Chapter II: Part 2

In a separate grave, at the head of a long, shallow trench, the body of General Wauchope is laid, in sight of and facing the foe. The chaplain advances, and the solemn service for the dead is recited in a clear and markedly Scotch voice, while all bow their heads and either listen or ponder. A grief-stricken kinsman's quivering hand drops earth upon the body at the words, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," and the grave of the General is quickly filled in. There, beside the trench, already lie the corpses of fifty officers and men. They had been carried to the burial place earlier in the day. There, at the end nearer to the General's grave, the officers are laid. Beside them their comrades of minor rank in life, all brought to a worldly level by the hand of death, are placed in the trench. It is an excavation only about three feet deep, but it is twelve feet wide, and the dead men are put feet to feet in two parallel rows, twenty-five on each side. They are fully attired, just as they were brought in from the battlefield, and each is wrapped in his blanket. The sporan is turned over on to the dead face, and the kilt thrown back, the rigid limbs showing bare and scarred in the unfilled trench. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.

Once more the chaplain steps forward, and a new funeral service is commenced. Again great, powerful men weep. Some grow faint, some pray, some curse. "Oh, God! oh, God!" is the cry which comes from bursting hearts as comrades are recognised, and soil is sprinkled over them by hard, rough hands, which tremble now as they never trembled in the face of a foe. Then the burial parties get to work, gently as a sweet woman tucks the bedclothes round her sleeping child. The soft soil falls kindly upon the shreds of humanity beneath. Men cease to weep, and catch something of the "rapture of repose" of which a poet has sung. Mother Earth has claimed her own, and the brave are sleeping their last sleep in her kindly embrace. Again the dirge of the pipes, and the sweet strains of "Lochaber no more" fill the evening air. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.

Meanwhile, the cable has carried its budget of sad messages to the old land. There, in a wee cottage by the bonnie burn side, the bereaved mother bows her aged head and says, "Thy will be done." There also the heart-broken once wife, newly-made widow, pours out the anguish of her soul as she clasps her fatherless bairn to her warm bosom. Her man comes no more. For the Highland Brigade has buried its dead.

_AUSTRALIA'S CALL TO ARMS._

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

(_By kind permission of the Author._)

Sons of ocean-girdled islands,
Where the southern billows sigh,
Wake! arise! the dread Bellona
Speeds her chariot through the sky;
Yea, the troubled star of danger
On Britannia shineth down--
Wake! arise! maintain her glory
And renown, and renown!

In the hour of Britain's peril
Shall we falter, while the fires
Still are glowing on our altars
From the ashes of our sires?
Ho! brave hearts, for Britain's honour,
For the lustre of her crown,
Wake! arise! maintain her glory
And renown, and renown!

Ye are children of a nation,
Ye are scions of the sires
That of old were in the vanguard
Of the world's wide empires!
With the spirit of your fathers,
With the fulness of their fame,
Wake! arise! maintain the honour
Of her name, of her name!

Long to Britain may "the crimson
Thread of kinship" bind our wings!--
Crimson thread that slowly slackens
As the newer race upsprings:
Sons of heroes, men of courage
That reverse could never tame,
Wake! arise! maintain the glory
Of her name, of her name!

See! the star of ancient Britain,
That hath never known decline,
By your valour lit up newly,
With a glow of fiercer shine,
O'er the burning sands of Afric,
With your loyalty aflame;
Once again maintain the glory
Of her name, of her name!

_GOOD NEWS._

Moostarchers and hair black as jet,
Tall and thin, with a sad kind of smile;
Soft-handed, soft-voiced, but well set--
A New Chum in manners and style.
That's him, sir--that's him; he's been here
A matter of nigh fourteen weeks,
Which I know by the rent in arrear,
Though a gent--you can tell when he speaks--
Came one night about eight, hired the room
Without board--it's four shillings, and cheap,
Though I say it, and me and the broom,
And good yaller soap for its keep;
And a widow with nine, which the twins--
Bless their 'arts--are that sturdy and bold
At their tricks soon as daylight begins,
Even now when it's perishing cold
O' mornings; and Betsy, my girl,
As answered the door, sir, for you,
She's so slow for her age, though a pearl
When there's any long job to get through;
And Bobby--but there, I forgot;
You'll pardon a mother, I know.
Well, for six weeks he paid up his shot,
And then I could see funds was low.
He dressed just as neat, but his coat
Got buttoned up nigher his chin,
And the scarf twisted round his poor throat
Missed a friend in the shape of a pin.
So the rent it run on, for, says I,
He's out of his luck, I can see,
And wants all his money to buy
His wittles (you brat, let that be).
Where he works I can't tell, but he's out
Every morning at nine from the house,
And he comes back at six or about,
And ups to his room like a mouse.
On Sundays the same, so I s'pose
He visits his friends on that day,
But where it may be that he goes
It's not in my knowledge to say.
He ain't well. I can tell by his walk;
He's as thin as a lath, and _that_ pale;
But I never could get him to talk,
So I can't rightly guess what may ail.
He never sends out for no beer,
He don't smoke, and as far as I see,
Beyond the few clothes he brought here,
And a desk, he's as hard up as me.
What! you bring him good news; I _am_ glad!
A fortune! ten thousand! Oh, la!
That's the physic for _you_, my poor lad.
This way, sir; it's not very far.
Mind that stair, please--the banister's broke.
Here's his door; hush, I'll knock. Ah! asleep.
Can't help it--you'd better be woke;
The news is too pretty to keep.
Ain't he sound, eh? Poor fellow, he's rocked
To rest in the Kingdom of Nod.
We'd better go in. It's not locked.
Follow me, sir. All dark. Oh! my God!

GARNET WALCH.

_FREE TRADE v. PROTECTION._

Yes, they were boys together in the grand old Fatherland,
They fubbed at taw together, played truant hand-in-hand,
They sucked each other's toffy, they cribbed each other's tops,
They pledged eternal friendship in an ounce of acid drops.

With no tie of blood between them, a greater bond was theirs,
Cemented by the constant swop of apples, nuts, and pears;
And when to manhood they had grown, with manhood's hispid chins,
They held as close together still as Siam's famous twins.

And Dobbins swore by Jobbins, and Jobbins vowed that he
Would never break with Dobbins, whate'er their fate might be,
So Jobbins came with Dobbins across the restless main,
And they traded as D., J. & Co., and gained much worldly gain.

Each gave the other dinners, each drank the other's health,
Each looked upon the other as a "mine of mental wealth,"
And Dobbins swore by Jobbins, and Jobbins vowed that he
Would never break with Dobbins, whate'er their fate might be.

But ah! for human nature--alas for human kind--
There came a cloud between them, with a lot more clouds behind.
The Tariff was the demon fell which sad disruption made,
For our Dobbins loved Protection, while our Jobbins loved Free
Trade.

As partners now in business, they could no more agree,
So they forthwith dissoluted and halved the L s. d.
And the fiercest opposition in every sort of way,
Was carried on by Dobbins _versus_ Jobbins day by day.

Then Dobbins entered Parliament, and so did Jobbins too,
And each upheld his principles amidst that motley crew--
And the side that Dobbins voted with were victors of the hour.
And Dobbins was made Treasurer while Jobbins' grapes were sour.

Then Dobbins went to work with glee, protecting everything,
And gave his pet proclivities the very fullest swing,
Set all the manger-loving dogs a-barking in his praise,
And raised the Tariff up kite-high, a real four-aces' raise.

He taxed the pots, he taxed the pans, he taxed the children's mugs,
He taxed the brooms, he taxed the mops, He taxed the jars and jugs;
In soft and hardware every line was smothered by his dues,
Except the national _tin tax_--the Ministerial _screws_.

He taxed each article of food, each article of wear,
He even taxed fresh water, and he tried to tax fresh air;
He improvised new duties, new taxes by the score,
And when he stopped awhile to think he taxed his brain for more.

And not one blessed class of goods was entered at the port,
But what he advaloremed till he made importers snort;
Till even old Protectionists, grown hoary in the cause,
Began to change to fidgets what had started as applause.

Poor Jobbins suffered hugely by his whilom partner's tricks,
But found it rather dangerous to kick against the pricks;
He had to grin and bear it, as many a worthy man
Has grinned and borne it in his turn since this mad world began.

Now Dobbins, flushed with Fortune's smiles, his high ambition fed,
Bethought him that the time had come when he might safely wed.
So by the wire electrical, as he had nicely planned,
He sent this loving message to the grand old Fatherland.

"Matilda, I am ready, with five thousand pounds a-year;
Come out unto your Dobbins, love, and be his bride so dear;"
To which there sped the answer back that very self-same day,
"As soon as I have packed my things, I'm coming straight away."

Matilda was an heiress of the old blue Bobbins' blood,
Her ancestors owned land and beeves long years before the flood;
One relative, 'tis said, indeed--a chemist, I'll engage--
Sold bottled Protoplasm in the prehistoric age.

Our Dobbins and our Jobbins, too, had loved the maid of old,
But Bobbins _pere_ had snubbed them both for lack of needful gold;
Though when the telegram arrived, "Five thousand pounds a-year!"
Pa winked a playful little wink--and said, "Be off, my dear."

The packing of her luggage was a most stupendous job,
She'd the miscellaneous wardrobe of the highest sort of nob,
New trousseau, plate, and furniture, and presents from her friends,
And Cockle's pills and raspberry jam, and various odds and ends.

There were eighty zinc-lined cases and portmanteaus full a score,
Of band and bonnet boxes at least some fifty more,
Of carpet-bags three dozen most plethorically crammed,
With nigh-forgotten articles in one wild chaos jammed.

Our Venus had a transit out particularly quick,
A glorious _transit mundi_, but without the usual _sic_ (k);
Till one fine day she gazed upon the far-famed, Austral strand.
One eye upon her luggage, and one eye upon the land.

The vessel berthed beside the pier; Matilda's future lord,
The "Honourable Dobbins," stepped jauntily on board;
He clasped the maiden to his breast, nor heeded that close by
The melancholy Jobbins stood with sad reproachful eye.

"Come, come, my love!" says Dobbins, "let's get your things ashore;
I have a cab in waiting here to take them to my store."
"A cab!" cried she--"twice twenty cabs would not for me suffice;
Behold my things!" He started, as though stung by cockatrice.

"That lofty mountain yonder, which high its head erects,
That Alp of packing cases--are those, dear, your effects?"
"Of course they are, beloved, for keeping house with _you_,
Enough to furnish us complete, and everything _quite new!_"

He staggered as if hearing news of pestilence or dearth,
Then gasped in low and anxious tones, "And what's the whole lot
worth?"
She thought that his emotion spoke of joy that knew no bounds,
And whispered gaily in his ear, "Some forty thousand pounds!"

He bit his lips, he ground his teeth, he tore out hunks of hair,
He looked the full embodiment of desperate despair;
Then with a shriek of agony, the hideous truth found vent,
"There's _ad valorem_ on the lot of ninety-five per cent.!

"My new amended Tariff comes in force this very day,
I little dreamt that you and I should be the first to pay;
Besides, I haven't got the cash! oh dear, how bad I feel!"
The maiden smiled a scornful smile and turned upon her heel.

The miserable Dobbins gave a second piercing shriek,
Then leaped into the briny flood, and stayed there for a week;
Though Jobbins tried to find him hard, but failed, with these
remarks,
"He always _was_ too deep for me--besides, there might be sharks."

The very night of Dobbins' loss, the Ministry went out,
The Jobbins' party took their place 'midst many a ringing shout;
And of our Jobbins in a trice, their Treasurer they made.
Because, as everybody knew, he gloried in Free Trade.

He took the dues off everything, from thimbles up to tanks,
And passed Miss Bobbins' goods himself, and won that virgin's
thanks;
And what is more, he won her hand, her chattels and her heart,
And she is Mrs. Jobbins now, till death them twain doth part.

As Dobbins to import his love had spared nor cash nor pains--
They raised a handsome monument above his cold remains;
The carved inscription to this day is there his tale to tell,
"He _did_ his duties--and himself--not wisely but too well."

GARNET WALCH.

_THE LION'S CUBS._

PATRIOTIC SONG AND CHORUS.

Australia's sons are we,
And the freest of the free,
But Love enchains us still with fetters strong
To the dear old land at Home,
Far across the rolling foam--
The little isle to which our hearts belong.
It shall always be our boast,
Our bumper-honoured toast,
That, should Britain bid us help her, we'll obey;
Then, if e'er the call is made,
And Old England needs our aid,
These are the words Australia's sons will say--

There is not a strong right hand,
Throughout this Southern land,
But will draw a sword in dear old England's cause;
Our numbers may be few,
But we've loyal hearts and true,
And the Lion's cubs have got the Lion's claws.

From our ocean-guarded strand,
O'er the sunny plains inland,
To the cloud-kissed mountain summits faint and far,
Australians bred and born,
Behold yon banner torn,
And greet it with a lusty-lunged hurrah!
'Tis the brave old Union Jack,
That nothing can beat back--
Ever waving where the brunt of battle lies;
For each frayed and faded thread
Britain counts a hero dead,
Who died to gain the liberties we prize.

Then there's not, &c.

The ever-honoured name
On the bright bead-roll of Fame,
That our fathers held through all the changing Past,
In it we claim our share,
And by Saint George we swear,
We can keep that name untarnished to the last;
Then, when the hour arrives,
We will give our very lives
For the dearest land of all the lands on earth,
And, foremost in the fray,
Show Britain's foes the way
Australia's sons can prove their British birth.

Yes, there's not, &c.

Sons of the South, unite
In federated might,
The Champions of your Country and your Queen;
From New Zealand's glacier throne
To the burning Torrid Zone,
We'll prove that welded steel is tough and keen.
The wide world shall be shown
That we mean to hold our own
In the home of our adoption, free and fair;
And if the Lion needs,
He shall see, by doughty deeds,
How his Austral cubs can guard their father's lair.

For there's not, &c.

GARNET WALCH.

_THE LITTLE DUCHESS._

BY ETHEL TURNER.

"The tale is as old as the Eden tree,
And new as the new-cut tooth."

He was the clerk of the cash tramway, and when the rolling balls gave him a moment's leisure, used to look down from his high perch at the big shop beneath his feet, and, in his slow, quiet style, study the ways of the numberless assistants whose life-books thus opened to him so many of their pages.

Lately there had come to the place a slight, grey-eyed girl, who wore her black dress with such grace, and held her small head with such dignity, that he whimsically had named her to himself "The Little Duchess." He liked to look down and catch a glint of her hair's sunshine when his brain was dulled with calculating change, and his fingers ached with shutting cash-balls and dispatching them on their journeys. And he used to wonder greatly how any customer could hesitate to buy silks and satins when their lustre and sheen were displayed by her slim little fingers and the quality descanted on with so persuasive a smile. There were handsomer girls in the shop, girls with finer figures and better features; but, to the boy in his mid-air cage, there was none with the nameless dainty charms that made the little Duchess so lovable.

For, of course, he did love her. In less than two months he had begun to watch for her cash-ball with a trembling eagerness, to smooth out and stroke gently the bill her fingers had written, and to wrap it and its change up again with a careful tenderness that no one else's change and bill received. He had spoken to her half-a-dozen times in all; twice at the door on leaving--weather remarks, to which she had responded graciously; once or twice about bills that she had come to rectify at the desk, and once he had had the great good fortune to find and return a handkerchief she had dropped. Such a pretty, ridiculous atom of muslin it was, with a fanciful "Nellie" taking up one quarter, and some delicate scent lending such subtle fascination that it was a real wrench for the lad to take the handkerchief from his breast-pocket and proffer it to her.

So great a wrench, indeed, that he profferred his love, too, humbly, but fervently, and received a very wondering look from the grey eyes, a badly-concealed smile, a "Thank you" for the handkerchief, and a "No, thank you" for the love.

He had kissed her, though, and that was some consolation afterwards to his sore spirit, kissed her right upon the sweet, scarlet lips which had said "No" so decidedly, and then, bold no longer, had fled the shelter of the friendly packing-cases, and beaten a retreat to his desk aloft.

That was nearly a fortnight ago; not once since had she spoken to him, and to-day he was feeling desperate.

It had been a very busy morning, and he had found hardly a second to raise his eyes from his work. The one time he had looked down she had been busy with a customer--a girl prettily dressed and golden-headed like herself. That had been at about ten o'clock. Before twelve her cash-box, with the notch upon it that his penknife had made, rolled down its line, and he opened it as he had opened it twenty times that morning; but this time it bore his fate. With the bill was a little twisted note, on which "John Walters, private," was written, and the boy's very heart leaped at the sight. Down below, customers wearily waited for change, and anxiously watched for their own particular ball while the _deus ex machina_ read again and again, with eager eyes: "Please will you meet me at lunch-time in the Strand? Do, if you can. I am in trouble. You said you loved me." Then, as he began mechanically to manipulate the waiting balls, he looked down to the accustomed place of the little Duchess. She was pale, he saw, and her lips trembled oddly now and again. There was a frightened look in her grey eyes, and once or twice he thought he noticed a sparkle as of tears.

At lunch-time he actually tore through the shop and away down to the appointed place. She was there--still pale, still nervous and fluttering.

"Let us go to the Gardens. It's quieter," he said, putting a great restraint upon himself; then, when at last they were within the gates, "God bless you for this, Nellie."

"What?" said the girl, with uncertainty, but not looking at the plain, rugged face that was all aglow with love for her.

"For telling me about the worry--asking me to come. Oh, God bless you, Nellie! Now tell me."

She sat down on a seat and began to cry, quietly and miserably, till the boy was almost beside himself. At last, between the sobs, he learned her trouble, which was grave indeed. She and her sister had very much wanted to go to a certain ball, and, more than that, to have new dresses for it, of soft white Liberty silk, such as she cut off daily for fortunate customers. But her purse was empty, so, in their emergency, the sisters had hit upon a plan, questionable, indeed, but not dishonestly meant. The sister came to the silk counter and purchased thirty yards of silk, paying 15_s._ for it instead of L3 15_s._

"That was on account; I was only taking a little credit, like other customers," said the little Duchess, with a haughty movement of the head. "On Saturday I was going to make out a bill for an imaginary customer, and send the L3 up to the desk to you. Don't imagine I would really wrong the firm by a halfpenny."

"Oh, no," cried the boy eagerly; "it's all right."

"That's not all." The girl began to cry again, hopelessly, miserably. "I had no money to get the dresses made, and the next customer paid L2 10_s._, and--and--I only sent 10_s._ up to you--I wanted to make it just L5 I had borrowed. I thought I might borrow enough, as I was borrowing--don't forget, I would rather have died than have stolen the L5, Mr. Walters."

"Of course, of course, I understand," said the cash clerk, seeing it was a worse fix than he had imagined, but longing to take her in his arms and kiss away the tears.

"And then that horrid Mr. Greaves, who signed first in a hurry, asked for my book and took it for something, and then sent it up to the desk, and the figures are all confused, and the check-leaf isn't the same as I sent to you. I hadn't time to make it right, and when the books are compared to-night it will be noticed, and I shall get into trouble--and, oh, I am so miserable!" The little Duchess was sobbing pitifully.

He kissed her, this time in earnest; on the lips, the cheeks, the hair, the tear-wet eyes. He only recollected himself when a gardener's form, and especially his smile, obtruded themselves upon their notice, and they sat apart looking foolish until the two o'clock bells made them hurry back to the shop.

"I'll put everything right--don't you worry," he said; and she smiled relievedly and went to her counter.

That afternoon he did what all the other years of his life he had deemed it impossible for him to do. He made a neat alteration in his books so that the L5 in question would not be missed. To-morrow, he resolved, he would take L5 of his own and pay it into the account of the firm. The little Duchess should be his debtor, and run no more risks. But, alas, for the morrow!

Before he had fairly taken his seat in the morning--before Nellie had finished fastening at her neck the violets he had brought her--some words were said at his elbow, and he slowly became aware that he--surely it was a dream!--was being arrested for defalcations in his accounts. He learned that for some time past the firm had been aware of considerable discrepancies in the books, and had placed a detective-accountant in the office. Last night, for the first time, the man had discovered, as he thought, a clue, and had convinced the firm that in Walters he had found the offender.

The lad was ashen pale, horror stricken, as he realised how these things must go against him. He could not drag in the name of the little Duchess--even if he did, it would not avail him much; he certainly had altered his books, and to mention the girl's share would only be to have two of them brought to trial, and perhaps to gaol. The little Duchess in gaol! That hair catching the prison-yard sunshine! That slender form clad in the garments of shame! The boy drew a deep breath, gave one very wistful glance at the silk counter, and then walked straight to the manager's room, followed by the policeman.

"I took the L5 yesterday, and brought it back to-day. On my oath before God, sir, I have never misapplied one farthing of my moneys."

His voice trembled in its eagerness, the deep-set eyes gleamed, and the white lips worked.

"Your purpose, Walters?"

The manager looked hard, disbelieving.

"Direst need. Oh, believe me, sir, I have served you three years honestly as man can serve--yesterday I borrowed this money and brought it back this morning--don't ruin my whole life for that one act."

"Your pressing need yesterday?"

John drew a deep breath again.

"I--can't well tell you."

Then the heads of the firm came in, indignant at their misused trust, and they scorned his story. The defalcations amounted to almost L50 in all, and he had confessed to L5, which had been found upon him. Of course, he and no other was the offender, and they must teach their employes a lesson. So John walked down that long shop by the side of the official, his head very erect, his face pale, and his knees shaking; all his life he would remember the glances of pity, curiosity, and disdain that met him on every side. As he passed the silk counter, the little Duchess was measuring a great piece of rose-red, sheeny satin, that gleamed warm and beautiful beneath her hands. She was very white, and in her eyes was a look of abject horror and entreaty; his eyes reassured her, and he passed on and out of the door. All his life he would remember that rose-red satin and its brilliant, glancing lights.

After the trial everyone thought him fortunate to get only two years, and the little Duchess, who had grown thin and old-looking in the interval, breathed freely as she read the account in the papers, and saw that her name was not even mentioned in connection with the matter. He wrote to her a loving, boyish letter, and told her she must be true to him till he came out, and that then they would be married and go away where this could never be heard of.

It was no small thing he had done for her, he knew; and, as he was not more than human, he expected his reward. And the little Duchess had cried quietly over the letter, and for several days cut off silk and satin with a pensive, unhappy look that quite touched her customers--those few among them who realised that it was human flesh and blood at the other side of the yard measure.

* * * * *

Twenty months later the little Duchess was at the same counter measuring silk and satin for the stock-taking, when a note was brought to her in a writing she remembered too well.

"I got out to-day, Nellie. Come down to the Gardens in the lunch-time."

She hesitated when the time came, but he might come to the shop, and that would never do. So she put her hat on thoughtfully and set out for the Gardens.

He was awaiting her on the seat where, nearly two years ago, the gardener had smiled at them. He stood up as she came slowly towards him, and for a minute they gazed at each other without speaking.

She was in black, of course, but fresh and dainty-looking, with a bunch of white chiffon at her throat, little tan shoes on her feet, and her hair showing golden against the black of her lace hat.

For him, his face had altered and hardened; the once thick, curling hair was horribly short, his hands were rough and unsightly, his clothes hung awkwardly upon him, and his linen was doubtful.

"The little Duchess!" he said, dully; then he put out his hand, took her small gloved one, and looked at it curiously.

"I--I am glad you're out," she said, carefully looking away from him.

"Yes--we must be married now, Nellie; that's all I've had to think about all this awful time."

His face flushed a little and his eyes lightened.

"It's good not to see the walls," he added, looking round at the spring's brave show, then away to the blue sparkle in the bay and the glancing sails.

"We mustn't talk of that time, though, ever--eh, Nellie?"

"No," she said, regarding her brown shoes intently.

His eye noted the smooth roundness of her cheek, the delicate pink that came and went, the turn of the white neck.

"Aren't you going to kiss me, Nellie?" he said, slowly; and he drew her a little strangely and awkwardly to him.

Then she spoke.

"I knew it wouldn't be any use, and you'd never have any money or get a place after this. We couldn't be married on nothing, and it would only drag you down to have me, too. I'm not worthy of you."

"Well, little Duchess," he said, softly, as she stopped and faltered; a slow smile crept over his face, and his deep-set eyes lighted up with tenderness.

Not worthy, his little Duchess!

Then the crimson rushed into her face, and she flung up her head defiantly.

"I married the new shop-walker, four months ago!"

_AUSTRALIA'S SPRINGTIME._

'Tis a bright September morning, and Australia's golden Spring
Is awak'ning every flow'ret, and retouching every wing;
Everywhere the yellow blossoms of the wattle are in view--
Even has the solemn gum tree taken on a lighter hue;
And the earth is cover'd over with a vest of fresher green,
And the clear cool air adds brightness to the beauty of the scene.
Now the cockatoo's hoarse screaming, and the magpie's cheery call
Sound in chorus to the music of the plashy waterfall.
Overhead the deep, clear azure is just fleck'd with snowy clouds,
And the green and crimson parrots fly around in chatt'ring crowds;
Far away is all the bustle of the smoky, restless town,
And the timid kangaroo upon the grass lies fearless down;
Nature calmly lieth waiting, in her peaceful solitude,
For the dawning of the morning bright with hopes of future good:
Lies as she has lain for ages, by the white man's foot untrod,
Like a glorious new creation, freshly from the hand of God.

'Tis Australia's golden Springtime, and the vision, fresh and green,
Of the lonely, peaceful country, is a swiftly changing scene;
First a few white tents embosom'd 'mid the thickly growing trees,
And the sound of human labour floating on the passing breeze.
First a village--then a city--with an everswelling tide
Passing thro' its busy markets--stretching outwards far and wide;
And while the growing nation overspreads the smiling land,
Nature opens up her treasures with a free and lavish hand:
O'er the verdant fields are roaming flocks and herds of sheep and
kine--
Deep beneath the sunlit surface works the toiler in the mine--
Education and religion build their temples o'er the plain,
And the iron horse moves swiftly past broad fields of golden grain,
Where a plenteous harvest ripens to reward the toiler's care,
And each honest, willing worker may obtain a rightful share.
Blessed peace and glorious freedom banish far the warrior's sword--
Fancy seems to gaze enraptur'd on a Paradise restored!

'Tis the Springtime of Australia, and the dazzled eye may see
Wondrous dreams of future greatness--of the glories yet to be:
Visions--not of martial conquest--not of courage, blood and fire--
But of lands by noble actions growing greater, grander, higher!
Of the wond'ring nations turning--gazing with expectant eyes,
While oppress'd and toiling millions feel new hopes and thoughts
arise
In the march of human progress as Australia leads the van
To the world's great Federation, and the "parliament of Man!"
Such the triumphs--aye, and grander, that the coming days shall see
If Australia but be faithful to her glorious destiny;
With the smile of Heav'n upon her in the future, as the past,
Sweeping back the threat'ning war-clouds that her sky may overcast--
Like a stately white-wing'd vessel she shall keep her steadfast
way--
Peace, o'er all her wide dominions, ruling with unbroken sway;
And her progress be continued till the wings of Time are furled--
Her glorious page the brightest in the history of the world!

W. L. LUMLEY.

_THE MAN THAT SAVED THE MATCH._

BY DAVID M'KEE WRIGHT.

(_By kind permission of the Author._)

Our church ain't reckoned very big, but then the township's small--
I've seen the time when there was seats and elbow-room for all.
The women-fold would come, of course, but working chaps was rare;
They'd rather loaf about and smoke, and take the Sunday air.
But now there's hardly standing room, and you can fairly say
There ain't a man we like as well as quiet Parson Grey.

We blokes was great for cricket once, we'd held our own so long,
In all the townships round about our team was reckoned strong;
And them that didn't use to play could barrack pretty fair,
They liked the leather-hunting that they didn't have to share.
A team from town was coming up to teach us how to play--
We meant to show what we could do upon that Christmas Day.

The stumps were pitched at two o'clock, but Lawson's face was grim
(Lawson was Captain of the team, our crack we reckoned him),
For Albert Wilson hadn't come, the safest bat of all,
With no one there to take his place he counted on a fall.
"Who could we get? There's no one here it's worth our while to play
In place of Albert." At his side was standing Parson Grey.

"I used to wield the willow once," the Parson softly said;
"If you have no one for the tail, you might take me instead."
The Captain bit his fair moustache--he seemed inclined to swear;
But answered sulkily enough, "All right, sir; I don't care.
There's no one here is worth his salt with breaking balls to play."
"I'll try and do my best for you," said quiet Parson Grey.

"His best," Bill Lawson said to me, "what's that, I'd like to know?
To spoon an easy ball to point, and walk back sad and slow,
Miss every catch that comes to him and fumble every ball,
And lose his way about the field at every 'over' call.
The blooming team can go below after this Christmas Day;
I'm hanged if I'm to captain it when parsons start to play."

Bill won the toss, we went in first. I might as well say here
That I'm a weary kind of bat--to stick in for a year.
I can't hit out--it ain't no use; it saddens me to think
A bloke that bowled against us once has taken since to drink.
He couldn't get my wicket, and his balls came in that way
I batted through the innings without a run all day.

The fun began. By George! to think the way our stumps went down!
Our boys was made the laughing-stock for them swell-blokes from
town.
I kept my end up--that was all, Lawson was bowled first ball,
And six of them went strolling back without a run at all.
Nine wickets down for fourteen runs was all our score that day
When the last man came in to bat, and that was Parson Grey.

The bowler with the break from leg sent down a hardish ball,
I thought to see the parson squirm and hear the wicket fall;
It didn't happen, for he played a pretty forward stroke;
I knew that moment he could bat, that quiet preaching bloke.
And when a careless ball came down the boys began to roar,
He drove it hard along the ground--we took and run a four.

Then it was "over," and of course mine was a maiden one,
I broke the bowler's hearts that day for just a single run.
The Parson played a dashing game, his cuts were clean and fine;
I only wish that strokes like them could now and then be mine.
He had a fifty to his name in just an hour's play,
And then--well, then--I run him out, I own, that Christmas Day.

"By George," said Lawson, "who'd have thought that he could bat so
well!
I could have gone and drowned myself when Bryant's wicket fell;
But, man, he must have been a bat when he was at his best,
I'm glad that Wilson wasn't here, or any of the rest;
Now, if our chaps are on the spot, and bowl as well to-day,
We'll give them news to carry home how country clubs can play."

Our bowling always has been fair; we couldn't well complain;
We got a wicket now and then--they didn't fall like rain;
But runs were coming rather slow, and fifty was the score
When the ninth man was given out--an honest "leg before."
It was a single innings game, and plainly on the play
It seemed the glory would be ours upon that Christmas Day.

Last man! The bowling crack came in--of course he couldn't bat,
He could lash out and chance the stroke to show us what was what;
Our hopes were down to freezing-point, twelve runs were to his
score,
To win the match he only had to hit another four.
He swiped; we groaned to think that we were beaten after all;
The stroke was high--a splendid catch--_the Parson held the ball_.

Then how we yelled, and yelled again; he'd fairly won the match--
The splendid batting that he showed, the more than splendid catch;
Why, chaps, you'd hardly credit it, that almost every bloke
Goes into church on Sunday now, and does without his smoke;
And no one's likely to forget that sunny Christmas Day,
When we were all surprised a bit at quiet Parson Grey.

_ODE FOR COMMONWEALTH DAY_

_1st JANUARY, 1901._

Awake! Arise! The wings of dawn
Are beating at the gates of day,
The morning star hath been withdrawn,
The silver vapours melt away.
Rise royally, O sun, and crown
The shoreward billow, streaming white,
The forelands, and the mountains brown,
With crested light;
Flood with soft beams the valleys wide,
The mighty plains, the desert sand,
Till the New Day hath won for bride
This Austral land!
Free-born of nations, virgin white,
Not won by blood, nor ringed with steel.
Thy throne is on a loftier height,
Deep-rooted in the commonweal.
O thou, for whom the strong have wrought,
And poets sung with souls aflame,
Born of long hope and patient thought,
A mighty name--
We pledge thee faith that shall not swerve,
Our land, our lady, breathing high
The thought that makes it love to serve,
And life to die!

Now are thy maidens linked in love,
Who erst have striven for pride of place;
Lifted all meaner thoughts above
They greet thee, one in heart and race;
She, in whose sunlit coves of peace
The navies of the world may rest,
And bear her wealth of snowy fleece
Northward and west.
And she, whose corn and rock-hewn gold
Built that Queen City of the South,
Where the lone billow swept of old
Her harbour-mouth.

Come, too, thou Sun-maid, in whose veins
For ever burns the tropic fire
Whose cattle roam a thousand plains,
Come, with thy gold and pearls for tire;
And that sweet Harvester who twines
The tender vine and binds the sheaf;
And she, the Western Queen, who mines
The desert reef;
And thou, against whose flowery throne
And orchards green the wave is hurled;
Australia claims you; ye are one
Before the world.
Crown her--most worthy to be praised--
With eyes uplifted to the morn;
For, on this day, a flag is raised,
A triumph won, a nation born;
And ye, vast armies of the dead,
From mine and city, plain and sea,
Who fought and dared, who toiled and bled
That this might be,
Draw round us in this hour of fate--
This golden harvest of thy hand--
With unseen lips, O consecrate
And bless the land!

Eternal power, benign, supreme,
Who weigh'st the nations upon earth;
Without whose aid the empire-dream
And pride of states is nothing worth,
From shameless speech, and vengeful deed,
From licence veiled in Freedom's name,
From greed of gold, and scorn of creed,
Guard Thou our fame!
In stress of days that yet may be,
When hope shall rest upon the sword,
In welfare and adversity,
Be with us, Lord!

GEORGE ESSEX EVANS.

_A DESPERATE ASSAULT._

I have more than once had reason to admire the British soldier in battle, but never was there such good ground for admiration as in watching him prepare. All the blare and tumult, the death and disaster of actual conflict have no such tense, dramatic, nerve-trying moments as when a regiment is making ready for some great enterprise. The fight is a medley of mixed impressions, jostling each other for a moment's existence ere passing away, but the getting ready is unforgetable. Everything is clear-cut and within the sum of human emotions--eternal. So it was with that last grand charge of the Devons, which swept the Boers from their fringe of the little plateau and finished the long seventeen hours' ordeal. The enemy were on one side of the Table, we on the other. A tropical hailstorm howled across it, and beat heavily in our faces, as Colonel Park led his men up the sheltered face of the hill, and halted a moment within five yards of the crest, to make ready. The men knew exactly what they had to do, and the solemnity of a great and tragic undertaking was upon and about them. All the world for them--the too brief past with its consequences, the fast-flying present, and the mysterious beyond--might concentrate in a short desperate dash across a storm-swept African hilltop. It was the sublimity of life--the anticipation of death. The Devons were making ready for it, and how unready a man might feel at such a moment! The line of brown riflemen stretched away to the left of us, and it seemed that every trivial action of every man there had become an epic. One noticed most of all the constant moistening of the dry lips, and the frequent raising of the water-bottles for a last hurried mouthful. One man tightened a belt, another brought his cartridges handier to his right hand, though he was not to use them. It was something to ease the strain of watching. Every little thing fixed itself on the mind as a photograph. There was no need of mental effort to remember. One could not see and forget, and would not, for his patriotism and his pride of kinship, forget if he could. Then the low clinking, quivering sound of the steel which died away from us in a trickle down the ranks as the bayonets were fixed--and a dry, harsh, artificial laugh, in strong contrast to the quiet of the scene--everything heard easily somehow above the rush and clatter of the storm, and lost only for an instant in the sudden bursts of thunder. A bit of quiet tragedy wedged into the turmoil of the great play, and all unspeakably solemn and awe-inspiring. One must see to understand it. One may have seen yet can never describe it. The situation was not for ordinary language; it was Homeric, over-mastering.

"Now, then, Devons, get ready." There was a dry catch in the colonel's voice as he gave the word--and the short sentence was punctuated by the zip-zip of the Mauser bullets, that for a few precious seconds would still be flying overhead. There was a quick panting of the breath, a stiffening of the lines of the faces, that with so many of them was but the prelude to the rigidity of death. It was waiting for them only a few yards up, and their manhood was being sorely tried. But the Devons squared their shoulders, gripped their rifles--bringing them up with the quick whip of the drill, that was too well ground into them to be forgotten even then. A prompt dressing by the left, and, as though eager to get it over, the Devons sprang forward to the word into the double storm of hail and nickel-plated bullets. The killing suspense was over--they were in action at last, one's whole heart went with them, and just for one moment, as they stood fully exposed upon the plateau, it seemed to the watchers that there might be disaster. They had slightly miscalculated the enemy's strongest point, and had to wheel by the left. As they did so the line faltered for a moment. A shiver, a pendulum-like swaying seemed to run down it; that was the history-making moment, when the regiment might either do something that ever afterwards they would try to forget, or that all their countrymen would be proud to remember--the moment in men's lives which, measured by emotion only, stretch out into centuries. It was the moment of a life, too, for the commander of men. His chance had come.

"Steady, Devons, steady," came the clear ringing call, and then, with one great surging rush, that gathered momentum even as it lost in fallen units, the regiment went on.

Boldly though they had taken and held that hill, prudence came to the Boer riflemen as these eager bayonets bore down upon them. For a moment they shot the Devons through and through, and then they ran. At that moment not a man amongst our common-place, drinking, swearing Tommies but was exalted, deified--but so many of them were something less of interest on earth than even a common soldier. Where the regiment had gone seventy of its dead and wounded littered the hilltop, but still it was the moment of victory, not of lamentations. It may sound strange to say that the prelude to a battle, like the preface to a book, can be greater than the actual battle or the book. But so it seemed to me. Others might view it differently, but challenge our impressions as we may in the light of riper history, we shall never alter them. They are indelible. Overhaul the plates again and again as we please, it will always be the same picture.

DONALD MACDONALD ("How we Kept the Flag Flying").

_THE GAME OF LIFE._

There's a game much in fashion--I think it's called _Euchre_
(Though I never have played for pleasure or lucre),
In which, when the cards are in certain conditions,
The players appear to have changed their positions,
And one of them cries in a confident tone,
"I think I may venture to 'go it alone!'"

While watching the game, 'tis a whim of the bard's
A moral to draw from that skirmish of cards,
And to fancy he finds in the trivial strife
Some excellent hints for the battle of Life;
Where--whether the prize be a ribbon or throne--
The winner is he who can "go it alone!"

When great Galileo proclaimed that the world
In a regular orbit was ceaselessly whirled,
And got--not a convert--for all of his pains,
But only derision and prison and chains,
"It moves, _for all that!_" was his answering tone,
For he knew, like the earth, he could "go it alone!"
When Kepler, with intellect piercing afar,
Discovered the laws of each planet and star,
And doctors, who ought to have lauded his name,
Derided his learning and blackened his fame,
"I can wait," he replied, "till the truth you shall own;"
For he felt in his heart he could "go it alone!"

Alas! for the player who idly depends,
In the struggle of life, upon kindred or friends;
Whatever the value of blessings like these,
They can never atone for inglorious ease,
Nor comfort the coward who finds, with a groan,
That his clutches have left him to "go it alone!"

There's something, no doubt, in the hand you may hold:
Wealth, family, culture, wit, beauty and gold,
The fortunate owner may fairly regard
As, each in its way, a most excellent card;
Yet the game may be lost, with all these for your own,
Unless you've the courage to "go it alone!"

In battle or business, whatever the game,
In law or love, it is ever the same;
In the struggle for power, or the scramble for pelf,
Let this be your motto, "RELY ON YOURSELF!"
For, whether the prize be a ribbon or throne,
The victor is he who can "go it alone!"

JOHN G. SAXE.

_PREJUDICE._

I was climbing up a mountain path,
With many things to do,
Important business of my own,
And other people's too,
When I ran against a Prejudice
That quite cut off the view.

My work was such as could not wait,
My path quite clearly showed;
My strength and time were limited;
I carried quite a load,
And there that bulking Prejudice
Sat all along the road.

So I spoke to him politely,
For he was huge and high,
And begged that he would move a bit,
And let me travel by--
He smiled, but as for moving--
He didn't even try.

And then I reasoned quietly
With that colossal mule;
The time was short, no other path,
The mountain winds were cool--
I argued like a Solomon,
He sat there like a fool.

Then I flew into a passion,
I danced and howled and swore;
I pelted and belaboured him
Till I was stiff and sore;
He got as mad as I did--
But he sat there as before.

And then I begged him on my knees--
I might be kneeling still,
If so I hoped to move that mass
Of obdurate ill-will--
As well invite the monument
To vacate Bunker's Hill!

So I sat before him helpless,
In an ecstasy of woe--
The mountain mists were rising fast,
The sun was sinking slow--
When a sudden inspiration came,
As sudden winds do blow.

I took my hat, I took my stick,
My load I settled fair,
I approached that awful incubus,
With an absent-minded air--
And I walked directly through him,
As if he wasn't there!

CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON.

_THE POOR AND THE RICH._

The rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick and stone and gold,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits cares.
The bank may break, the factory burn,
Some breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft white hands would scarcely earn
A living that would suit his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit,
King of two hands he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit,
Content that from enjoyment springs,
A heart that in his labour sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned by being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it;
A fellow feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

Oh! rich man's son, there is a toil
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,
But only whitens, soft white hands;
This is the best crop from thy lands;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.
Oh! poor man's son, scorn not thy state,
There is worse weariness than thine--
In being merely rich and great;
Work only makes the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last--
Both, children of the same dear God.
Prove title to your heirship vast,
By record of a well-filled past!
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

_THE ENGINEER'S STORY._

(_From the "Denver Post."_)