THE BOY WHO RODE INTO THE SUNSET

Once upon a time--it was not so very long ago, either--a little boy,
named Neville, lived with his people in a house which was almost in
the country. That is to say, it was just at the edge of the city; and
at the back of the house was a rather large hill, which was quite
bald.

Neville, who was fond of playing by himself, would often wander to the
top of the bald hill; and if he stood right on top of it and looked
one way, toward the East, he could see right over the city, with all
its tall buildings and domes and spires and smoking chimneys. But
looking the other way, to the West, he could see for miles over the
beautiful country, with its green fields and orchards and white roads
and little farm houses.

One evening Neville was playing alone on the top of the hill when he
noticed that one of the very finest sunsets he had ever seen was just
coming on. The sky in the West, away over the broad country lands, was
filled with little clouds of all sorts and shapes, and they were just
beginning to take on the most wonderful colours.

Neville had often before amused himself with watching clouds and the
strange shapes into which they changed themselves--sometimes like
great mountain ranges, sometimes like sea-waves, and very often like
elephants and lions and seals and all manner of interesting things of
that sort. But never before had he been able to make out so many
animal shapes in the clouds. The sky was almost as good as a Zoo.
There were kangaroos and elephants and a hen with chickens and
wallabies and rabbits and a funny man with large ears and all sorts of
other peculiar shapes.

The sun was sinking behind a distant range of hills, where a golden
light shone out as if through a gateway. It was so much like a great
golden gateway that Neville fell to wondering what might be found on
the other side of it.

Suddenly, right in the middle of all the coloured clouds, he saw one
little cloud which was perfectly white, and, as he watched it, he
noticed that it seemed to be shaped like a small horse. A very small
horse it seemed at that distance; but, as Neville gazed, it grew
bigger and bigger, just as if it were coming toward him very fast, and
he was almost certain he could see its legs moving.

That startled him a little, and so he rubbed his eyes to make sure
that they were not playing him tricks.

When he looked again he was more startled than ever; for the little
white cloud was no longer a cloud, but a little white horse in real
earnest. Besides, it had just left the sky and was galloping down the
mountain range which he could see away in the West.

In two minutes it had left the range, and was coming across the fields
towards him, jumping the fences, dodging under the trees, and racing
across the plain with its white mane and tail tossing as it came. It
seemed to be making straight for him.

He was not really frightened--you must not think that about him--but
he was just beginning to wonder if it were not nearly time to go home
to dinner, when he noticed that the white horse had stopped, just at
the foot of the bald hill. It was looking up at him, tossing its head
and pawing the ground--the most beautiful white horse that he had ever
seen, even in a circus. Then it appeared to get over its excitement
and began to trot quietly up the hill toward him.

I do not think anyone would have blamed Neville if he had decided then
to go home to dinner at once. But he was rather a brave boy, and he
was certainly very curious, so he just stood still and waited.

And here is where the most wonderful part of the story begins. The
white horse trotted up to Neville and spoke to him. That would
surprise most people; and Neville was certainly as much surprised as
anyone else would have been.

"What are you frightened of?" asked the white horse in a loud voice.

Now, Neville WAS just a little frightened by this time; but he was not
going to show it, so he just said, "Who's frightened?"

"YOU'RE frightened," said the white horse, louder than ever. "You're
only a timid little boy. I thought when I saw you in the distance that
you were one of the plucky ones; but I was mistaken. You're just a
little cowardly-custard."

"You'd better be careful who you're talking to," said Neville,
suddenly losing his fear. (Little boys do not always talk good
grammar; otherwise he would have said "whom" not "who.") He hated to
be called a "cowardly-custard." "You'd better be careful, or I'll give
you a bang!"

"Ah ha!" cried the white horse. "Very brave all at once, aren't you?
All the same, you're afraid to come near and stroke me."

"But I don't want to stroke you," said Neville.

"I thought not," replied the white horse. "I thought not, the moment I
got close to you. You're one of the frightened ones, and I've been
wasting my time."

"Who's frightened?" said Neville again.

"You asked that before," replied the white horse, "and I told you. If
you're not frightened, come along and stroke me. There's nothing to be
afraid of."

So Neville walked right up to the white horse and stroked his
shoulder. And at once he felt that he had been foolish to hold back.
For of all the smooth, soft, silky coats he had ever stroked, that of
the white horse was certainly the smoothest, and the softest, and the
silkiest. He felt that he could go on stroking it for hours.

"There now," said the white horse in a voice as soft and silky as his
coat. "There was nothing to be afraid of, was there? And I think that
perhaps I was mistaken about you. I rather think you might be one of
those daring boys that one reads about in stories. What about jumping
on my back for a little ride?"

Neville ceased to stroke the white horse and drew back a little.

"I'm afraid they'll be expecting me home for dinner," he said. "I'm
very pleased indeed to have met you." Neville was always a polite
little boy.

"The very thing!" cried the white horse. "Jump on my back and I'll
take you home. You liked stroking me, didn't you? Well that's nothing
to the ride you will enjoy--simply nothing. Why, all the boldest
riders in the world would give their ears just for one little ride on
my back. Now then! One, two, three, and up you go!"

Then before Neville quite knew what he was doing, he made a little run
and leapt up astride of the white horse.

"I live just over there," said Neville, pointing towards his home.

But before he could say "knife", or even "scissors" (supposing he had
wished to say either of these words), the white horse laughed a nasty
hollow laugh, sprang upwards from the ground, and was soaring through
the air toward the dying sunset, right away from home and dinner.

Neville clung on tightly, for he was so high above the earth that to
fall off would mean the end of him. And far beneath him he saw the
green fields and the white road, which now seemed like a mere thread.

"That's not fair! Whoa back! Whoa back!" he shouted to the white
horse; but the white horse made no reply. Indeed, he seemed suddenly
not so much like a white horse as like a white cloud shaped like a
horse, and Neville saw that he no longer sat upon the horse's silky
coat, but upon something soft and downy like a white fleece, and it
was slightly damp. Then he knew that he was riding upon a cloud; and,
as it was quite absurd to go on talking to a cloud, he ceased to cry
out. He just sat tight and wondered what would happen next.

He was high over a farm-house now: one that he used to see from the
bald hill. He knew it by the tall pine-trees that grew round it; and
down in the farm-yard he saw a man with a bucket going out to feed the
calves. Neville called loudly to him, but the man did not even look
up. Now he was far beyond that farm-house and above an orchard, where
he saw the fruit-trees standing in straight rows; and a few seconds
later the mountain range was beneath him, and Neville knew that the
cloud that looked like a horse was making straight for the golden
gateway, which was now glowing dully in a grey sky. He was riding into
the sunset.

Swiftly as the wind that drove it, the Cloud Horse drifted over the
mountain range. There was a sudden glow of golden light all about him,
and then a flash of colour so wonderful that Neville could not bear to
look. He closed his eyes, and, as he did so, he felt that the Cloud
Horse had come to a halt at last.

So Neville sat upon the cloud, not daring to open his eyes for quite a
long time. When at last he did look again he almost fainted with the
wonder of it. He was inside the sunset.

But scarcely had he begun to enjoy the wonderful sight, when he was
startled by the sound of a funny, shrill little voice close by his
side. Looking down, he saw a strange little man, no taller than a
walking-stick, and dressed from top to toe in golden-yellow clothes.
"My stars!" said the wee yellow man. "How did YOU manage to get in
here? Don't you know this is private?"

"I'm very sorry," said Neville, "but I couldn't help it. The Cloud
Horse brought me, you know."

"Ah!" said the wee yellow man. "He tricked you, did he? He's much too
playful, that Cloud Horse; and, I must say, he's put you in a pretty
fix."

"Excuse me," said Neville, "but do you mind telling me who you are?"

"I?" cried the little yellow man. "Why, I'm the Last Sunbeam, of
course. I thought you knew that. My job, you know, is to shut up the
show when the sunset is over. And it's pretty hard work, I can tell
you, because I've got to keep on doing it all round the earth every
few minutes or so. And it gets very tiresome at times. Would you
believe it? I've never seen a dawn or a bright mid-day in all my
life--just sunsets all the time. Sunsets for breakfast, sunsets for
dinner, sunsets for supper. And if I make the tiniest little slip, the
head scene-shifter is down on me like a ton of bricks."

"Goodness me!" said Neville. "I didn't know you had scene-shifters
here." Neville had been to see pantomimes, and therefore knew what a
scene-shifter was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A few minutes!" gasped Neville.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE TRAM-MAN

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





THE AXE-MAN

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DROVERS

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

THE LONG ROAD HOME

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BAND

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

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

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

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





BESSIE AND THE BUNYIP

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





GOOD ENOUGH

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

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

THE PORTER

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





GROWING UP

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





THE UNSOCIABLE WALLABY

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




* * *

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

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

* * *





THE SONG OF THE SULKY STOCKMAN

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

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

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

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

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





OUR COW

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

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

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

THE TEACHER

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





THE SPOTTED HEIFERS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TEA TALK

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





THE LOOKING-GLASS

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

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





WOOLLOOMOOLOO

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




* * *

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

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

* * *

THE BARBER

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

FARMER JACK

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

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

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

OLD BLACK JACKO

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

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





BIRD SONG

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

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

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

THE SAILOR

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

THE FAMINE

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

THE FEAST

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

UPON THE ROAD TO ROCKABOUT

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

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

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

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





A CHANGE OF AIR

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

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





POLLY DIBBS

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

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

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

* * *



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

* * *





LULLABY

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

* * *




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

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

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

* * *





THE PUBLISHER

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

GOOD NIGHT

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

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

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