Chapter I: Part 1

THE COO-EE RECITER.

BY

AUSTRALIAN, BRITISH, AND AMERICAN AUTHORS.

_HUMOROUS, PATHETIC, DRAMATIC, DIALECT, RECITATIONS & READINGS._

WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, MELBOURNE & TORONTO.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

I Killed a Man at Graspan M. GROVER.
Kitty O'Toole W. L. LUMLEY.
The Ballad of the Drover HENRY LAWSON.
The Rescue EDWARD DYSON.
Saltbush Bill A. B. PATERSON.
Drought and Doctrine. J. BRUNTON STEVENS.
The Martyr VICTOR J. DALEY.
The Carrying of the Baby ETHEL TURNER.
The Old Gum FLORENCE BULLIVANT.
Murphy shall not Sing To-night MONTAGUE GROVER.
Christmas Bells JOHN B. O'HARA, M.A.
Wool is Up GARNET WALCH.
Wool is Down GARNET WALCH.
The Highland Brigade Buries its Dead LIEUT.-COL. W. T. REAY.
Australia's Call to Arms JOHN B. O'HARA, M.A.
Good News GARNET WALCH.
Free Trade _v._ Protection GARNET WALCH.
The Lion's Cubs GARNET WALCH.
The Little Duchess ETHEL TURNER.
Australia's Springtime W. L. LUMLEY.
The Man that saved the Match DAVID M'KEE WRIGHT.
Ode for Commonwealth Day, 1st January, 1901.
A Desperate Assault
The Game of Life JOHN G. SAXE.
Prejudice CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON.
The Poor and the Rich JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
The Engineer's Story Seeing's not Believing.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.
Caudle has been made a Mason DOUGLAS JERROLD.
Mrs. Caudle's Lecture DOUGLAS JERROLD.
Jim Bludso COLONEL JOHN HAY.
How Uncle Mose Counted the Eggs
The Negro Baby's Funeral. WILL CARLETON.
Der Shpider und der Fly CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.
Lariat Bill G. W. H.
The Elf Child; or, Little Orphant Annie JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene
MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS (Monk Lewis).
An All-around Intellectual Man. TOM MASSON.
Her Ideal KATE MASTERSON.
The Happy Farmer. MORTIMER C. BROWN.
The Son of a Soldier OWEN OLIVER.
The Mile DAVID M'KEE WRIGHT.

THE COO-EE RECITER

_I KILLED A MAN AT GRASPAN._

(_The Tale of a Returned Australian Contingenter done into verse._)

I killed a man at Graspan,
I killed him fair in fight;
And the Empire's poets and the Empire's priests
Swear blind I acted right.
The Empire's poets and Empire's priests
Make out my deed was fine,
But they can't stop the eyes of the man I killed
From starin' into mine.

I killed a man at Graspan,
Maybe I killed a score;
But this one wasn't a chance-shot home,
From a thousand yards or more.
I fired at him when he'd got no show;
We were only a pace apart,
With the cordite scorchin' his old worn coat
As the bullet drilled his heart.

I killed a man at Graspan,
I killed him fightin' fair;
We came on each other face to face,
An' we went at it then and there.
Mine was the trigger that shifted first,
His was the life that sped.
An' a man I'd never a quarrel with
Was spread on the boulders dead.

I killed a man at Graspan;
I watched him squirmin' till
He raised his eyes, an' they met with mine;
An' there they're starin' still.
Cut of my brother Tom, he looked,
Hardly more'n a kid;
An', Christ! he was stiffenin' at my feet
Because of the thing I did.

I killed a man at Graspan;
I told the camp that night;
An' of all the lies that ever I told
That was the poorest skite.
I swore I was proud of my hand-to-hand,
An' the Boer I'd chanced to pot,
An' all the time I'd ha' gave my eyes
To never ha' fired that shot.

I killed a man at Graspan;
An hour ago about,
For there he lies with his starin' eyes,
An' his blood still tricklin' out.
I know it was either him or me,
I know that I killed him fair,
But, all the same, wherever I look,
The man that I killed is there.

I killed a man at Graspan;
My first and, God! my last;
Harder to dodge than my bullet is
The look that his dead eyes cast.
If the Empire asks for me later on
It'll ask for me in vain,
Before I reach to my bandolier
To fire on a man again.

M. GROVER.

_KITTY O'TOOLE._

Och! a charmin' young cratur' was Kitty O'Toole,
The lily ov shwate Tipperary;
Wid a voice like a thrish, and wid cheeks like a rose,
An' a figger as nate as a fairy!
Oi saw her wan noight--och! she look'd loike a quane
In the glory ov shwate wan an' twinty--
As she sat wid McGinty's big arm round her waisht,
Och! how I invied McGinty!

Six months afther that, in the shwate summer days,
The boys an' the girls wor' invoited
By Micky O'Toole, ov the cabin beyant,
To see Kate an' McGinty unoited;
An' whin in the church they wor' made into wan,
An' the priesht gave thim blissin's in plinty,
An' Kitty look'd shwater than iver before--
Och! how I invied McGinty!

But the years have gone by, an' McGinty is dead!
Och! me heart was all broke up wid pity
To see her so lonely, an' mournful, an' sad,
An' I wint an' got married to Kitty!
But now, whin I look where McGinty is laid,
Wid a shtone o'er his head cowld an' flinty--
As he lies there so peaceful, an' quoiet, an' shtill--
Och! how I invy McGinty.

W. L. LUMLEY.

_THE BALLAD OF THE DROVER._

BY HENRY LAWSON.

(_By kind permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._)

Across the stony ridges,
Across the rolling plain,
Young Harry Dale, the drover,
Comes riding home again.
And well his stock-horse bears him,
And light of heart is he,
And stoutly his old pack-horse
Is trotting by his knee.

Up Queensland way with cattle
He travelled regions vast;
And many months have vanished
Since home-folk saw him last.
He hums a song of someone
He hopes to marry soon;
And hobble-chains and camp-ware
Keep jingling to the tune.

Beyond the hazy dado
Against the lower skies,
And yon blue line of ranges,
The homestead station lies.
And thitherward the drover
Jogs through the lazy noon,
While hobble-chains and camp-ware
Are jingling to a tune.

An hour has filled the heavens
With storm-cloud inky black;
At times the lightning trickles
Around the drover's track,
But Harry pushes onward;
His horses' strength he tries
In hope to reach the river
Before the flood shall rise.

The thunder from above him
Goes rolling o'er the plain;
And down on thirsty pastures
In torrents fall the rain.
And every creek and gully
Sends forth its little flood,
Till the river runs a banker,
All stained with yellow mud.

Now Harry speaks to Rover,
The best dog on the plains;
And to his hardy horses,
And strokes their shaggy manes;
"We've breasted bigger rivers
When floods were at their height,
Nor shall this gutter stop us
From getting home to-night!"

The thunder growls a warning,
The ghastly lightnings gleam,
As the drover turns his horses,
To swim the fatal stream.
But, oh! the flood runs stronger
Than e'er it ran before;
The saddle horse is failing,
And only half-way o'er!

When flashes next the lightning,
The flood's grey breast is blank,
And a cattle-dog and pack-horse
Are struggling up the bank.
But on the bank to northward,
Or on the southern shore,
The stock-horse and his rider
Will struggle out no more.

The faithful dog a moment
Sits panting on the bank,
And then swims through the current
To where his master sank.
And round and round in circles,
He fights with failing strength,
Till borne down by the waters,
The old dog sinks at length.

Across the flooded lowlands
And slopes of sodden loam,
The pack-horse struggles onward,
To take dumb tidings home.
And mud-stained, wet, and weary,
Through ranges dark goes he;
The hobble-chains and tinware
Are sounding eerily.

* * * * *

The floods are in the ocean,
The stream is clear again,
And now a verdant carpet
Is stretched across the plain.
But someone's eyes are saddened,
And someone's heart still bleeds,
In sorrow for the drover
Who sleeps among the reeds.

_THE RESCUE._

BY EDWARD DYSON.

(_From "Rhymes from the Mines," by kind permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._)

There's a sudden, fierce clang of the knocker,
then the sound of a voice in the shaft,
Shrieking words that drum hard on the centres,
and the braceman goes suddenly daft;
"Set the whistle a-blowing like blazes! Billy,
run, give old Mackie a call--
Run, you fool! Number Two's gone to pieces,
and Fred Baker is caught in the fall!
Say, hello! there below--any hope, boys,
any chances of saving his life?"
"Heave away!" says the knocker. "They've started.
God be praised, he's no youngsters or wife!"

Screams the whistle in fearful entreaty,
and the wild echo raves on the spur,
And the night, that was still as a sleeper
in soft, charmed sleep, is astir
With the fluttering of wings in the wattles,
and the vague, frightened murmur of birds;
With far cooeys that carry the warning,
running feet, inarticulate words.
From the black belt of bush come the miners,
and they gather by Mack on the brace,
Out of breath, barely clad, and half-wakened,
with a question in every face.

"Who's below?" "Where's the fall?" "Didn't I tell you?--
Didn't I say them sets wasn't sound?"
"Is it Fred? He was reckless was Baker;
now he's seen his last shift underground."
"And his mate? Where is Sandy M'Fadyn?"
"Sandy's snoring at home on his bunk."
"Not at work! Name of God! a foreboding?"
"A foreboding be hanged! He is drunk!"
"Take it steady there, lads!" the boss orders. He is white to the
roots of his hair.
"We may get him alive before daybreak
if he's close to the face and has air."

In the dim drive with ardour heroic
two facemen are pegging away.
Long and Coots in the rise heard her thunder,
and they fled without word or delay
Down the drive, and they rushed for the ladders,
and they went up the shaft with a run,
For they knew the weak spot in the workings,
and they guessed there was graft to be done.
Number Two was pitch dark, and they scrambled
to the plat and they made for the face,
But the roof had come down fifty yards in,
and the reef was all over the place.

Fresher men from the surface replace them,
and they're hauled up on top for a blow;
When a life and death job is in doing
there's room only for workers below.
Bare-armed, and bare-chested, and brawny,
with a grim, meaning set of the jaw,
The relay hurries in to the rescue,
caring not for the danger a straw;
'Tis not toil, but a battle, they're called to,
and like Trojans the miners respond,
For a dead man lies crushed 'neath the timbers,
or a live man is choking beyond.

By the faint, yellow glow of the candles,
where the dank drive is hot with their breath,
On the verge of the Land of the Shadow,
waging war breast to bosom with Death,
How they struggle, these giants! and slowly,
as the trucks rattle into the gloom,
Inch by inch they advance to the conquest
of a prison--or is it a tomb?
And the workings re-echo a volley
as the timbers are driven in place;
Then a whisper is borne to the toilers:
"Boys, his mother is there on the brace!"

Like veterans late into action,
fierce with longing to hew and to hack,
Riordan's shift rushes in to relieve them,
and the toil-stricken men stagger back.
"Stow the stuff, mates, wherever there's stowage!
Run the man on the brace till he drops!
There's no time to think on this billet!
Bark the heels of the trucker who stops!
Keep the props well in front, and be careful.
He's in there, and alive, never fret."
But the grey dawn is softening the ridges,
and the word has not come to us yet.

Still the knocker rings out, and the engine
shrieks and strains like a creature in pain
As the cage rushes up to the surface
and drops back into darkness again.
By the capstan a woman is crouching.
In her eyes neither hope nor despair;
But a yearning that glowers like frenzy
bids those who'd speak pity forbear.
Like a figure in stone she is seated
till the labour of rescue be done.
For the father was killed in the Phoenix,
and the son--Lord of pity! the son?

"Hello! there on top!" they are calling.
"They are through! He is seen in the drive!"
"They have got him--thank Heaven! they've got him,
and oh, blessed be God, he's alive!"
"Man on! heave away!" "Step aside, lads;
let his mother be first when he lands."
She was silent and strong in her anguish;
now she babbles and weeps where she stands,
And the stern men, grown gentle, support her
at the mouth of the shaft, till at last
With a rush the cage springs to the landing,
and her son's arms encircle her fast.

_She has cursed the old mine for its murders,
for the victims its drives have ensnared,
Now she cries a great blessing upon it
for the one precious life it has spared._

_SALTBUSH BILL._

BY A. B. PATERSON.

(_By permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._)

Now this is the law of the Overland, that all in the West obey,
A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day;
But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood.
They travel their stage where the grass is bad, but they camp where
the grass is good;
They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade
remains,
Then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of the
saltbush plains.
From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand,
For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the
Overland.

For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, 'tis written in white
and black--
The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile
track;
And the drovers keep to a half-mile track on the runs where the
grass is dead,
But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till they go with
a two-mile spread.
So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of
night,
And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly
fight;
Yet the squatters' men, though they hunt the mob, are willing the
peace to keep,
For the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go with the
travelling sheep;
But this is a tale of a Jackeroo that came from a foreign strand,
And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the
Overland.

Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough, as ever the country knew,
He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes from the sea to the
Big Barcoo;
He could tell when he came to a friendly run that gave him a chance
to spread,
And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep
ahead;
He was drifting down in the Eighty drought with a mob that could
scarcely creep
(When the kangaroos by the thousands starve, it is rough on the
travelling sheep),
And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the
Wilga run;
"We must manage a feed for them here," he said, "or the half of the
mob are done!"
So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to
go,
Till he grew aware of a Jackeroo with a station-hand in tow,

And they set to work on the straggling sheep, and with many a
stockwhip crack
They forced them in where the grass was dead in the space of the
half-mile track;
So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him
blue
But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in the teeth of that
Jackeroo.
So he turned and he cursed the Jackeroo, he cursed him alive or
dead,
From the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his ugly
head,
With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels
that ran,
Till the Jackeroo from his horse got down and he went for the
drover-man;
With the station-hand for his picker-up, though the sheep ran loose
the while,
They battled it out on the saltbush plain in the regular prize-ring
style.

Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake and the pride of the
English race,
But the drover fought for his daily bread, with a smile on his
bearded face;
So he shifted ground and he sparred for wind and he made it a
lengthy mill,
And from time to time as his scouts came in they whispered to
Saltbush Bill--
"We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, and the grass it
is something grand,
You must stick to him, Bill, for another round for the pride of the
Overland."
The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home,
Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky and glared on the
brick-red loam,
Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to
rest,
Then the drover said he would fight no more, and he gave his
opponent best.

So the new chum rode to the homestead straight and he told them a
story grand
Of the desperate fight that he fought that day with the King of the
Overland.
And the tale went home to the public schools of the pluck of the
English swell,
How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must
tell.
But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep were boxed on the Old
Man Plain.
'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off
again.
With a week's good grass in their wretched hides, with a curse and a
stockwhip crack
They hunted them off on the road once more to starve on the
half-mile track.
And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite
How the best day's work that ever he did was the day that he lost
the fight.

_DROUGHT AND DOCTRINE._

BY J. BRUNTON STEPHENS.

(_By kind permission of the publishers, Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Sydney and Melbourne._)

Come, take the tenner, doctor ... yes, I know the bill says "five,"
But it ain't as if you'd merely kep' our little 'un alive;
Man, you saved the mother's reason when you saved that baby's life,
An' it's thanks to _you_ I ha'n't a ravin' idiot for a wife.

Let me tell you all the story, an' if then you think it strange,
That I'd like to fee ye extry--why, I'll take the bloomin' change.
If yer bill had said a hundred ... I'm a poor man, doc., and yet
I'd 'a' slaved till I had squared it; ay, an' still been in yer
debt.

Well, you see, the wife's got notions on a heap o' things that ain't
To be handled by a man as don't pretend to be a saint;
So I minds "the cultivation," smokes my pipe an' makes no stir,
An' religion an' such p'ints I lays entirely on to her.

No, she's got it fixed within her that, if children die afore
They've been sprinkled by the parson, they've no show for evermore;
An' though they're spared the pitchfork, the brimstun, an' the
smoke,
They ain't allowed to mix _up there_ with other little folk.

So when our last began to pine, an' lost his pretty smile,
An' not a parson to be had within a hunder mile--
(For though there is a chapel down at Bluegrass Creek, you know,
The clargy's there on dooty only thrice a year or so)--

Well, when our yet unchristen'd mite grew limp, an' thin, an' pale,
It would 'a' cut you to the heart to hear the mother wail
About her "unregenerate babe," an' how, if it should go,
'Twould have no chance with them as had their registers to show.

Then awful quiet she grew, an' hadn't spoken for a week,
When in came brother Bill one day with news from Bluegrass Creek.
"I seen," says he, "a notice on the chapel railin' tied;
They'll have service there this evenin'--can the youngster stand the
ride?

For we can't have parson here, if it be true, as I've heard say,
There's a dyin' man as wants him more'n twenty mile away;
So"--He hadn't time to finish ere the child was out of bed,
With a shawl about its body an' a hood upon its head.

"Saddle up," the missus said. I did her biddin' like a bird.
Perhaps I thought it foolish, but I never said a word;
For though I have a vote in what the kids eat, drink, or wear,
Their sperritual requirements are entirely _her_ affair.

We started on our two hours' ride beneath a burnin' sun,
With Aunt Sal and Bill for sureties to renounce the Evil One;
An' a bottle in Sal's basket that was labelled "Fine Old Tom"
Held the water that regeneration was to follow from.

For Bluegrass Creek was dry, as Bill that very day had found,
An' not a sup o' water to be had for miles around;
So, to make salvation sartin for the babby's little soul,
We had filled a dead marine, sir, at the fam'ly waterhole.
Which every forty rods or so Sal raised it to her head,
An' took a snifter, "just enough to wet her lips," she said;
Whereby it came to pass that when we reached the chapel door,
There was only what would serve the job, an' deuce a dribble more.

The service had begun--we didn't like to carry in
A vessel with so evident a carritur for gin;
So we left it in the porch, an', havin' done our level best,
Went an' owned to bein' "mis'rable offenders" with the rest.

An' nigh upon the finish, when the parson had been told
That a lamb was waitin' there to be admitted to the fold,
Rememberin' the needful, I gets up an' quietly slips
To the porch to see--a swagsman--with our bottle at his lips!

Such a faintness came all over me, you might have then an' there
Knocked me down, sir, with a feather or tied me with a hair.
Doc., I couldn't speak nor move; an' though I caught the beggar's
eye,
With a wink he turned the bottle bottom up an' drank it dry.

An' then he flung it from him, bein' suddintly aware
That the label on't was merely a deloosion an' a snare;
An' the crash cut short the people in the middle of "A-men,"
An' all the congregation heard him holler "Sold again!"

So that christ'nin' was a failure; every water-flask was drained;
Ev'n the monkey in the vestry not a blessed drop contained;
An' the parson in a hurry cantered off upon his mare,
Leavin' baby unregenerate, an' missus in despair.

That night the child grew worse, but all my care was for the wife;
I feared more for her reason than for that wee spark o' life....
But you know the rest--how Providence contrived that very night
That a doctor should come cadgin' at our shanty for a light....

Baby? Oh, he's chirpy, thank ye--been baptised--his name is Bill.
It's weeks and weeks since parson came an' put him through the mill;
An' his mother's mighty vain upon the subjick of his weight,
An' reg'lar cock-a-hoop about his sperritual state.

So now you'll take the tenner. Oh, confound the bloomin' change!
Lord, had Billy died!--but, doctor, don't you think it summut
strange
That them as keeps the gate would have refused to let him in
Because a fool mistook a drop of Adam's ale for gin?

_THE MARTYR._

BY VICTOR J. DALEY.

(_From "At Dawn and Dusk" poems, by kind permission of Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._)

Not only on cross and gibbet,
By sword, and fire, and flood,
Have perished the world's sad martyrs
Whose names are writ in blood.

A woman lay in a hovel
Mean, dismal, gasping for breath;
One friend alone was beside her:
The name of him was--Death.

For the sake of her orphan children,
For money to buy them food,
She had slaved in the dismal hovel
And wasted her womanhood.

Winter and spring and summer
Came each with a load of cares;
And autumn to her brought only
A harvest of grey hairs.

Far out in the blessed country,
Beyond the smoky town,
The winds of God were blowing
Evermore up and down;

The trees were waving signals
Of joy from the bush beyond;
The gum its blue-green banner,
The fern its dark-green frond;

Flower called to flower in whispers
By sweet caressing names,
And young gum shoots sprang upward
Like woodland altar-flames;

And, deep in the distant ranges
The magpie's fluting song
Roused musical, mocking echoes
In the woods of Dandenong;

And riders were galloping gaily,
With loose-held flowing reins,
Through dim and shadowy gullies,
Across broad, treeless plains;

And winds through the Heads came wafting
A breath of life from the sea,
And over the blue horizon
The ships sailed silently;

And out of the sea at morning
The sun rose, golden bright,
And in crimson, and gold, and purple
Sank in the sea at night;

But in dreams alone she saw them,
Her hours of toil between;
For life to her was only
A heartless dead machine.

_Her_ heart was in the graveyard
Where lay her children three;
Nor work nor prayer could save them,
Nor tears of agony.

On the lips of her last and dearest
Pressing a farewell kiss,
She cried aloud in her anguish--
"Can God make amends for _this_?"

Dull, desperate, ceaseless slaving
Bereft her of power to pray,
And Man was careless and cruel,
And God was far away.

But who shall measure His mercies?
His ways are in the deep;
And, after a life of sorrow,
He gave her His gift of sleep.

Rest comes at last to the weary,
And freedom to the slave;
Her tired and worn-out body
Sleeps well in its pauper grave.

But His angel bore her soul up
To that Bright Land and Fair,
Where Sorrow enters never,
Nor any cloud of care.

They came to a lovely valley,
Agleam with asphodel,
And the soul of the woman speaking,
Said, "Here I fain would dwell!"

The angel answered gently:
"O Soul, most pure and dear,
O Soul, most tried and truest,
Thy dwelling is not here!

"Behold thy place appointed--
Long kept, long waiting--come!
Where bloom on the hills of Heaven
The roses of Martyrdom!"

_THE CARRYING OF THE BABY._

BY ETHEL TURNER.

Larrie had been carrying it for a long way, and said it was quite time Dot took her turn.

Dot was arguing the point.

She reminded him of all athletic sports he had taken part in, and of all the prizes he had won; she asked him what was the use of being six-foot-two and an impossible number of inches round the chest if he could not carry a baby.

Larrie gave her an unexpected glance and moved the baby to his other arm; he was heated and unhappy, there seemed absolutely no end to the red, red road they were traversing, and Dot, as well as refusing to help to carry the burden, laughed aggravatingly at him when he said it was heavy.

"He is exactly twenty-one pounds," she said, "I weighed him on the kitchen scales yesterday. I should think a man of your size ought to be able to carry twenty-one pounds without grumbling so."

"But he's on springs, Dot," he said; "just look at him, he's never still for a minute; you carry him to the beginning of Lee's orchard, and then I'll take him again."

Dot shook her head.

"I'm very sorry, Larrie," she said, "but I really can't. You know I didn't want to bring the child, and when you insisted, I said to myself, you should carry him every inch of the way, just for your obstinacy."

"But you're his mother," objected Larrie.

He was getting seriously angry, his arms ached unutterably, his clothes were sticking to his back, and twice the baby had poked a little fat thumb in his eye and made it water.

"But you're its father," Dot said sweetly.

"It's easier for a woman to carry a child than a man"--poor Larrie was mopping his hot brow with his disengaged hand--"everyone says so; don't be a little sneak, Dot; my arm's getting awfully cramped; here, for pity's sake take him."

Dot shook her head again.

"Would you have me break my vow, St. Lawrence?" she said.

She looked provokingly cool and unruffled as she walked along by his side; her gown was white, with transparent puffy sleeves, her hat was white and very large, she had little white canvas shoes, long white Suede gloves, and she carried a white parasol.

"I'm hanged," said Larrie, and he stopped short in the middle of the road; "look here, my good woman, are you going to take your baby, or are you not?"

Dot revolved her sunshade round her little sweet face.

"No, my good man," she said; "I don't propose to carry your baby one step."

"Then I shall drop it," said Larrie. He held it up in a threatening position by the back of its crumpled coat, but Dot had gone sailing on.

"Find a soft place," she called, looking back over her shoulder once and seeing him still standing in the road.

"Little minx," he said under his breath.

Then his mouth squared itself; ordinarily it was a pleasant mouth, much given to laughter and merry words; but when it took that obstinate look, one could see capabilities for all manner of things.

He looked carefully around. By the roadside there was a patch of soft, green grass, and a wattle bush, yellow-crowned, beautiful. He laid the child down in the shade of it, he looked to see there were no ants or other insects near; he put on the bootee that was hanging by a string from the little rosy foot, and he stuck the india-rubber comforter in its mouth. Then he walked quietly away and caught up to Dot.

"Well?" she said, but she looked a little startled at his empty arms; she drooped the sunshade over the shoulder nearest to him, and gave a hasty, surreptitious glance backward. Larrie strode along.

"You look fearfully ugly when you screw up your mouth like that," she said, looking up at his set side face.

"You're an unnatural mother, Dot, that's what you are," he returned hotly. "By Jove, if I was a woman, I'd be ashamed to act as you do. You get worse every day you live. I've kept excusing you to myself, and saying you would get wiser as you grew older, and instead, you seem more childish every day."

She looked childish. She was very, very small in stature, very slightly and delicately built. Her hair was in soft gold-brown curls, as short as a boy's; her eyes were soft, and wide, and tender, and beautiful as a child's. When she was happy they were the colour of that blue, deep violet we call the Czar, and when she grew thoughtful, or sorrowful, they were like the heart of a great, dark purple pansy. She was not particularly beautiful, only very fresh, and sweet, and lovable. Larrie once said she always looked like a baby that has been freshly bathed and dressed, and puffed with sweet violet powder, and sent out into the world to refresh tired eyes.

That was one of his courtship sayings, more than a year ago, when she was barely seventeen. She was eighteen now, and he was telling her she was an unnatural mother.

"Why, the child wouldn't have had its bib on, only I saw to it," he said, in a voice that increased in excitement as he dwelt on the enormity.

"Dear me," said Dot, "that was very careless of Peggie; I must really speak to her about it."

"I shall shake you some day, Dot," Larrie said, "shake you till your teeth rattle. Sometimes I can hardly keep my hands off you."

His brow was gloomy, his boyish face troubled, vexed.

And Dot laughed. Leaned against the fence skirting the road that seemed to run to eternity, and laughed outrageously.

Larrie stopped too. His face was very white and square-looking, his dark eyes held fire. He put his hands on the white, exaggerated shoulders of her muslin dress and turned her round.

"Go back to the bottom of the hill this instant, and pick up the child and carry it up here," he said.

"Go and insert your foolish old head in a receptacle for _pommes-de-terre_," was Dot's flippant retort.

Larrie's hands pressed harder, his chin grew squarer.

"I'm in earnest, Dot, deadly earnest. I order you to fetch the child, and I intend you to obey me," he gave her a little shake to enforce the command. "I am your master, and I intend you to know it from this day."

Dot experienced a vague feeling of surprise at the fire in the eyes that were nearly always clear, and smiling, and loving, then she twisted herself away.

"Pooh," she said, "you're only a stupid over-grown, passionate boy, Larrie. You my master! You're nothing in the world but my husband."

"Are you going?" he said in a tone he had never used before to her. "Say Yes or No, Dot, instantly."

"No," said Dot, stormily.

Then they both gave a sob of terror, their faces blanched, and they began to run madly down the hill.

Oh the long, long way they had come, the endless stretch of red, red road that wound back to the gold-tipped wattles, the velvet grass, and their baby!

Larrie was a fleet, wonderful runner. In the little cottage where they lived, manifold silver cups and mugs bore witness to it, and he was running for life now, but Dot nearly outstripped him.

She flew over the ground, hardly touching it, her arms were outstretched, her lips moving. They fell down together on their knees by their baby, just as three furious, hard-driven bullocks thundered by, filling the air with dust and bellowing.

The baby was blinking happily up at a great fat golden beetle that was making a lazy way up the wattle. It had lost its "comforter" and was sucking its thumb thoughtfully. It had kicked off its white knitted boots, and was curling its pink toes up in the sunshine with great enjoyment.

"Baby!" Larrie said. The big fellow was trembling in every limb.

"_Baby!_" said Dot. She gathered it up in her little shaking arms, she put her poor white face down upon it, and broke into such pitiful tears and sobs that it wept too. Larrie took them both into his arms, and sat down on a fallen tree. He soothed them, he called them a thousand tender, beautiful names; he took off Dot's hat and stroked her little curls, he kissed his baby again and again; he kissed his wife. When they were all quite calm and the bullocks ten miles away, they started again.

"I'll carry him," said Larrie.

"Ah no, let me," Dot said.

"Darling, you're too tired--see, you can hold his hand across my shoulder."

"No, no, give him to me--my arms ache without him."

"But the hill--my big baby!"

"Oh, I _must_ have him--Larrie, _let_ me--see, he is so light--why, he is nothing to carry."

_THE OLD GUM._

Stand here; he has once been a grand old gum,
But it makes one reflect that the time will come
When we all shall have had our fling;
Yet, our life soon passes, we scarce know how--
You would hardly think, to see him now,
That once he had been a king.

In his youth, in the silence of the wood,
A forest of saplings around him stood;
But he overtopped them all.
And, over their heads, through the forest shade,
He could see how the sunlight danced and played,
So straight he grew, and so tall.

Each day of his life brought something new,
The breeze stirred the bracken, the dry leaves flew,
The wild bird passed on the wing:
He heard the low, sad song of the wood,
His childhood was passed in its solitude;
And he grew--and became a king.

Oft has he stood on the stormy night,
When the long-forked flash has revealed to sight
The plain where the floods were out;
When the wind came down like a hurricane,
And the branches, broken and snapped in twain,
Were scattered and strewn about.

Oft, touched by the reddening bush-fire glow,
When clouds of smoke, rolling up from below,
Obscured the sun like a pall;
When the forest seemed like a flaming sea,
And down came many a mighty tree,
Has he stood firm through it all.

Those days of his youth have long gone by;
The magpie's note and the parrot's cry,
As borne on the evening wind,
Recall to his thoughts his childhood flown,
Old memories, fresh, yet faintly blown,
Of the youth he has left behind.

On the brow of the hill he stands to-day,
But the pride of his life has passed away;
His leaves are withered and sere.
And oft at night comes a sound of woe,
As he sways his tired limbs to and fro
And laments to the bleak night air.

He can still look down on the plain below,
And his head is decked by the sunset glow
With a glorious crown of light;
And from every field, as the night draws on,
To his spreading arms the magpies come
To shelter there for the night.

Some night, when the waters rage and swell,
He will hear the thunder roll his knell,
And will bow his head to the ground;
And the birds from their nests will wheel in the air,
And the rabbits burrow deeper in fear,
At the thundering, rending sound.

And the magpies must find another home;
No more, at the sunset, will they come
To warble their evening song.
Ah, well! our sorrow is quickly flown,
For the good old friends we have loved and known:
And the old tree falls by the tall new grown,
And the weak must yield to the strong.

FLORENCE BULLIVANT.

_MURPHY SHALL NOT SING TO-NIGHT._

Specimens of Ireland's greatness gathered round O'Connor's bar,
Answering the invitation Patsy posted near and far.
All the chandeliers were lit, but did not shed sufficient light,
So tallow candles, stuck in bottles, graced the bar that famous
night.

All the quality were there; before such talent ne'er was seen;
Healy brought the house down fairly with "The Wearin' o' the Green."
Liquor went around in lashins, everything was going off right,
When O'Connor sent the word round, "Murphy shall not sing to-night."

Faces paled at Patsy's order; none were listening to the song;
Through their hearts went vague sensations--awful dreads of coming
wrong;
For they knew that Danny Murphy thought himself a singer quite,
And knew that if he made his mind up, that, bedad, he'd sing that
night.

Everyone was close attention, knew that there would be a row,
When the chairman said that "Mr. Murphy will oblige us now."
"Not so fasht," said Pat O'Connor, rising to his fullest height,
"This here pub belongs to me, and Murphy shall not sing to-night."

Up jumps Murphy, scowling darkly as he looks at Pat O'Connor:
"Is this the way," he says to Pat, "that you uphold Ould Oireland's
honour?"
"Oi know Oi'm not much at singin'; any toime Oi'd sooner foight;
But, to show me independence, s'help me bob, Oi'll sing to-night."

"Gintlemin," says Pat O'Connor, wildly gazing round about,
"It will be my painful duty to chuck Danny Murphy out;
It has been a rule with me that no man sings when he is tight;
When Oi say a thing Oi mane it--Murphy shall not sing to-night."

Then says Doolan to O'Connor, "Listen what Oi've got to tell;
If yez want to chuck out Murphy, yez must chuck out me as well."
This lot staggered Pat O'Connor, Doolan was a man of might;
But he bluffed him, loudly crying, "Murphy shall not sing to-night."

Then he rushed on Danny Murphy and he smote him hip and thigh;
Patsy looked a winner straight, when Doolan jabbed him in the eye.
All the crowd at once took sides, and soon began a rousing fight;
The battle cry of Patsy's push was "Murphy shall not sing to-night."

The noise soon brought a copper in: 'twas Patsy's cousin, Jim
Kinsella.
"Hould yer row," he says to Doolan, when Mick lands him on the
smeller.
They got the best of Doolan's push, though; lumbered them for
getting tight.
Patsy then had spoken truly, "Murphy did not sing that night."

EPILOGUE.

Specimens of Ireland's greatness gathered round the City court.
There before the awful sentence was a touching lesson taught--
Then away they led the prisoners to a cell, so cool and white;
And for fourteen days to come Murphy shall not sing at night.

MONTAGUE GROVER.

_CHRISTMAS BELLS._

BY JOHN B. O'HARA, M.A.

(_By kind permission of the Author._)

Bells, joyous bells of the Christmas-time,
Dear is the song of your welcome chime;
Dear is the burden that softly wells
From your joyous throats, O tolling bells!
Dear is the message sweet you bind
Dove-like to wings of the wafting wind.

You tell how the Yule-king cometh forth
From his home in the heart of the icy North;
On his Eastern steeds how rusheth on
The wind-god of storms, Euroclydon;
How his trumpet strikes to the pallid stars
That shrink from the mad moon's silver bars,
Where the cold wind tortures the sobbing sea,
And the chill sleet pierces the pinioned lea,
As the snow king hurls from his frozen zone
The fragments fast of a tumbled throne.

But what is the song, O silver bells,
You sing of the ferny Austral dells,
Of the bracken height, and the sylvan stream,
And the breezy woodland's summer dream,
Lulled by the lute of the slow sweet rills
In the trembling heart of the great grave hills?
Ah, what is the song that you sing to me
Of the soft blue isles of our shimmering sea,
Where the slow tides sleep, and a purple haze
Fringes the skirts of the windless bays,

That, ringed with a circlet of beauty fair,
Start in the face of the dreamer there;
O, what is the burden of your sweet chimes,
Bells of the golden Christmas times?

You sing of the summer gliding down
From the stars that gem bright heaven's crown;
Of the flowers that fade in the autumn sere,
And the sunlit death of the old, old year.
Of the sweet South wind that sobs above
The grass-green grave of our buried love:
No bitter dirge from the stormy flow
Of a moaning sea,--ah! no, no, no!
But a sweet farewell, and a low soft hymn
Under the beautiful moons that swim
Over the silver seas that toss
Their foam to thy shrine, O Southern Cross!

O, bright is the burden of your sweet chimes,
Bells of the joyous Christmas times!
You bring to the old hearts throbbing slow
The beautiful dreams of the long ago;
Remembrance sweet of the olden Yule,
When hearts beat high in life's young school.
Ah, haply now, as they list to your chimes,
Will the voices rise of the olden times,
Till the wings of peace brood over the hours
Slipping like streams through sleepy bowers,
While you whisper the story loved of One
Who suffered for us--the sad sweet Son--
Who taught that afflictions, sent in love,
Chasten the soul for the realms above.

_WOOL IS UP._

Earth o'erflows with nectared gladness,
All creation teems with joy;
Banished be each thought of sadness,
Life for me has no alloy.
Fill a bumper!--drain a measure,
Pewter! goblet! tankard! cup!
Testifying thus our pleasure
At the news that "Wool is up."

'Thwart the empires, 'neath the oceans,
Subtly speeds the living fire;
Who shall tell what wild emotions
Spring from out that thridden wire?
"Jute is lower--copper weaker,"
This will break poor neighbour Jupp;
But for me, I shout "Eureka!"
Wealth is mine--for wool is up!

What care I for jute or cotton,
Sugar, copper, hemp, or flax!
Reeds like these are often rotten,
Turn to rods for owners' backs.
Fortune! ha! I have thee holden
In what Scotia calls a "grup,"
All my fleeces now are golden,
Full troy weight--for wool is up!

I will dance the gay fandango
(Though to me its steps be strange),
Doubts and fears, you all can hang go!
I will cut a dash on 'Change.
Atra Cura, you will please me
By dismounting from my crup--
Per--you no more shall tease me,
Pray get down--for wool is up!

Jane shall have that stylish bonnet
Which my scanty purse denied;
Long she set her heart upon it,
She shall wear it now with pride.
I will buy old Dumper's station,
Reign as king at Gerringhup,
For my crest a bust of Jason,
With this motto, "Wool is up."

I will keep a stud extensive;
Bolter, here! I'll have those greys,
Those Sir George deemed too expensive,
You can send them--with the bays.
Coursing! I should rather think so;
Yes, I'll take that "Lightning" pup;
Jones, my boy, you needn't wink so,
I can stand it--wool is up!

Wifey, love, you're looking charming,
Years with you are but as days;
We must have a grand house-warming
When these painters go their ways.
Let the ball-room be got ready,
Bid our friends to dance and sup:
Bother! _how_ can I "go steady"?
I'm worth thousands--wool is up!

GARNET WALCH.

_WOOL IS DOWN._

Blacker than 'eer the inky waters roll
Upon the gloomy shores of sluggish Styx,
A surge of sorrow laps my leaden soul,
For that which was at "two" is now "one--six."
"Come, disappointment, come!" as has been said
By someone else who quailed 'neath Fortune's frown,
Stab to the core the heart that once has bled,
(For "heart" read "pocket")--wool, ah! wool is down.

"And in the lowest deep a lower deep,"
Thou sightless seer, indeed it may be so,
The road to--well, we know--is somewhat steep,
And who shall stay us when that road we go?
Thrice cursed wire, whose lightning strikes to blast,
Whose babbling tongue proclaims throughout the town
The news, which, being ill, has travelled fast,
The dire intelligence that--wool is down.

A rise in copper and a rise in jute,
A fall alone in wool--but what a fall!
Jupp must have made a pile this trip, the brute,
He don't deserve such splendid luck at all.
The smiles for him--for me the scalding tears;
He's worth ten thousand if he's worth a crown,
While I--untimely shorn by Fate's harsh shears--
Feel that my game is up when wool is down.
Bolter, take back these prancing greys of thine,
Remove as well the vanquished warrior's bays,
My fortunes are not stable, they decline;
Aye, even horses taunt me with their neighs.
And thou, sweet puppy of the "Lightning" breed,
Through whose fleet limbs I pictured me renown,
Hie howling to thy former home with speed,
Thy course with me is up--for wool is down.

Why, Jane, what's this--this pile of letters here?
Such waste of stamps is really very sad.
Your birthday ball! Oh, come! not _twice_ a year,
Good gracious me! the woman must be mad.
You'd better save expense at once, that's clear,
And send a bellman to invite the town!
There--there--don't cry; forgive my temper, dear,
But put these letters up--for wool is down.

My station "Gerringhup"--yes, that must go,
Its sheep, its oxen, and its kangaroos,
First 'twas the home of blacks, then whites, we know,
Now is it but a dwelling for "the blues."
With it I leave the brotherhood of Cash
Who form Australian Fashion's tinsel crown;
I tread along the devious path of Smash,
I go where wool has gone--down, ever down.

Thus ends my dream of greatness; not for me
The silken couch, the banquet, and the rout,
They're flown--the base _residuum_ will be
A mutton chop and half a pint of stout--
Yet will I hold a corner in my soul
Where Hope may nestle safe from Fortune's frown.
Thou hoodwinked jade! my heart remaineth whole--
I'll keep my spirits up--though wool be down.

GARNET WALCH.

_THE HIGHLAND BRIGADE BURIES ITS DEAD._

BY LIEUT.-COLONEL W. T. REAY.

(_By kind permission of the Author._)

How am I to describe the sadly impressive scene at Modder River on the evening of the 13th of December? The sun has just set, and the period of twilight has commenced. The great heat of the day has passed, and although there is not a breath of wind, the air is cool and refreshing. The whole British camp at Modder River is astir. Not, however, with the always gay bustle of warlike preparations; not with the laughter and jest which--such strange creatures are we--almost invariably come from the lips of men who dress for the parade which precedes a plunge into battle. There is this evening a solemn hush over the camp, and the men move from their lines in irregular and noiseless parties, for the time their pipes put out of sight, and their minds charged with serious thought. To what is given this homage of silence as the soldiers gather, and mechanically, without word of command or even request of any kind, leave a roadway from the head-quarters' flag to a point a quarter of a mile away, where a dark mound of upraised earth breaks the monotonous flatness of the whitey-green veldt? For these are mere spectators, deeply interested, it is true, yet still only spectators. What, then, is afoot? Civilians, hats off, and attention everyone. The Highland Brigade is about to bury its dead.

Stand here at the head of the lines of spectator soldiers--here where that significant mound is; here at the spot selected as a last resting-place--and observe. The whole Brigade, some of the regiments sadly attenuated, is on parade, and has formed funeral procession, under Colonel Pole-Carew. First come the pipers, and it is seen that they have for the nonce discarded their service kit, and are in the full dress of their several clans. "Savage and shrill" is the Byronic description of the pibroch, which, in the "noon of night," startled the joyous revellers before Waterloo. Now it is a low, deep wail, yet voluminous and weirdly euphonious, that comes from the music-makers of the Highlands, and every heart stands still to listen. Oh, so sad it is! "The Flowers of the Forest"--("He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down")--they are--playing, shall I say? No; rather does the music flow out from the very souls of the pipers in a succession of strangely harmonious moans, and soul calls to soul. Yet beneath it all, beneath the dominant note of heart-bursting sorrow, lurks that other element--"the savage and shrill." Yes, indeed; soul calls to soul through these pipes--calls for sobs and tears for the brave who have fallen--calls for vengeance on the yet unbeaten foe. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.

Following the pipers marches a small armed party. It would have been the firing party, but volleys are not fired over soldiers' graves in time of war. Then the chaplain, in his robes, preceding the corpse of General Wauchope (who had fallen at the head of his men), borne on a stretcher. One of the bearers is of the dead man's kin--a promising young Highland officer. Then come the several regiments of the Brigade, the Black Watch leading. The men march with arms reversed, stately, erect, stern, grim. They lift their feet high for the regulation step of the slow, funeral march. But observe that even in their grim sternness these men are quivering with an emotion which they cannot control--an emotion which passes out in magnetic waves from their ranks to those of their comrade spectators of England and Ireland, and brings tears to the eyes and choking sobs to the throats of the strong and the brave. "Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!" The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.