright, jackets and caps so neat. Ho, the Fire Brigade, or a dress parade of the Soldier-men is grand; But everyone, for regular fun, wants a Big-Brass-Band.

The slide-trombone is a joy alone, and the drummer! He's a treat!
So, Rackety-rumph! We don't go home--
Boom, Bumph! We won't go home--
Oh, we shan't go home, and we can't go home while the band is in the street.
Tooral-ooral, Oom-pah!
The band is in the street!

BESSIE AND THE BUNYIP

Bessie met a bunyip down along the track,
In his hand a billy and a swag upon his back.
And you will hardly believe it, but when Bessie shouted,"Shoo!"
He turned a double somersault and went quite blue.

GOOD ENOUGH

I do not think there ever was,
Or ever will, or ever could be,
A little girl or little boy
As good as she or as he should be.

But still, I think, you will agree,
Though perfect very, very few are,
They're not so bad when "pretty good"--
That's just about as good as you are.

THE PORTER

I'd like to be a porter, and always on the run, Calling out, "Stand aside!" and asking leave of none. Shoving trucks on people's toes, and having splendid fun, Slamming all the carriage doors and locking every one-- And, when they asked to be let in, I'd say, "It can't be done." But I wouldn't be a porter if . . . The luggage weighed a ton. Would you?

GROWING UP

Little Tommy Tadpole began to weep and wail,
For little Tommy Tadpole had lost his little tail;
And his mother didn't know him as he wept upon a log,
For he wasn't Tommy Tadpole, but Mr. Thomas Frog.

THE UNSOCIABLE WALLABY

Willie spied a wallaby hopping through the fern--
Here a jump, here a thump, there a sudden turn.
Willie called the wallaby, begging him to stop,
But he went among the wattles with a
flip,
flap,
flop!

* * *

I wonder whether, all together, you and I and father Could eat a bun that weighs a ton. I'd like to try it, rather.

I want to know why roosters crow at dawning of the day. Is it because they cannot think of something else to say?

* * *

THE SONG OF THE SULKY STOCKMAN

Come, let us sing with a right good ring (Sing hey for lifting lay, sing hey!) Of any old, sunny old, silly old thing. (Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!) The sun shone brightly overhead, And the shearers stood by the shearing shed; But "The run wants rain," the stockman said (Sing di-dum, wattle-gum, Narrabori Ned. For a lifting lay sing hey!)

The colts were clipped and the sheep were shorn (Sing hey for a lilting lay, sing hey!) But the stockman stood there all forlorn. (Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!) The rails were up and the gate was tied, And the big black bull was safe inside; But "The wind's gone West!" the stockman sighed (Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, rally for a ride. For a lifting lay sing hey!)

The cook came out as the clock struck one (Sing hey for a lilting lay, sing hey!) And the boundary rider got his gun. (Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!) He fired it once at an old black crow; But the shot went wide, for he aimed too low; And the stockman said, "Fat stock is low." (Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, Jerridiiii Joe. For a lifting lay sing hey!)

They spread their swags in the gum-tree's shade (Sing hey for a lilting lay, sing hey!) For the work was done and the cheques were paid. (Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!) The overseer rode in at three, But his horse pulled back and would not gee, And the stockman said, "We're up a tree!" (Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, Johnny-cake for tea. For a lilting lay sing hey!)

The sun sank down and the stars shone out (Sing hey for a lifting lay, sing hey!) And the old book-keeper moped about. (Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!) The dingo wailed to the mopoke's call, The crazy colt stamped in his stall; But the stockman groaned, "it's bunk for all." (Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, wattle-gum, wattle-gum, Hey for a backblock day! Sing hey! Sing hey for a lifting lay!)

OUR COW

Down by the sliprails stands our cow
Chewing, chewing, chewing,
She does not care what folks out there
In the great, big world are doing.
She sees the small cloud-shadows pass
And green grass shining under.
If she does think, what does she think
About it all, I wonder?

She sees the swallows skimming by
Above the sweet young clover,
The light reeds swaying in the wind
And tall trees bending over.
Far down the track she hears the crack
of bullock-whips, and raving
Of angry men where, in the sun,
Her fellow-beasts are slaving.

Girls, we are told, can scratch and scold,
And boys will fight and wrangle,
And big, grown men, just now and then,
Fret o'er some fingle-fangle,
Vexing the earth with grief or mirth,
Longing, rejoicing, rueing--
But by the sliprails stands our cow,
Chewing.

THE TEACHER

I'd like to be a teacher, and have a clever brain, Calling out, "Attention, please!" and "Must I speak in vain?" I'd be quite strict with boys and girls whose minds I had to train, And all the books and maps and things I'd carefully explain; I'd make then learn the dates of kings, and all the capes of Spain; But I wouldn't be a teacher if . . . I couldn't use the cane. Would you?

THE SPOTTED HEIFERS

Mr Jeremiah Jeffers Owned a pair of spotted heifers These he sold for two pounds ten To Mr Robert Raymond Wren

Who reared them in the lucerne paddocks Owned by Mr Martin Maddox, And sold them, when they grew to cows, To Mr Donald David Dowse.

A grazier, Mr Egbert Innes, Bought them then for twenty guineas, Milked the cows, and sold the milk To Mr Stephen Evan Silk.

Who rents a butter factory From Mr Laurence Lampard-Lee. Here, once a week, come for his butter The grocer, Mr Roland Rutter,

Who keeps a shop in Sunny Street Next door to Mr Peter Peat. He every afternoon at two Sent his fair daughter, Lucy Loo,

To Mr Rutter's shop to buy Such things as were not priced too high, Especially a shilling tin Of "Fuller's Food for Folk Too Thin."

This food was bought for Lucy Loo-- A girl of charming manners, who Was much too pale and much too slight To be a very pleasant sight.

When Lucy Loo beheld the butter Stocked by Mr Roland Rutter, She said, "I'll have a pound of that." She had it, and thenceforth grew fat.

We now go back to Mr Jeffers, Who sold the pair of spotted heifers. He had a son, James Edgar John, A handsome lad to gaze upon,

Who had now reached that time of life When young men feel they need a wife; But no young girl about the place Exactly had the kind of face

That seemed to suit James Edgar John-- A saddening thing to think upon, For he grew sad and sick of life Because he could not find a wife.

One day young James was passing by (A look of sorrow in his eye) The shop of Mr Roland Rutter, When Lucy Loo came out with butter.

At once James Edgar John said, "That Is just the girl for me! She's fat." He offered her his heart and hand And prospects of his father's land.

The Reverend Saul Sylvester Slight Performed the simple marriage rite. The happy couple went their way, And lived and loved unto this day.

Events cannot be far foreseen; And all ths joy might not have been If Mr Jeremiah Jeffers Had kept his pair of spotted heifers.

TEA TALK

'Excuse me if I sit on you,' the cup said to the saucer. 'I fear I've been here all the afternoon.' 'Spare excuses,' said the saucer; 'you have sat on me before, sir.' 'Oh, I'll stir him up directly,' said the spoon. 'Stop your clatter! Stop your clatter!' cried the bread-and-butter platter 'Tittle-tattle!' sneered the tea-pot, with a shrug; 'Now, the most important question is my chronic indigestion.' 'Ah, you've taken too much tannin,' jeered the jug. 'Hey, hey, hey!' sang the silver-plated tray, 'It's time you had your faces washed. I've come to clear away!'

THE LOOKING-GLASS

When I look into the looking glass
I'm always sure to see--
No matter how I dodge about--
Me, looking out at me.

I often wonder as I look,
And those strange features spy,
If I, in there, think I'm as plain
As I, out here, think I.

WOOLLOOMOOLOO

Here's a ridiculous riddle for you:
How many o's are there in Woolloomooloo?
Two for the W, two for the m,
Four for the l's, and that's plenty for them.

* * *

I wonder what the Jacks have got to laugh and laugh about I'm sure the worms don't see the joke when Jacky digs them out.

I wonder which is best: a rich plum-pudding stuffed with plums, Or lemon ice, or plain boiled rice, or long-division sums.

* * *

THE BARBER

I'd like to be a barber, and learn to shave and clip, Calling out, "Next please!" and pocketing my tip. All day I'd hear my scissors going, "Snip, Snip, Snip;" I'd lather people's faces, and their noses I would grip While I shaved most carefully along the upper lip. But I wouldn't be a barber if . . . The razor was to slip. Would you?

FARMER JACK

Old farmer Jack gazed on his wheat,
And feared the frost would nip it.
Said he, "it's nearly seven feet--
I must begin to strip it."

He stripped it with a stripper and
He bagged it with a bagger;
The bags were all so lumpy that
They made the lumper stagger.

The lumper staggered up the stack
Where he was told to stack it;
And Jack was paid and put the cash
Inside his linen jacket.

OLD BLACK JACKO

Old Black Jacko
Smokes tobacco
In his little pipe of clay.
Puff, puff, puff,
He never has enough
Though he smokes it all day.

But his lubra says, "Mine tink dat Jacky Him shmoke plenty too much baccy."

BIRD SONG

I detest the Carrion Crow! (He's a raven, don't you know?) He's a greedy glutton, also, and a ghoul, And his sanctimonious caw Rubs my temper on the raw. He's a demon, and a most degraded fowl.

I admire the pert Blue-wren And his dainty little hen-- Though she hasn't got a trace of blue upon her; But she's pleasing, and she's pretty, And she sings a cheerful ditty; While her husband is a gentleman of honour.

I despise the Pallid Cuckoo, A disreputable "crook" who Shirks her duties for a lazy life of ease. I abhor her mournful call, Which is not a song at all But a cross between a whimper and a wheeze.

THE SAILOR

I'd like to be a sailor--a sailor bold and bluff-- Calling out, "Ship ahoy!" in manly tones and gruff. I'd learn to box the compass, and to reef and tack and luff; I'd sniff and snifff the briny breeze and never get enough. Perhaps I'd chew tobacco, or an old black pipe I'd puff, But I wouldn't be a sailor if . . . The sea was very rough. Would you?

THE FAMINE

Cackle and lay, cackle and lay! How many eggs did you get to-day? None in the manger, and none in the shed, None in the box where the chickens are fed, None in the tussocks and none in the tub, And only a little one out in the scrub. Oh, I say! Dumplings to-day. I fear that the hens must be laying away.

THE FEAST

Cackle and lay, cackle and lay! How many eggs did you get to-day? Two in the manger, and four in the shed, Six in the box where the chickens are fed, Two in the tussocks and ten in the tub, And nearly two dozen right out in the scrub. Hip, hooray! Pudding to-day! I think that the hens are beginning to lay.

UPON THE ROAD TO ROCKABOUT

Upon the road to Rockabout I came upon some sheep-- A large and woolly flock about As wide as it was deep.

I was about to turn about To ask the man to tell Some things I wished to learn about Both sheep and wool as well,

When I beheld a rouseabout Who lay upon his back Beside a little house about A furlong from the track.

I had a lot to talk about, And said to him "Good day." But he got up to walk about, And so I went away--

A CHANGE OF AIR

Now, a man in Oodnadatta He grew fat, and he grew fatter, Though he hardly had a thing to eat for dinner; While a man in Booboorowie Often sat and wondered how he Could prevent himself from growing any thinner.

So the man from Oodnadatta
He came down to Booboorowie,
Where he rapidly grew flatter;
And the folk will tell you how he
Urged the man from Booboorowie
To go up to Oodnadatta--
Where he lived awhile, and now he
Is considerably fatter.

POLLY DIBBS

Mrs Dibbs--Polly Dibbs,
Standing at a tub,
Washing other people's clothes--
Rub-Rub-Rub.
Poor, old, skinny arms
White with soapy foam--
At night she takes her shabby hat
And goes off home.

Mrs Dibbs--Polly Dibbs--
Is not very rich.
She goes abroad all day to scrub,
And home at night to stitch.
She wears her shabby hat awry,
Perched on a silly comb;
And people laugh at Polly Dibbs
As she goes home.

Mrs Dibbs--Mother Dibbs--
Growing very old,
Says, "it's a hard world!"
And sniffs and drats the cold.
She says it is a cruel world,
A weary world to roam.
But God will smile on Polly Dibbs
When she goes Home.

* * *

I suspect the Kookaburra, For his methods are not thorough In his highly praised campaign against the snakes. And the small birds, one and all, Curse him for a cannibal-- Though he certainly is cheerful when he wakes.

* * *

LULLABY

You are much too big to dandle, And I will not leave the candle. Go to sleep. You are growing naughty, rather, And I'll have to speak to father. Go to sleep! If you're good I shall not tell, then. Oh, a story? Very well, then. Once upon a time, a king, named Crawley Creep, Had a very lovely daughter . . . . You don't want a drink of water! Go to sleep! There! There! Go to sleep.

* * *

I wonder why I wear a tie. It is not warm to wear; But if I left it off someone would say it was not there.

I wonder, if I took a whiff of father's pipe for fun, Would I be big and strong like him, or just his small, sick son?

I wonder when our old white hen will know her squawk betrays her. I think she lets us find her eggs just so that we shall praise her.

* * *

THE PUBLISHER

I'd like to be a publisher, And publish massive tomes Written in a massive style by blokes with massive domes-- Science books, and histories of Egypt's day and Rome's, Books of psycho-surgery to mine the minds of momes, And solemn pseudo-psychic stuff to tell where Topsy roams When her poor clay is put away beneath the spreading holms; Books about electrocuting little seeds with ohms To sternly show them how to grow in sands, and clays, and loams, And bravely burst infinitives, like angry agronomes; Books on breeding aeroplanes and airing aerodromes, On bees that buzz in bonnets and the kind that build the combs, Made plain with pretty pictures done in crimsons, mauves, and chromes; And diagrams to baulk the brain of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I'd set the scientists to work like superheated gnomes, And make them write and write and write until the printer foams And lino men, made "loony", go to psychopathic homes. I'd publish books, I would--large books on ants and antinomes And palimpsests and palinodes and pallid pallindromes: But I wouldn't be a publisher if . . . . I got many "pomes." Would you?

GOOD NIGHT

And so, Good Night. I'm rather tired.
I hardly thought I'd be required
To draw a lot of pictures, too,
When I arranged to write for you.
I found it hard, but did my best;
And now I need a little rest.
If you are pleased, why, that's all right.
I'm rather tired. And so

GOOD NIGHT!

This very charming gentleman, extremely old and gruff, He slowly shook his head and took a great big pinch of snuff, Then he spluttered and he muttered and he loudly shouted "Fie! To tear your books is wicked sir! and likewise all my eye!" I don't know what he meant by that. He had such piercing eyes. And, he said, "Mark--ME--boy! Books will make you wise."

This very charming gentleman said, "Hum," and "Hoity, Toit! A book is not a building block, a cushion or a quoit. Soil your books and spoil your books? Is that the thing to do? Gammon, sir! and Spinach, sir! And Fiddle-faddle, too!" He blinked so quick, and thumped his stick, then gave me such a stare. And he said, "Mark--ME--boy! BOOKS--NEED--CARE!"

THE END