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 Leaving the slope of O’Connor’s Hill, They merrily scattered the drops of dew In the spanning of many a tiny rill Whose bubbling waters were hid from view: In quick-beat time to the curlew’s wail Rode Kitty McCrae, with the Greytown mail.

Sidling the Range by a narrow path Where towering mountain-ash trees grow, And a slip meant more than an icy bath In the tumbling waters that foamed below; Through the white fog filling each silent vale Rode Kitty McCrae with the Greytown mail.

The forest shadows became less dense: They fairly flew down the river fall: When out from the shade of an old brush-fence Stepped three armed men with a sudden call. Sharp and stern came the well-known hail: ‘Stand! for we want the Greytown mail!’

Postboy swerved with a mighty bound As an outlaw clung to his bridle rein: A hoof-stroke flattened him to the ground With a curse that was half a cry of pain; While Kitty, trembling and rather pale, Rode for life and the Greytown mail.

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 To save the bags was her only thought As she bent to the whistle of angry lead That followed the flash and the sharp report; But, ‘Oh, you cowards!’ was all she said. Fast through the storm of leaden hail Kitty rode on with the Greytown mail.

Safe? Ah, no! for a tiny stream On Postboy’s coat left its crimson mark. She still rode on; but ’twas in a dream, Through lands where shadows fell drear and dark: Like a wounded sea-bird before the gale Fled Kitty McCrae with the Greytown mail.

And ever the crimson life-stream drips— For every hoof-stroke a drop of blood— From feeble fingers the bridle slips As down the Warrigal Flat they scud; And just where the Redbank workings lie She reels and falls with a feeble cry.

The old horse slackened his racing pace When he found the saddle his only load, And laid his nose to the pretty face White upturned in the dusty road; Like a gathered rose in the heat of day, So drooped and faded Kitty McCrae.

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 Did Postboy stay by the dead girl’s side? Not he! relieved of her feather-weight, He woke the echoes with measured stride, Galloping up to the postal gate— Blood, dust, and sweat from head to tail, A riderless horse with the Greytown mail!

And now a river-oak, drooping, weeps In ceaseless sorrow above the grave Down on the flat where Kitty sleeps, Hushed by the river’s lapping wave— That ever tells to the trees the tale Of how she rode with the Greytown mail.

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Hear the loud swell of it, mighty pell-mell of it! Thousands of voices all blent into one: See ‘hell for leather’ now trooping together, now Down the long slope of the range at a run! Dust in the wake of ’em: see the wild break of ’em! Spear-horned and curly, red, spotted and starred: See the lads bringing ’em, blocking ’em, ringing ’em, Fetching ’em up to the wings of the yard!

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 Mark that red leader now: what a fine bleeder now! Twelve hundred at least if he weighs half a pound! None go ahead of him. Mark the proud tread of him! See how he bellows and paws at the ground! Watch the mad rush of ’em! raging and crush of ’em! See when they struck how the corner-post jarred! What a mad chasing and wheeling and racing and Turbulent talk ’twixt the wings of the yard!

Harry and Teddy, there! let ’em go steady there! Some of you youngsters will surely get pinned. What am I saying? I’ve had my last day in The saddle: I might as well talk to the wind. Why should I grieve at all? soon I must leave it all— Leave it for ever; and yet it seems hard That I should be lingering here ’stead of fingering Handle of whip ’twixt the wings of the yard.

Hear the loud crack of the whips on the back of the Obstinate weaners who will not go in!— Sharp fusilade of it till, half afraid of it, Echo herself shuts her ears at the din. They’ll say when it’s over now that I’m in clover now— Happy old pensioner! yet it seems hard, E’en on the brink of the grave, when I think of the Times out of mind that I rode to that yard.

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 Hark to the row at the rails! there’s a cow at the Charge: how she laughs all their lashes to scorn! Mark how she ran ag’in little Tom Flanagan! Lucky for him that it wasn’t her horn: He’d make no joke of it had he a poke of it. There she comes back! but he’s put on his guard: Greenhide descending now, sharp reports blending now, Flogging her back up the wings of the yard.

The breeze brings their bellowing, soft’ning it, mellowing, Till it sounds like a spent giant in pain— Steals up the valley on, sounding a rally on Sonorous hills that return it again. Useless my whining now! useless repining now! ’Twon’t make me any less battered and scarred: Though I’ve grown grey at it—oh, for a day at it! Oh, for an hour ’twixt the wings of the yard!

Oh, how I yearn for those times! how I burn for those Days when my weapons, the whip and the spur, The double-reined bridle, were not hanging idle! . . . But I’m old, and as useless as Stumpy—that cur: No good for heeling now, he has a feeling now Not unlike mine—that it’s woefully hard We should be lying here, groaning and sighing here, Watching the cattle come up to the yard.

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 Life has no salt in it. See how I halt in it!— I, who once rode with the first of the flight— Watching and waiting now, feebly debating now Whether the close will bring darkness or light; Half my time pondering, back through life wandering, Groaning to see how that life has been marred— Seeing the blots in it, all the bad spots in it, Mustering, bringing past sins to the yard.

Shall I be able to show a clean waybill to God, when he rounds up and drafts off his own— When, at the mustering, millions of clustering Souls come to judgement before the white throne? Is the Lord’s hand on me? Have I his brand on me? When I go up will the passage be barred? Am I a chosen one? must the gates close on one? Shall I be left ’twixt the wings of his yard?

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I’ve a kiss from a warmer lover Than maiden of earth can be: She blew it up to the skies above her, And now it has come to me: From the far-away it has come to-day With a breath of the old salt sea.

She lay and laughed on a lazy billow, Far away on the deep, Who had gathered the froth for my lady’s pillow— Gathered a sparkling heap; And the ocean’s cry was the lullaby That cradled my love to sleep.

Far away on the blue Pacific There doth my lady roam, That is oft-times gay, but as oft terrific: Her jewels are beads of foam: In a coral cave, where a blue-green wave Keeps guard, is my lady’s home.

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 She claps her hands, and her henchman hurries West on the sunset sheen: ’Tis he who comes when a mist-wrack scurries, Skirting the deep ravine; And my heart is stirred by the loving word He carries me from my queen.

A drop distilled from a lotos flower— That is the magic key To unlock the cage, and my soul has power To gather itself and flee, At my love’s behest, where she waits her guest In a palace beneath the sea.

Joy is ours that is almost anguish: Pain that is almost sweet: We kiss; and the ocean creatures languish Jealously at our feet: The sight grows dim, and the senses swim When I and my lady greet.

There to dream, while the soul is swooning Under a woven spell— Hushed to sleep by her tender crooning Learnt from the ocean swell— There to rest on her jewelled breast, To love and be loved as well!

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Our Skeeta was married! our Skeeta! the tomboy and pet of the place— No more as a maiden we’d greet her; no more would her pert little face Light up the chill gloom of the parlour; no more would her deft little hands Serve drinks to the travel-stained caller on his way to more southerly lands: No more would she chaff the rough drovers and send them away with a smile; No more would she madden her lovers demurely, with womanish guile— The ‘prince’ from the great Never Never, with light touch of lips and of hand Had come, and enslaved her for ever—a potentate bearded and tanned From the land where the white mirage dances its dance of death over the plains, With the glow of the sun in his glances, the lust of the West in his veins;

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 His talk of wild cattle and rushes—a curious slang on his lips— Of narrow escapes and of brushes with niggers on perilous trips; A supple-thewed, desert-bred rover, with naught to commend him but this: That he was her idol, her lover, who’d fettered her heart with a kiss.

They were wed—and he took her to Warren, where she in her love was content; But town-life to him was too foreign, so back to the droving he went: A man away down on the border of Vic. bought some cattle from Cobb, And gave Harry Parker the order to go to the Gulf for the mob: And he went, for he held her love cheaper than his wish to re-live the old life— Or his reason might yet have been deeper—I called it deserting his wife!

Then one morning his horses were mustered; the start on the journey was made;— A clatter, an oath through the dust heard, was the last of the long cavalcade. As we stood by the stockyard assembled—poor child! how she strove to be brave! But yet I could see how she trembled at the careless farewell that he gave.

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 We brought her back home on the morrow; but none of us ever may learn Of the fight that she fought to keep sorrow at bay till her husband’s return. Her girlhood had gone, and in going had left her in bitterness steeped: How gladsome and gay was the sowing! how bitter the crop that she reaped! Her girlhood had gone, and had left her a woman in all but in years— Of laughter and joy had bereft her, and brought in their place nought but tears.

Yet still, as the months passed, a treasure was brought her by Love, ere he fled; And garments of infantile measure she fashioned with needle and thread: She fashioned with linen and laces and ribbons a nest for her bird, While colour returned to her face as the bud of maternity stirred. It blossomed and died: we arrayed it in all its soft splendour of white, And sorrowing took it and laid it in the earth whence it sprung, out of sight: She wept not at all—only whitened—as Death, in his pitiless quest, Leant over her pillow and tightened the throat of the child at her breast.

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 She wept not: her soul was too tired; for waiting is harrowing work; And then I bethought me and wired away to the agents in Bourke. ’Twas little enough I could glean there; ‘twas little enough that they knew: They answered he hadn’t been seen there, but might in a week—perchance two.

She wept not at all—only whitened with staring too long at the night: There was only one time when she brightened—that time when red dust hove in sight, And settled and hung on the backs of the cattle, and altered their spots, While the horses swept up, with their packs of blue blankets and jingling pint-pots. She always was set upon meeting those boisterous cattle-men, lest Her husband had sent her a greeting by one of them, in from the West. Not one of them ever owned to him, or seemed to remember the name: (The truth was they all of them knew him, but wouldn’t tell her of his shame) But never, though long time she waited, did her faith in the faithless grow weak; And each time the outer door grated an eager flush sprang to her cheek:

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 ’Twasn’t him, and it died with a flicker; and then what I’d long dreaded came: I was serving two drovers with liquor when one of them mentioned his name. ‘Oh, yes!’ said the other one, winking, ‘on the Paroo I saw him: he’d been In Eulo a fortnight then, drinking, and driving about with “The Queen,” While the bullocks were going to glory, and his billet was not worth a damn!’ I told him to cut short the story, as I pulled-to the door with a slam. Too late! for the words were loud-spoken, and Skeeta was out in the hall: Then I knew that a girl’s heart was broken, as I heard a low cry and a fall.

And then came a day when the doctor went home, for the truth was avowed; And I knew that my hands, which had rocked her in childhood, would fashion her shroud: I knew we should tenderly carry and lay her where many more lie— Ah, why will the girls love and marry, when men are not worthy?—ah, why? She lay there a-dying, our Skeeta: not e’en did she stir at my kiss: In the next world, perchance, we may greet her; but never, ah, never, in this!

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 Like the last breath of air in a gully, that sighs as the sun slowly dips, To the knell of a heart beating dully her soul struggled out on her lips; But she lifted great eyelids and pallid, while once more beneath them there glowed The fire of old Love, as she rallied at sound of hoofs out on the road. They rang sharp and clear on the metal: they ceased at the gate in the lane: A pause!—and we heard the beats settle in long, swinging cadence again. With a rattle, a rush, and a clatter the rider came down by the store, And neared us; but what did it matter? he never pulled rein at the door; But over the brow of the hill he sped on with a low muffled roll— ’Twas only young Smith on his filly: he passed—and so too did her soul.

Weeks after, I went down one morning to trim the white rose that had grown And clasped, with its tender adorning, the plain little cross of white stone. In the lane dusty drovers were wheeling dull cattle, with turbulent sound; But I paused as I saw a man kneeling, with his forehead pressed low on the mound.

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 Already he’d heard me approaching; and slowly I saw him up-rise And move away, sullenly slouching his cabbage-tree over his eyes. I never said anything to him as he mounted his horse at the gate: He didn’t know me; but I knew him—the husband who came back too late!

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I love the ancient boundary-fence— That mouldering chock-and-log: When I go ride the boundary I let the old horse jog, And take his pleasure in and out Where sandalwood grows dense, And tender pines clasp hands across The log that tops the fence.

’Tis pleasant on the boundary-fence These sultry summer days; A mile away, outside the scrub, The plain is all ablaze. The sheep are panting on the camps— The heat is so intense; But here the shade is cool and sweet Along the boundary-fence.

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 "Dear me," said the man, "I declare it looks impossible: we can't do it."

"Try" observed Dodge dryly, "Dodge's is a most difficult station to get at, I can tell you. Come on," he said, as he pushed his way into the scrub, "follow me." The bailiff stumbled after Dodge, tearing his clothes and flesh at every step.

"Look out for the snakes," said Dodge, after they had been in the scrub some time, "the place swarms with 'em, and such monsters too, nine and ten feet long, and as deadly as death's own darts."

"Let us go back," said the bailiff, alarmed.

"Oh no," replied Dodge, "never say die; besides, you are to be well paid too." This reminder somewhat rallied the sinking spirits of the poor bailiff, but in a short time he evinced unquestionable signs of exhaustion. "The wild blacks have a strange partiality for this scrub," continued Dodge; "every now and then they make away with a stock-keeper for me. The last poor fellow they caught of mine was a sad case. They roasted him alive, and scraped his flesh from his bones with oyster-shells. There's fine oyster-beds in the bay," continued Dodge, carelessly.—"Are you fond of oysters?" The bailiff groaned, but made no audible reply. The scrub grew more dense. "You never fell in with bushrangers, did you? " inquired Dodge.

"No-o," stuttered the bailiff.

"This is a great place for 'em—it is supposed that their head quarters is somewhere in this scrub."

" No-o!! I won't go another step forward," said the now horror-stricken bailiff. " Let us go back." Dodge acquiesced.

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 I love to loaf along the fence: So does my collie dog: He often finds a spotted cat Hid in a hollow log. He’s very near as old as I And ought to have more sense— I’ve hammered him so many times Along the boundary-fence.

My mother says that boundary-fence Must surely be bewitched; The old man says that through that fence The neighbours are enriched; It’s always down, and through the gaps Our stock all get them hence— It takes me half my time to watch The doings of that fence.

But should you seek the reason You won’t travel very far: ’Tis hid a mile away among The murmuring belar: The Jones’s block joins on to ours, And so, in consequence, It’s part of Polly’s work to ride Their side the boundary-fence.

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Now the squatters and the cockies, Shearers, trainers, and their jockeys Had gathered them together for a meeting on the flat; They had mustered all their forces, Owners brought their fastest horses, Monaro-bred—I couldn’t give them greater praise than that.

’Twas a lovely day in Summer— What the blacksmith called a hummer— The swelling ears of wheat and oats had lost their tender green, And breezes made them shiver, Trending westward to the river— The river of the golden sands, the moaning Eucumbene.

If you cared to take the trouble You could watch the misty double, The shadow of the flying clouds that skimmed the Boogong’s brow,

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 Throwing light and shade incessant On the Bull Peaks’ ragged crescent, Upon whose gloomy forehead lay a patch of winter’s snow.

Idly watching for the starting Of the race that he had part in, Old Gaylad stood and champed his bit, his weight about nine stone; His owner stood beside him, Who was also going to ride him— A shearer from Gegederick, whose name was Ned Malone.

But Gaylad felt disgusted, For his joints were fairly rusted: He longed to feel the pressure of the jockey on his back;

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 And he felt that for a pin he’d Join his mates, who loudly whinnied For him to go and meet them at the post upon the track.

From among the waiting cattle Came the sound of childish prattle, And the wife brought up their babe to kiss his father for good luck. Said Malone: ‘When I am seated On old Gaylad, and am treated With fairish play, I’ll bet we never finish in the ruck.’

But the babe was not contented, Though his pinafore was scented With oranges and sticky from his lollies, for he cried— This gallant little laddy, As he toddled to his daddy, And raised his arms imploringly—‘Pease dad! div Babs a wide!’

Then the father, how he chuckled For the pride of it! and buckled The surcingle, and placed the babe astride the racing pad: He did it, though he oughtn’t; And by pure good luck he shortened The stirrups, and adjusted them to suit the tiny lad,

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 Who was seemingly delighted: Not a little bit affrighted, He sat and twined a chubby hand among the horse’s mane: His whip was in the other; But all suddenly the mother Shrieked, ‘Take him off!’ and then the field came thund’ring down the plain!

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 ’Twas the Handicap was coming, And the music of their drumming Beat dull upon the turf that in its summer coat was dressed: The racehorse reared and started; Then the flimsy bridle parted, And Gaylad, bearing featherweight, was striding with the rest!

That scene cannot be painted— How the poor young mother fainted! How the father drove his spurs into the nearest saddle-horse! What to do he had no notion; For you’d easier turn the ocean Than stop the Handicap that then was half-way round the course.

On the bookies at their yelling, On the cheap-jacks at their selling, On the crowd there fell a silence as the squadron passed the stand; Gayest colours flashing brightly, And the baby clinging tightly, A wisp of Gaylad’s mane still twisted in his little hand.

Not a thought had he of falling, Though his little legs were galling, And the wind blew out his curls behind him in a golden stream;

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 Thoughthe motion made him dizzy, Yet his baby brain was busy: For hadn’t he at length attained the substance of his dream?

He was now a jockey really! And he saw his duty clearly To do his best to win and justify his father’s pride; So he clicked his tongue to Gaylad, Whispering softly, ‘Get away, lad!’. . . The old horse cocked an ear and put six inches on his stride.

Then the jockeys who were tailing Saw a big bay horse come sailing Through the midst of them with nothing but a baby on his back; And this startling apparition Coolly took up its position With a view of making running on the inside of the track.

Oh, Gaylad was a beauty! For he knew and did his duty: Though his reins were flying loosely, strange to say, he never fell; But held himself together, For his weight was but a feather. Bob Murphy, when he saw him, murmured something like ‘Oh, hell!’

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 But Gaylad passed the filly; Passed Jack Costigan on Chili; Cut down the coward Wakatip and challenged Guelder Rose. . . Here it was he showed his cunning— Let the mare make all the running: They turned into the straight at stride for stride and nose for nose.

But Babs was just beginning To have fears about his winning: In fact, to tell the truth, my hero felt inclined to cry; For the Rose was still in blossom; And two lengths behind her Possum And gallant little Sterling, slow but sure, were drawing nigh.

Yes! Babsie’s heart was failing; For he felt old Gaylad ailing: Another fifty yards to go! . . . he felt his chance was gone. Could he do it? much he doubted: Then the crowd—oh, how they shouted! For Babs had never dropped his whip, and now he laid it on!

Down the straight the leaders thundered While the people cheered and wondered, For ne’er before had any seen the equal of that sight;

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 And never will they, maybe, See a flaxen-headed baby Flog racehorse to the winning-post with all his tiny might.

But Gaylad’s strength is waning— Gone, in fact, beyond regaining: Poor Babs is flogging hopelessly, as pale as any ghost: But he looks so brave and pretty That the Rose’s jock takes pity, And, pulling back a trifle, lets the baby pass the post.

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 What cheering and tin-kettling Had they after at the settling! And how they fought to see who’d hold the baby on his lap; As President Montgomery, With a brimming glass of Pommery, Proposed the health of Babs Malone, who’d won the Handicap.

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None ever knew his name— Honoured, or one of shame, Highborn or lowly; Only upon that tree Two letters, J and C, Carved by him, mark where he Lay dying slowly.

Why came he to the West? Had then the parent nest Grown so distasteful? What cause had he to shun Life, ere ’twas well begun? Was he that youngest son, Of substance wasteful?

Were Fate and he at war? Was it a penance, or Renunciation? Is it a glad release? Has he at length found peace, Now Death hath bid him cease Peregrination?

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 Hands white, without a blot, Told us that he was not One of ‘the vulgar.’ What can those cyphers be?— Two only, J and C, Carved in his agony Deep in the mulga.

Was there no woman’s face Whose sunny smile might chase Clouds from above him? No bosom white as snow? No lips to whisper low, ‘Why doth he seek to go? Do I not love him?’

Haunted by flashing charms— White bosoms, rounded arms, Lips of fair ladies— Striving to break some link: Was ’t that which made him sink, Dragged by the curse of drink Deeper than Hades?

Now, wind across the grave, Tuning a sultry stave, Drearily whistles; Stirring those branches where Two silent cyphers stare— Two letters of a prayer: God’s Son’s initials.

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‘It’s my shout this time, boys; so come along and breast the bar, And kindly mention what you’re going to take; I don’t feel extra thirsty, so I’ll sample that three-star’— Now, lad! come, look alive, for goodness sake!’

So spake he, as he raised the brimming glass towards the light; So spake Long Jack, the boldest mountaineer Who ever down from Nungar raced a brumby mob in flight, Or laid a stockwhip on a stubborn steer. From Jindabyne to Providence along the Eucumbene The kindest-hearted fellow to be found; And when he crossed the saddle not a horse was ever seen That could make Jack quit his hold to seek the ground. The women smiled with pleasure, the children laughed aloud, The very dogs came barking to his feet, While outside the Squatters’ Arms the men came forward in a crowd To welcome Jack when he rode up the street.

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 But though the boldest horseman who by midnight or by day E’er held a mob of cattle on a camp, There were squatters on Monaro who had yet been known to say That Jack was an unmitigated scamp. And true it is Jack Corrigan possessed a serious fault Which caused his gentle, blue-eyed wife much grief, And many were the bitter tears she mingled with the salt With which she cured their neighbours’ tend’rest beef. And often would she tearful take her smiling spouse to task— Who’d answer, as her pretty face he kissed, That a beast lost all identity when pickled in the cask, And a bullock more or less would ne’er be missed.

But now as Jack stood all prepared to toss his nobbler down, A softly-murmured whisper met his ear: ‘I just saw Trooper Fraser get a warrant up the town: He’s after you, old man: you’d better clear!’ Jack never thanked the donor of this excellent advice, As the glass fell through his fingers with a crash: With a bound across the footpath, he was mounted in a trice And speeding down the roadway like a flash, While Trooper William Fraser wore a very gloomy face, As he watched his prey go flying down the road;

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 But he settled in the saddle and prepared to give him chase, As Jack struck out a line for his abode.

On the road toward the Show Ground then there hung a big swing-gate: Jack’s filly cleared its bars in glorious style; But he held her well together, for he knew the trooper’s weight Would give him half a distance in each mile; For Jack rode twelve stone fully, while Bill Fraser rode but nine: Sweetbriar’s strength must surely soon be spent, Being grass-fed, while the trooper’s chestnut horse could always dine Off oats and barley to his heart’s content. And all aloud Jack cursed the day he’d ever killed a beast Or branded calf he couldn’t call his own, While the hoof-strokes on the road beat out a song that never ceased To echo in his ear with mocking tone.

‘Three years in gaol! in gaol three years!’ the jeering echoes sang: The granite boulders caught the wild refrain: ‘A broken life! a weeping wife!’ ’twas thus the rhythm rang; ‘And a baby boy you’ll never see again!’

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 He groaned; and then, to dull the sound, spoke loudly to the mare, And bade her never slacken in her speed: ‘For God’s sake take me home, lass, with a little time to spare! Five minutes, at the most, is all I need: Just time to catch old Dandy, where’s he’s munching second growth Of hay: just time to leap upon his back; And then the smartest trap who ever swore a lying oath Could never foot me down the River track.’

Sweetbriar pricked her ears, and shook a foam-flake from her bit As she heard his words, and doubtless caught their sense; And the rotten granite pebbles rattled round her as she lit On the homeward side the Rosedale bound’ry fence.

As they scrambled round by Locker’s Hill, Jack Corrigan looked round, And as he looked was filled with stern delight, For he saw the bald-faced chestnut struggling fiercely on the ground, Though the hill shut out the sequel from his sight. His triumph was but short, for, as he stemmed the wide morass,

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 Where floods had muddied waters once so clear And left the giant tussocks tangled tightly in a mass, The trooper still kept drawing on his rear.

The Murrumbidgee’s icy stream was widened out by flood: They swam it at the willow-shaded ford: As they passed the station buildings his long spurs were red with blood; Sweetbriar’s heaving flanks were deeply scored. Her stride grew more uneven, though she answered every call: No jockey rode a better race than Jack As he eased her up the hills and pressed her onward down the fall, Round the sidlings of the Billylingra track.

They left O’Rourke’s behind them, where it fronts the big bald hill— At the Flat Rock Jack was riding all he knew— With all the dash and judgment of the famed Monaro skill, Yet he couldn’t keep the trooper out of view: He spied his tiny homestead as Bill Fraser gained apace And loudly warned the fugitive to yield, Who turned half round but saw no sign of pity in his face As they swept across the cultivation field:

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 Their hoofs’ dull thunder brought the wife in wonder to the gate: She waved her hand in answer to his shout; While Dandy from his paddock whinnied loudly to his mate To know what all the trouble was about.

‘God help us now! the end has come!’ the wretched woman cried, And leant against the gate to catch her breath; While the tiny, blue-eyed toddler cheered his father on his ride Towards the ghastly winning-post of Death.

‘The filly’s failing fast!’ thought Jack; ‘she’s nothing but a weed; It’s a certainty she can’t keep long in front. I’ll make a splendid target, if he likes to draw a bead, As I try to cross the river on the punt.’

He left the mare and scrambled through the ti-tree growing rank, Deep-rooted in its bed of yellow clay; But when he reached the river, stood and trembled on the bank: ‘My God!’ he hoarsely said, ‘it’s swept away!’ The punt was gone: the wire rope still stretched from shore to shore: Jack paused but half a moment to decide,

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 And as he scrambled down the bank the wond’ring trooper saw Him struggling half across the rushing tide. The angry waters swept him down, and every nerve was strained To keep his hold upon the frail support: Though icy numbness seized him, yet his courage never waned: The hope of freedom filled his every thought.

The rope swayed low beneath his weight and bellied to the stream: Around his head the flying ripples curled; While high above the river’s roar rang out the awful scream Of a soul that flies in terror from the world, As a mighty log, borne swiftly on the bosom of the flood, Resistless swept him ’neath the eager wave That sucked him down to river depths; and there beneath the mud Jack Corrigan sought out a nameless grave.

‘Good-bye to life! good-bye to life!’ the mocking wavelets sang: The towering cliffs took up the wild refrain. ‘A broken life! a weeping wife!’ ‘twas thus the rhythm rang, ‘And a baby boy he’ll never see again!’

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Hark the sound of it; drawing nearer! Clink of hobble and brazen bell Mark the passage of stalwart shearer, Bidding Monaro soil farewell. Where is he making for? Down the River— Down the River with eager tread! Where is he making for? Down the River, Down the River to seek a shed.

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 Where is his dwelling on old Monaro?— Buckley’s Crossing, or Jindaboine? Dry Plain is it, or sweet Bolaro? P’r’aps ‘tis near where the rivers join. Where is he making for? Down the River! When, oh, when will he turn him back? Soft sighs follow him down the River: Moist eyes gaze at his fading track.

See! behind him the pack-horse, ambling, Bears the weight of his master’s kit— Oft and oft from the pathway rambling, Crops unhampered by cruel bit. Where is he making for, equine rover?— Sturdy nag from the Eucumbene, Tempted down by the thought of clover Springing luscious in Riverine.

Dreams of life and its future chances; Snatch of song to beguile the way— Through green crannies the sunlight glances, Silver-gilding the bright jack-shay. ‘So long, mate! I can stay no longer. So long, mate! I’ve no time to stop: Pens are waiting me at Mahonga, Bluegong, Grubben, and Pullitop.

‘What! you say that the River’s risen? What! that the melted snow has come? What! that it locks and bars our prison?— Many’s the mountain stream I’ve swum.

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 I must onward and cross the River: So long, mate! for I cannot stay; I must onward and cross the River— Over the River there lies my way!’

One man short when the roll they’re calling! One man short at old Bobby Rand’s! Heads are drooping and tears are falling Up on Monaro’s mountain lands. . . Where is he making for? Down the River, Down the river of slimy bed! Where is he making for? Down the River, Down the River that bears him—dead.

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the Rager half opened an eye To wink at the Army passing by, While his hot breath, thick with the taint of beer, Came forth from his lips in a drunken jeer. Brown and bearded and long of limb He lay, as the Army confronted him And, clad in grey, one and all did pray That his deadly sins might be washed away— But Kelly stubbornly answered ‘Nay.’ Then the captain left him in mild despair, But before the music took up its blare A pale-faced lassie stepped out and spoke— A little sad girl in a sad grey cloak— ‘Rise up, Kelly! your work’s to do: Kelly, the Saviour’s a-calling you!’ He strove to look wise; rubbed at his eyes; Looked down at the ground, looked up at the skies; And something that p’r’aps was his conscience stirred: He seemed perplexed as again he heard The girl with the garments of saddest hue Say, ‘Kelly, the Saviour’s a-calling you!’

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 with in his progress, as marks to guide him out of the dense scrub into which he had penetrated. His plot was now ripe for execution. Performing some eccentric movements, first proceeding for a short distance in one direction, and suddenly changing it for another, the bailiff was at length completely mystified as to the direction in which he had been travelling.

"Hist! did you hear nothing?" exclaimed Dodge.

"No-o: nothing. What?— Eh?" said the bailiff, and his face was livid with fear.

"There! There!! said Dodge, "don't you see the bushes shaking again?—'tis—the blacks!—the blacks!" he shouted, and in two or three bounds was out of sight.

"Don't leave me!—don't run away! Oh save me!—Save me!" shouted the miserable bailiff; "I shall be roasted and eaten alive—I shall," and he sunk upon the earth.

A savage yell now arose at his very feet.

"O good black fellows—most worthy bushrangers, oh spare me!—spare me!—I'm very old and tough, and shouldn't agree with you. I tell you so as a friend; so don't!—Oh don't!" Hearing a low chuckle close to him, he made several attempts to rise, but he was so entangled in the scrub that he could not do so.

Then there arose such a peal of laughter, so loud and so energetic, that the bailiff buried his face in the earth from very fear. When he lifted it again, the same sounds were ringing in his ears, but at a greater distance.

About an hour afterwards, a man emerged from the scrub dressed in the remains of a flannel shirt and canvass trousers, his face was red, his eyes protruding, and every now and then his cheeks, which at other times were like a shrivelled bladder, would swell out as if on the point of bursting. These alarming symptoms were partially relieved by such hearty laughter

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 He got on his knees and thence to his feet, And stumbled away down the dusty street; Contrived to cadge at the pub a drink, But still in his ear the glasses chink And jingle only the one refrain, Clear as the lassie’s voice again: ‘Kelly, Kelly, come here to me! Kelly the Rager, I’ve work for thee!’ He trembled, and dropped the tumbler, and slopped The beer on the counter: the barman stopped, With a curious eye on his haggard face. ‘Kelly, old fellow! you’re going the pace. Don’t you fancy it’s time to take A pull on yourself—put your foot on the brake? You’ll have the horrors, without a doubt, This time next week, if you don’t look out.’ But he didn’t—he sobered himself that night: ‘That time next week’ he was nearly right: Yet still at the mill, though he’d stopped the grog, As the saw bit into the green pine log, The wood shrieked out to him in its pain A fragment caught of the same refrain, As the swift teeth cut and the sawdust flew— ‘Kelly, Kelly, I’ve work for you!’

Then the seasons fell and the floods came down And laid the dust in the frightened town. No more the beat of hoofs and feet Was heard the length of the crooked street;

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 For, leaving counter and desk and till, All had fled to the far sandhill; But everywhere that a man might dare Risk life to save it—Kelly was there! No more the voice had a tale to tell: He’d found his work and he did it well. Who stripped leggings and hat and coat To swim the lagoon to reach the boat? Who pushed out in the dead of night At the mute appeal of a beacon-light? Who was blessed by the women then, And who was cheered by the stalwart men, As he shot the rapids above the town With two pale Smiths and a weeping Brown, Landing them safe from his cockle-shell, Woefully frightened, but safe and well, With their friends on the sandhill all secure? Who but Kelly, you may be sure!

They reckoned the heads up, one by one, And he sighed as he thought that the work was done; But soon found out that ’twas not begun. They counted away till it came to pass They missed the little Salvation lass: She’d been to pray with a man who lay Sick on the river-shore, far away. Men looked askance and the women smote Their hands in grief, as he launched the boat. He turned as he cast the painter loose: ‘Who’ll make another? It’s little use

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 My going alone; for I’m nearly done, And from here to the point is a stiffish run.’ Then one stepped forward and took an oar, And the boat shot out for the other shore. To and fro where the gums hang low And bar their passage, the comrades row; Hard up stream where the waters race; Steady, where floating branches lace; Through many a danger and sharp escape And catch of breath, as the timbers scrape And thrill to the touch of some river shape; Till at last the huts on the point draw near, And over their shoulders the boatmen peer.

The flood was running from door to door— Two-feet-six on the earthen floor; Half-way up to the bed it ran, Where two pale women and one sick man Crouched, and looked at the water’s rise With horror set in their staring eyes; While the children wept as the water crept. But how the blood to their hearts high leapt As over the threshold the rescuers stepped, And, wrapped in blanket and shawl and coat, Carried the saved to the crazy boat!

Then Kelly circled the little lass With his strong right arm, and as in a glass Saw himself in her eyes that shone Sweet in a face that was drawn and wan:

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 And he felt that for her life he’d give his own. Too short a moment her cheek was pressed Close to the beat of his spray-wet breast; While her hair just lay like a golden ray, The last farewell of a passing day. Gently he settled her down in the stern With a tender smile, and had time to turn To look to the others, and then he saw That the craft was full and could hold no more. He looked at the party—old, young, and sick— While he had no tie, neither wife nor chick.

Then with a shove he sent out the boat Far on the turbid stream afloat. ‘Pull!’ said Kelly; ‘now pull!’ said he; ‘Pull with your load and come back for me. You may be late, but at any rate I’m better able than you to wait.’ They pulled and, looking back, saw him stand Shading his eyes with his big, rough hand— Silent, patient, and smiling-faced, With the water curling around his waist.

Return they did, but they found him not: Nought but the chimney then marked the spot. They found him not when the boat went back— Never a trace of him, never a track; Only the sigh and the dreary cry Of the gums that had wept to see him die:

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 These alone had a tale to tell Of a life that had ended passing well— The sad refrain of a hero’s fate Tuned in a tongue we may not translate.

Facing Death with a stout, brave heart; Choosing the nobler and better part; Home to the land of eternal sun Kelly had gone—for his work was done.

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On Nungar the mists of the morning hung low; The beetle-browed hills brooded silent and black, Not yet warmed to life by the sun’s loving glow, As through the tall tussocks rode young Charlie Mac. What cared he for mists at the dawning of day? What cared he that over the valley stern Jack, The Monarch of Frost, held his pitiless sway? A bold mountaineer born and bred was young Mac— A galloping son of a galloping sire— Stiffest fence, roughest ground, never took him aback; With his father’s cool judgment, his dash, and his fire, The pick of Monaro rode young Charlie Mac. And the pick of the stable the mare he bestrode— Arab-grey, built to stay, lithe of limb, deep of chest; Who seemed to be happy to bear such a load As she tossed the soft forelock that curled on her crest. They crossed Nungar Creek where its span is but short;

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 At its head, where together spring two mountain rills, When a mob of wild horses made off with a snort— ‘By thunder!’ quoth Mac, ‘there’s the Lord of the Hills!’ Decoyed from her paddock, a Murray-bred mare Had fled to the hills with a warrigal band; A pretty bay foal had been born to her there, Whose veins held the very best blood in the land— ‘The Lord of the Hills,’ as the bold mountain men Whose courage and skill he was wont to defy Had named him: they yarded him once; but since then He held to the saying, ‘Once bitten, twice shy.’

The scrubber, thus suddenly roused from his lair, Made straight for the timber, with fear in his heart. As Charlie rose up in his stirrups, the mare Sprang forward—no need to tell Empress to start: She lay to the chase just as soon as she felt Her rider’s skilled touch, light, yet firm, on the rein.

Stride for stride, lengthened wide, for the green timber belt— The fastest half-mile ever done on the plain— They reached the low sallee before he could wheel The warrigal mob: up they dashed with a stir Of low branches and undergrowth—Charlie could feel His mare catch her breath on the side of the spur That steeply slopes up till it meets the bald cone.

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 ’Twas here on the range that the trouble began; For a slip on the sidling, a loose rolling stone, And the chase would be done; but the bay in the van And the little grey mare were a sure-footed pair. He looked once around as she crept to his heel, And the swish that he gave his long tail in the air Seemed to say, ‘Here’s a foeman well worthy my steel!’

They raced to within half-a-mile of the bluff That drops to the river—the squadron strung out. ‘I wonder,’ quoth Mac, ‘has the bay had enough!’ But he wasn’t left very much longer in doubt, For the Lord of the Hills struck a spur for the flat And followed it, leaving his mob, mares and all, While Empress (brave heart! she could climb like a cat) Down the stony descent raced with never a fall. Once down on the level ’twas galloping ground: For a while Charlie thought he might yard the big bay At his uncle’s out-station; but no! he wheeled round And down the sharp dip to the Gulf made his way.

Betwixt the twin portals that, towering high And backwardly sloping in watchfulness, lift Their smooth grassy summits towards the far sky, The course of the clear Murrumbidgee runs swift. No time then to seek where the crossing should be: It was in at the one side and out where you could: But fear never dwelt in the hearts of those three

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 Who emerged in the shade of the low muzzle-wood. Once more did the Lord of the Hills strike a line Up the side of the range, and once more he looked back: So close were they now he could see the sun shine In the bold grey eyes flashing of young Charlie Mac.

He saw little Empress stretched out like a hound On the trail of its quarry, the pick of the pack, With ne’er-tiring stride; and his heart gave a bound As he saw the lithe stockwhip of young Charlie Mac Showing snaky and black on the neck of the mare, In three hanging coils, with a turn round the wrist; And he heartily wished himself back in his lair ’Mid the tall tussocks beaded with chill morning mist; While he fancied the straight mountain ash trees, the gums And the wattles, all mocked him and whispered, ‘You lack The speed to avert cruel capture that comes To the warrigal fancied by young Charlie Mac; For he’ll yard you, and rope you, and then you’ll be stuck In the crush, while his saddle is girthed to your back; Then out in the open, and there you may buck Till you break your bold heart, but you’ll never throw Mac!’

The Lord of the Hills at the thought felt a sweat Break over the smooth summer gloss of his hide:

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 He spurted his utmost to leave her, but yet The Empress crept up to him, stride upon stride. No need to say Charlie was riding her now, Yet still for all that he had something in hand, With here a sharp stoop to avoid a low bough, Or quick rise and fall as a tree-trunk they spanned. In his terror the brumby struck down the rough falls Towards Yiack, with fierce disregard for his neck: Tis useless, he finds, for the mare overhauls Him slowly: no timber could keep her in check.

There’s a narrow-beat pathway that winds to and fro Down the deeps of the gully, half-hid from the day; There’s a turn in the track where the hop-bushes grow And hide the grey granite that crosses the way, While sharp swerves the path round the boulder’s broad base: And now the last scene in the drama is played As the Lord of the Hills, with the mare in full chase, Swept towards it, and ere his long stride could be stayed, With a gathered momentum that gave not a chance Of escape, and a shuddering, sickening shock, Struck the pitiless granite that barred his advance And sobbed out his life at the foot of the rock; While Charlie pulled off with a twitch on the rein And an answering spring from his surefooted mount, One might say, unscathed, though a crimsoning stain Marked the graze of the granite; but that would ne’er count

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 With Charlie, who speedily sprang to the earth To ease the mare’s burden: his deft-fingered hand Unslackened her surcingle, loosened tight girth, And cleansed with a tussock the spurs’ ruddy brand.

There he lay by the rock—drooping head, glazing eye, Strong limbs stilled for ever. No more would he fear The thud of a horseman; no more would he fly Through the hills with his harem in rapid career. The pick of the mountain mob, bays, greys, or roans, He proved in his death that the pace ‘tis that kills; And a sun-shrunken hide o’er a few whitened bones Marks the last resting-place of the Lord of the Hills.

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What made the porter stare so hard? what made the porter stare And eye the tall young woman and the bundle that she bare?

What made the tall young woman flush, and strive to hide her face, As the train slid past the platform and the guard swung in his place?

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 What made her look so stealthily both up and down the line, And quickly give the infant suck to still its puny whine?

Why was the sawmill not at work? why were the men away? They might have turned a woman from a woeful deed that day.

Why did the pine-scrub stand so thick? why was the place so lone That nothing but the soldier-birds might hear a baby moan?

Why doth the woman tear the child? why doth the mother take The infant from her breast, and weep as if her heart would break?

Why doth she moan, and grind her teeth, and weave an awful curse To fall on him who made of her a harlot—ay, and worse?

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 Why should she fall upon her knees and, with a trembling hand, Clear off the underbrush and scrape a cradle in the sand?

Why doth she shudder as she hears the buzz of eager flies, And bind a handkerchief across the sleeping infant’s eyes?

Why doth she turn, but come again and feverishly twine, To shield it from the burning sun, the fragrant fronds of pine?

Why, as she strides the platform, does she try hard not to think That somewhere in the scrub a babe is calling her for drink?

Why, through the alleys of the pine, do languid breezes sigh A low refrain that seems to mock her with a baby’s cry?

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 Seek not to know! but pray for her, and pity, as the train Carries a white-faced woman back to face the world again.

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Brookong station lay half-asleep— Dozed in the waning western glare. ‘Twas before the run had been stocked with sheep, And only cattle depastured there, As the Bluecap mob reined up at the door And loudly saluted Featherstonhaugh.

‘My saintly preacher!’ the leader cried: I stand no nonsense, as you’re aware. I’ve a word for you if you’ll step outside: Just drop that pistol and have a care: I’ll trouble you, too, for the key of the store: For we’re short of tucker, friend Featherstonhaugh.’

The muscular Christian showed no fear, Though he handed the key with but small delay: He never answered the ruffian’s jeer Except by a look which seemed to say: ‘Beware, my friend! and think twice before You raise the devil in Featherstonhaugh.’

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 Two hours after he reined his horse Up in Urana, and straightway went ‘To the barracks—the trooper was gone, of course! Blindly nosing a week-old scent A way in the scrub around Mount Galore. ‘Confound the fellow!’ quoth Featherstonhaugh.

‘Will any man of you come with me And give this Bluecap a dressing-down?’ They all regarded him silently As he turned his horse with a scornful frown. ‘You’re curs, the lot of you, to the core! I’ll go by myself!’ said Featherstonhaugh.

The scrub was thick on Urangeline, As he followed the tracks that twisted through The box and dogwood and scented pine (One of their horses had cast a shoe) Steeped from his youth in forest lore, He could track like a nigger, could Featherstonhaugh.

He paused as he saw the thread of smoke From the outlaw camp, and he marked the sound Of a hobble-check, as it sharply broke The silence that held the scrub-land bound. There were their horses—two, three, four! ‘It’s a risk; but I’ll chance it!’ quoth Featherstonhaugh.

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 He loosed the first and it walked away; But his comrade’s silence could not be bought, For he raised his head with a sudden neigh, And plainly showed that he’d not be caught. As a bullet sang from a rifle-bore, ‘It’s time to be moving!’ quoth Featherstonhaugh.

The brittle pine, as they broke away, Crackled like ice in a winter’s ponds; The strokes fell fast on the cones that lay Buried beneath the withered fronds That softly carpet the sandy floor: Swept two on the tracks of Featherstonhaugh.

They struck the path that the stock had made— A dustily-red, well-beaten track. The leader opened a fusilade Whose target was Featherston’s stooping back; But his luck was out; not a bullet tore As much as a shred from Featherstonhaugh.

Rattle ’em! rattle ’em fast on the pad Where the sloping shades fell dusk and dim! The manager’s heart beat high and glad, For he knew the creek was a mighty swim. Already he heard a smothered roar: ‘They’re done like a dinner!’ quoth Featherstonhaugh.

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 It was almost dark as they neared the dam: He struck the crossing as true as a hair: For the space of a second the pony swam; Then shook himself in the chill night air. In a pine-tree shade on the further shore, With his pistol cocked, stood Featherstonhaugh.

A splash! an oath! and a rearing horse! A thread snapped short in the fateful loom! The tide, unaltered, swept on its course Though a fellow-creature had met his doom. Pale and trembling, and struck with awe, Bluecap stood opposite Featherstonhaugh.

While the creek rolled muddily in between, The eddies played with the drowned man’s hat. The stars peeped out in their summer sheen: A night-bird chirruped across the flat. Quoth Bluecap, ‘I owe you a heavy score, And I’ll live to repay it, Featherstonhaugh!’

But he never did; for he ran his race Before he had time to fulfil his oath: I can’t think how; but in any case, He was hung, or drowned—or it may be both; But whichever it was, he came no more To trouble the peace of Featherstonhaugh.

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Will she spring with a blush from the arms of Dawn, When the sleepy songsters prune Their dewy vestments on bush and thorn, And the jovial magpie winds his horn In sweet réveil to the lazy morn And the sun comes all too soon? Will she come with him from the farthest rim Of the blue Pacific sea? But how shall I know my lady? and by What token will she know me?

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Will she come to me in the noonday hush, When the flowers are fast asleep ‘Neath their counterpane of emerald plush In the fragrant warmth of the under-brush, Where Spring still lingers on moist and lush— While naught but the shadows creep, And all is rest but the eager quest And the buzz of the tireless bee? But how shall I know my lady then? And how will my love know me?

Or will she come when the gallant Day At the hands of the Night lies dead? When stealthy creatures have right of way Among the branches to romp and play, And the great green forest turns ashen gray At the sound of the dead men’s tread? Will my lady slip with smile on lip From the heart of a white box tree? But how shall I know ’tis she who comes? And how will she know ’tis me?

Will her hair be tinged as when sunbeams gird A castle of carmine rock? Or brown as a leaf in the sun’s kiss curled? Or dark as the wing of that sable bird Whose hated voice is so often heard In the wake of the bleating flock?

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 Or will it be rolled in a crown of gold, An emblem of royalty? But how will I know ’tis she who comes? And how will she know ’tis me?

Is her ear as shapely as Venus’ shell, And pierced by a diamond gleam? Is her hand as white as the immortelle? Her voice as sweet as that sounding bell The gray bird tolls to the listening dell Where the ti-tree hides the stream? Have the words been said? is my lady wed? Is my lady bond or free?— No matter who claims her earthly form, For her heart belongs to me!

Will her eyes be clear as the amber flight Of the stream over sandstone bar? Or darkly blue as the vault of night? Will her flesh show pink through its veil of white, And its violet-pencilled curves be bright As the polished breast of a star? And where, oh, where may you find a pair Who shall love so well as we? But how shall I know my lady? by What token will she know me?

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 Will her cloak be shaped from the southern skies And girt by a starry sash— Like an azure mist, as my lady hies With the light of love in her kindling eyes? Will she move with the solemn grace that lies In the towering mountain ash! . . . Will she come at all? may it not befall That our fates are dark and dree? That I may never know her at all, And she may never know me?

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Out on the wastes of the Never Never— That’s where the dead men lie! There where the heat-waves dance for ever— That’s where the dead men lie! That’s where the Earth’s loved sons are keeping Endless tryst: not the west wind sweeping Feverish pinions can wake their sleeping— Out where the dead men lie!

Where brown Summer and Death have mated— That’s where the dead men lie! Loving with fiery lust unsated— That’s where the dead men lie! Out where the grinning skulls bleach whitely Under the saltbush sparkling brightly; Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly— That’s where the dead men lie!

Deep in the yellow, flowing river— That’s where the dead men lie! Under the banks where the shadows quiver— That’s where the dead men lie!

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 Where the platypus twists and doubles, Leaving a train of tiny bubbles; Rid at last of their earthly troubles— That’s where the dead men lie!

East and backward pale faces turning— That’s how the dead men lie! Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning— That’s how the dead men lie! Oft in the fragrant hush of nooning Hearing again their mothers’ crooning, Wrapt for aye in a dreamful swooning— That’s how the dead men lie!

Only the hand of Night can free them— That’s when the dead men fly! Only the frightened cattle see them— See the dead men go by! Cloven hoofs beating out one measure, Bidding the stockman know no leisure— That’s when the dead men take their pleasure! That’s when the dead men fly!

Ask, too, the never-sleeping drover: He sees the dead pass by; Hearing them call to their friends—the plover, Hearing the dead men cry; Seeing their faces stealing, stealing, Hearing their laughter pealing, pealing, Watching their grey forms wheeling, wheeling Round where the cattle lie!

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158 Strangled by thirst and fierce privation— That's how the dead men die! Out on Moneygrub's farthest station— That's how the dead men die! Hardfaced greybeards, youngsters callow; Some mounds cared for, some left fallow; Some deep down, yet others shallow; Some having but the sky.

Moneygrub, as he sips his claret, Looks with complacent eye Down at his watch-chain, eighteen-carat— There, in his club, hard by: Recks not that every link is stamped with Names of the men whose limbs are cramped with Too long lying in grave mould, camped with Death where the dead men lie.

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Page:Atharva-Veda samhita.djvu/396

v. 3-

7. Ye three goddesses, grant (yam) us great protection, what is prosperous (puṣṭá) for our progeny and for ourselves (tanū́); let us not be deserted (hā) by progeny nor selves; let us not be made subject to the hater, O king Soma.

8. Let the bull (mahiṣá) of wide expanse grant us protection, having much food (-kṣú), [he] the much-invoked in this invocation; do thou be gracious unto our progeny, O thou of the bay horses; O Indra, harm us not, do not abandon us.

9. The Creator (dhātár), the disposer (vidhātár), he who is lord of being, god Savitar, overpowerer of hostile plotters, the Ādityas, the Rudras, both the Açvins—let the gods protect the sacrificer from perdition (nirṛthá).

10. They that are our rivals—away be they; with Indra and Agni do we beat (bādh) them down; the Ādityas, the Rudras, sky-reaching (? uparispṛ́ç), have made our over-king a stern corrector.

The other texts have tā́n for enān at end of b, and akran at end of d, and, for c, vásavo rudrā́ ādityā́ uparispṛ́çam mā, which makes better sense; they also accent céttāram in d. And VS., which also has the verse (xxxiv. 46), agrees with them throughout. Ppp. presents instead a verse which is mostly found at TB. ii. 4. 3$2$, next before the verse corresponding to our 11: ihā ’rvāñcam ati hvaya indraṁ jāitrāya jetave: asmākam astu varṇaṁ yataṣ kṛṇotu vīryam (instead of c, d, TB. has one

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Translation:Shulchan Aruch/Orach Chaim/528

The Laws of Yard Eruvs on a Holiday

דיני ערובי חצרות ביום טוב

Paragraph 1 - On a holiday, making eruvs for yards and conjoining alleys are unnecessary, but techum eruvs are necessary. All of the laws of techum were explained in the section on laws for techum eruvs.

סעיף א - יום טוב אין צריך ערובי חצרות ושתופי מבואות, אבל ערובי תחומין צריך. וכל הלכות תחומין נתבארו בהלכות ערובי תחומין.

Paragraph 2 - If a holiday falls on Friday, we do not make either yard or techum eruvs (even if one made an eruv tavshilin) (Ra"n chapter 2 of Beitzah). However, if one realized on the first day of a two day holiday in the Diaspora [that he didn't make an eruv], he can make an yard eruv on condition [see previous chapter paragraph 22]. However, we do not make techum eruvs on a holiday.

סעיף ב - יום טוב שחל להיות בערב שבת אין מערבין לא ערובי חצרות ולא ערובי תחומין (אפלו אם הניח ערוב תבשילין) (ר"ן פרק ב' דביצה). אבל אם נזכר ביום הראשון בשני ימים טובים של גליות, יכול לערב ערובי חצרות בתנאי, אבל ערובי תחומין אין מניחין אותו ביום טוב בתנאי.

 * }


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Page:Dictionary of spoken Russian (1945).djvu/524

 She bore the pain patiently. — Он терпеливо повторил своё объяснение. He patiently repeated his explanation.

терпение patience. Я удивляюсь вашему терпению. I'm surprised at your patience. — Если так будет продолжаться, моё терпение скоро лопнет. If it goes on this way my patience will soon come to an end. — С ним никакого терпения не хватит. You can't have too much patience with him.

терпеть (терплю, терпит) to suffer along. Ничего тут не поделаешь, приходится терпеть! Nothing can be done about it; we'll just have to suffer along with it. • to suffer. Они там терпели и голод, и холод. They suffered from both hunger and cold. • to tolerate. Я бы, на вашем месте, не стал терпеть такого безобразия. If I were in your place, I wouldn't tolerate such carrying on. • to stand. Не понимаю, как его здесь терпят! I don't see how they stand him here. — Я его терпеть не могу! I just can't stand him. • to meet. Они терпят одну неудачу за другой. They meet one failure after another. □ Дело не терпит. The matter can't wait. • Ничего, время терпит. Take it easy; there's still plenty of time. • *Пишите, что хотите: бумага всё терпит. Write whatever you like; the paper you write on can't tell the difference.

терраса terrace.

терять to lose. Вот досада! Второе перо теряю. How armoying! This is the second pen I've lost. — Он всё ещё не теряет надежды получить работу по специальности. He still hasn't lost hope of finding work in his field. — Он легко теряет самообладание. He loses self-control easily. — Вам надо бежать, не теряя ни секунды. You've got to run; don't lose a second. — Мне всё равно терять нечего. I've got nothing to lose anyway. — Давайте не терять друг друга из виду. Let's not lose track of one another. • to waste. Не будем терять на это время. Let's not waste time on that. — Он теряет на это массу денег и труда, и всё зря. He's wasting lots of money and effort on that for nothing.

тесный (sh -сна) narrow. Коридор и так тесный, а вы ещё сундуки поставили. The hall is so narrow, and still you put your trunks there. • tight. Этот пиджак мне немного тесен. This jacket is a little too tight for me. • close. У нас с ней очень тесная дружба. She and I are very close friends. □ тесно close. Они сидели, тесно прижавшись друг к другу. They sat snuggled close to one another. • crowded. Когда все собрались, в комнате стало тесно и душно. When everybody came into the room it became crowded and sticky. • cramped. Вам тут не тесно будет? Won't you be cramped here? • closely. Это тесно связано с моей работой. This is closely connected with my work.

тесто dough.

тесть (M) father-in-law (wife's father).

тётка aunt. С материнской стороны у меня две тётки. I have two aunts on my mother's side. — Она мне тётка по отцу. She's my aunt on my father's side. • woman. К нам подошла какая-то (незнакомая) тётка в платке. Some woman in a shawl whom I didn't know came up to us. □ *Голод — не тётка! It's no joke to go hungry.

тетрадь (F) notebook. Мне нужна тетрадь в клетку. I need a notebook of graph paper. — У него целая тетрадь стихов. He has a notebook full of poems.

техник technician.

техника technique. На наших заводах применяется передовая техника. Modern techniques are used in our plants. — Он хорошо овладел техникой этого дела. He has a good grasp of the technique of this business. — У этого пианиста удивительная техника. This pianist has an amazing technique.

техникум technical school. Я окончил сельскохозяйственный техникум. I graduated from the agricultural technical school.

технический technical.

техпромфинплан (техническо-промышленно-финансовый план) over-all annual plan of a factory.

течение current. Не заплывайте далеко, тут быстрое течение. Don't swim out far; there's a swift current here. □ верхнее течение upstream. в течение during. Я это закончу в течение дня. I'll finish it during the day. нижнее течение downstream. □ С течением времени вы всё поймёте. In due time you'll understand everything.

течь (теку, течёт; p тёк, текла, -о, и) to run. Опять вода из крана не течёт. The water isn't running again. • to leak. Это ведро течёт. This pail is leaking. □ Время тут течёт страшно медленно. Time drags here.

тёща mother-in-law (wife's mother).

тип type. Мне не нравятся люди этого типа. I don't like men of this type. — Я никогда не видал машины этого типа. I never saw a machine of this type. • category. У нас есть два типа студентов. We have two categories of students. □ Это что ещё за тип? Who's that character?

типография printing shop.

тире (indecl N) dash, hyphen.

тиф. □ брюшной тиф typhoid fever. возвратный тиф recurring typhoid fever. сыпной тиф spotted typhus.

тихий (-ха; cp тише; тишайший) low. Он хороший лектор, но у него слишком тихий голос. He's a good lecturer but he has a very low voice. • quiet. У пас в распределителе сегодня был тихий день. We had a quiet day in our store. — А соседи здесь тихие? Are the neighbors quiet here? • calm. Море сегодня тихое. The sea is calm today. □ тише quiet. Тише! Перестаньте разговаривать. Quiet! Stop talking! — Тише! Он только что заснул. Quiet! He just went to sleep. тихо quietly. Она говорила тихо, но внятно. She spoke quietly, but distinctly. • quiet. В это время здесь всегда тихо. At this time it's always quiet here. • slowly. Если вы будете ехать так тихо, мы наверно опоздаем. If you drive so slowly, we'll certainly be late. □ Поедем по следующей улице — там тише. Let's go down the next street; there's less traffic there.

тихонько quietly. Войдите, только тихонько, на цыпочках. Come in, but quietly, on tiptoe. — Шепните ему тихонько, что я ухожу. Whisper to him quietly that I'm going away.

тише (/cp of тихий/).

тишина silence. Во время радиопередачи в зале должна быть полная тишина. There must be absolute silence during the broadcast. • peace. Тишина и спокойствие — вот что мне надо! Peace and quiet is what I need. • quiet. Прошу соблюдать тишину! Quiet please!


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227 pāda: asmā́kam astu kévalaḥ). ⌊Our 10 occurs at the end of the hymn in Ppp., which reads in a ye naç çapanty upa te, in b apa bādhāma yonim, in c mām for naḥ, and ends with akran.⌋

11. Hitherward do we call Indra from yonder, who is kine-conquering, riches-conquering, who is horse-conquering; let him hear this sacrifice of ours at our separate call; of us, O thou of the bay horses, hast thou been the ally (medín).

1. Thou that wast born on the mountains, strongest of plants, come, O kúṣṭha, effacer (-nā́çana) of takmán, effacing the fever (takmán) from here.

2. On an eagle-bearing (-súvana) mountain, born from the snowy one (himávant); they go to [it] with riches, having heard [of it], for they know the effacer of fever.

3. The açvatthá, seat of the gods, in the third heaven from here; there the gods won the kúṣṭha, the sight (cákṣaṇa) of immortality (amṛ́ta).

4. A golden ship, of golden tackle (-bándhana), moved about in the sky; there the gods won the kúṣṭha, the flower of immortality.

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On Lavender the moon broke bright—the Bay looked sweetly pretty: Across its bosom one might see the bosom of a city That hid its dusty face behind a veil of snowy vapour, Through which, all gilded by the sun, its lofty church- spires taper. It happened once upon a time—this story I am telling— Before that Bay's green slopes were hid by many a crowded dwelling; While yet its waters were as clear as dew-drops in the dawning, And yet the mackerel flashed their rainbow radiance to the morning; While in the Bay's long shallows, where the sweet spring water emptied, Beneath the moon at turn of tide the black bream might be tempted With cunning bait of verdant prawns or pleasant paste of salmon— But now, alas! the wily bream just wink and murmur "Gammon!"

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text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book V/Hymn 3

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book V/Hymn 3


text: Cambridge Natural History Mammalia/Chapter XIV


text: Where the Dead Men Lie

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vi the most remarkable. So, instead of trying to exalt the Poet by his work, I have tried rather to show the Man in his poetry.

This decision brought an easy answer to the second question: How far was it justifiable to prune or polish Boake's verses: how far was it desirable? Plainly, the less trimming the better; since his errors are a part of Boake, and every one removed helps to misrepresent him. Nor was it certain that a foreign hand would not mar as much as it mended. Sometimes Boake has gained variety and force at the expense of metre and rhyme; and to alter is to plunge deep in the old controversy whether gain of mechanical correctness balances loss of picturesque vigour. So I have not attempted to patch Boake's garment with alien cloth. I have carefully compared the printed poems with available originals, correcting errors of the press and adopting a few alternative readings sanctioned by MS.; and occasionally I have strengthened a line or changed a word where the advantage seemed obvious or the necessity great.

The order of the verses is that of convenience. There is in many cases no clue to the precise dates of composition, which did not coincide with the dates of publication: hence exact chronological order is unattainable. And Boake's poetic harvest was reaped in so brief a time—some eighteen months—that there is little material difference of merit between his earlier and his later verses.

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Rh Of the thirty-one indexed poems which follow, twenty-five were printed in The Bulletin, and three in The Sydney Mail: four have not appeared elsewhere. In the present edition “The Phantom Moorings” has been included: some corrections have been made without varying the author’s text of the verses; the notes and memoir have been revised; and as an appendix are added three pieces of verse that the author's friends have found interesting. A. G. S.

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Beyond where farthest drought-fires burn, By hand of fate it once befell, I reached the Realm of No-Return That meets the March of Hell.

A silence crueller than Death Laid fetters on the fateful air: She holds no hope; she fights for breath— The Land of Dumb Despair!

Here fill their glasses, red as blood, The victims of fell Fortune's frown; They drink their wine as brave men should, And fling the goblets down.

They crowd the board, red wreaths of rose Across their foreheads drooped and curled, But in their eyes the gloom that knows The grief of all the world.

The poison lies behind their wine So close, the trembling hands that take Might well be doubted to divine Which draught such thirst would slake.

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x The bows beside their hands are strung; The blue steel glitters, bare of sheath: 'Tis wonder tired Life drags among So many ways to Death!

They may not whisper, one to one, The stories of their fancied fall: The words that ring beneath the sun Would faint in such a pall.

In silence, man by man, they reach For cup, for arrow, or for sword, And still the grey world fills the breach Each leaves beside the board.

W. H. OGILVIE.

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Rh

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xiv

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text:
Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Chase, Salmon Portland

CHASE, SALMON PORTLAND, an American jurist, born in Cornish, N. H., Jan. 13, 1808; educated at Windsor, Vt., in his uncle's family at Columbus, O., and in Dartmouth College; taught school in Washington, while studying law with William Wirt; opened law practice in Cincinnati, where he edited the “Ohio Statutes,” and came to public notice. In 1846 he argued the Fugitive Slave Law with William H. Seward, in a celebrated case, and his support of the anti-slavery cause soon made him the leader of the

Liberty party, and a leading spirit in the Free-Soil and Republican parties. In 1849 he was elected to the United States Senate; in 1855 Governor of Ohio; in 1860 was a prominent candidate for the Republican Presidential nomination; appointed Secretary of the Treasury by President Lincoln, in 1861, and in 1864 became Chief Justice, in which office he presided at the impeachment trial of President Johnson. He died in New York City, May 7, 1873.


text:
Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Chase, William Merritt

CHASE, WILLIAM MERRITT, an American artist, born in Franklin, Ind., Nov. 1, 1849, He studied painting in oil at the National Academy in New York and subsequently in Europe with Piloty. He made a specialty of portraits, figure pieces, and still life. Examples of his art are to be found in many public and private galleries in this country. He was elected a National Academician in 1890. Besides having been one of the most brilliant technicians of the

school, he was particularly successful as a teacher. He died in 1916.


text: Where the Dead Men Lie/From the Far West


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Garrett-Anderson, Elizabeth

GARRETT-ANDERSON, Elizabeth, first English woman doctor: b. London, 1836; d. Aldeburgh, Suffolk, 17 Dec. 1917. She was one of the pioneers of that phase of the movement for the “emancipation” of women which aimed at throwing open to them the doors of the medical profession. Her attention was attracted to medicine by Miss Elizabeth Blackwell (q.v.), an Englishwoman who after many fruitless attempts was permitted to graduate M.D. of the University of Geneva, Beaver Falls, Pa. Miss Garrett, however, was the first woman to secure an English diploma. She began her medical studies in 1860, despite the fact that there was no school (in England) where she could be received, and no examining body willing to admit her to its examinations. The male students of Middlesex Hospital in London presented a memorial against the admission of women, and Miss Garrett was barred from that and other hospitals. Eventually the Society of Apothecaries authorized her to get her education

privately from teachers of recognized medical schools, and finally gave her the desired qualification of L.S.A. in 1865, this being a genuine doctor's degree. She opened a dispensary for poor women and children in Marylebone, London, in 1866. Suddenly the Society of Apothecaries adopted a new rule which refused recognition of certificates granted for private studies, which made Miss Garrett's diploma void. She went to Paris, passed the examinations and returned to England with an M.D. degree in 1870. In 1870 she became a candidate at the London school board election, and was returned at the head of the poll for Marylebone, where her dispensary developed into the "New Hospital for Women and Children" in Euston road. She married in 1871. In 1874 she assisted in the establishment of the London School of Medicine for Women, in conjunction with her hospital of 26 beds. But the General Medical Council of England stipulated that only a general hospital of 150 beds could be recognized as adequate for teaching purposes. After three years of struggle and appeal, an alliance was formed between the Women's School of Medicine and the Royal Free Hospital in Gray's-in-road, which met the official requirements. The strenuous efforts of the devoted little band of women “would-be doctors” were rewarded in 1876 by an act of Parliament enabling British examining bodies to include women. Until 1892 Mrs. Garrett-Anderson was the only female member of the British Medical Association; in that year all restrictions were removed. Mrs. Garrett-Anderson was lecturer on medicine at the London School for Women for 23 years, and for over 24 years she was senior physician of the New Hospital for Women. In 1908 she was elected mayor of Aldeburgh, the first woman in England to receive that civic honor. Her son, Sir Alan Garrett-Anderson, succeeded Sir Eric Geddes as Controller of the Navy in August 1917; her daughter, also a doctor, was head of a military hospital in the European War.


text:
Author:Sara Ware Bassett

Educational

 * The Story of Lumber (1912)
 * The Story of Wool (1913)
 * The Story of Leather (1915)
 * The Story of Glass (1916)
 * The Story of Sugar (1917)
 * The Story of Porcelain (1919)
 * Paul and the Printing Press (1920)
 * Steve and the Steam Engine (1921)
 * Ted and the Telephone (1922)
 * Walter and the Wireless (1923)
 * Carl and the Cotton Gin (1924).

Novels

 * The Taming of Zenas Henry (1915)
 * The Harbor Road (1919)
 * The Wayfarers at the Angels' (1918)
 * The Wall Between (1920)
 * Flood Tide (1921)
 * Twin Lights
 * Granite and Clay
 * The Green Dolphin Inn (1926)
 * White Sail
 * South Cove Summer

title: Author:Sara Ware Bassett


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text: Where the Dead Men Lie/Jack's Last Muster


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Garrett Biblical Institute

GARRETT BIBLICAL INSTITUTE, the second oldest theological seminary of the Methodist Episcopal Church, located at Evanston, Ill. Although its plant is located on the campus of the Northwestern University it is not a department of the university. It has its own board of trustees, funds, property and library. It is, however, closely affiliated with the university. It was founded in 1855, through the liberality of Mrs. Eliza Garrett. Its first class graduated in 1858. It has had only six presidents in its long career: Dr. John Dempster, Bishop Matthew Simpson, Bishop W. Ninde, Dr. H. B. Ridgaway, Dr. Charles J. Little and Dr. Charles M. Stuart, the present incumbent. It has a faculty of 18 members, a student body in 1917-18 of 245. It has graduated 1,455 students and has had a total of over 3,700 students. Among its graduates and students are included nine bishops, 76 educators, 18 editors and 120 missionaries. It has not only prepared men for the Methodist ministry, but its men are serving in the Congregational, Presbyterian, Protestant Episcopal, Lutheran, Mcnnonite and other churches. In 1912 the school was divided into a Graduate School primarily for college men; and the Diploma School for men with less than collegiate training. In 1915 the quarter system was adopted, September

being the only month when the seminary is not in session. In 1917 the first units of a new plant were erected which will ultimately cost a million dollars. The seminary owns considerable property in the city of Chicago. It has an endowment of over $948,000 and a library of 51,612 volumes.


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Garrick, David

GARRICK, David, English actor: b. Hereford, England, 19 Feb. 1717; d. London, 20 Jan. 1779. His grandfather was a French refugee, his father a captain in the army. He was educated at the grammar school at Lichfield. He gave an early proof of his dramatic tendency by inducing his school-fellows to act the ‘Recruiting Officer,’ in which he himself took the part of Sergeant Kite, being then only 12 years of age. Later he was placed with a brother under Dr. Samuel Johnson. In 1741 he joined Giffard's company at Ipswich, where under the name of Lyddal he played with uniform success.

At this time the stages of the metropolis were but indifferently supplied with leading performers, so that when Giffard, who was manager of a threatre in Goodman's-fields, introduced his accomplished recruit there, 19 Oct. 1741, the effect was immediate and decisive. He judiciously chose the part of Richard III, which did not require that dignity of person in which he was deficient, while it gave him scope for all the strong marking of character and changes of passion in which his principal excellence consisted. He at the same time adopted a natural mode of recitation, which was a daring innovation on the part of a new performer before audiences accustomed to the artificial declamation of the school which preceded him. He afterward visited Dublin, where his success was even greater than in the metropolis, and in 1745 became joint manager with Sheridan of a theatre there. In 1746 he was engaged for the season at Covent Garden, and at its close purchased Drury Lane, and opened it 15 Sept. 1747, with the ‘Merchant of Venice,’ to which Dr. Johnson wrote a prologue for the occasion. This period formed an era in the English stage, from which may be dated a comparative revival of Shakespeare, and a reform both in the conduct and license of the drama. In 1749 he married Eva, Marie Violette (1724-1822), and his married life seems to have been happy. The next year (1750) he and Mrs. Bellamy were playing ‘Romeo and Juliet’ at Drury Lane, while Barry and Mrs. Cibber were giving the same play at Covent Garden; but the Covent Garden opposition failed, and it has been truly said of Garrick that the remainder of his theatrical career was an uninterrupted series of successes that brought enduring prosperity. He had written, while an actor, his farces of ‘The Lying Valet’; ‘Lethe,’ and ‘Miss in Her Teens’; and in 1766 he composed, jointly with Colman, the excellent comedy of ‘The Clandestine Marriage.’ The year 1769 was signalized by the famous Stratford jubilee — a striking proof of his enthusiasm for Shakespeare. It occupied three days at Stratford, and its representation at the theatre lasted for 92 nights. The last part which he performed was Don Felix in ‘The Wonder,’ for the benefit of the theatrical fund (10 June 1776). At the conclusion of the play he addressed a brief farewell to the audience. The general feeling with which this was delivered

and received rendered it truly impressive. His remains were interred in Westminster Abbey, his funeral being attended by a numerous assemblage of rank and talent. As an actor Garrick has rarely been equaled for truth, nature and variety and facility of expression, for which his countenance appears to have been admirably adapted. Expression and the language of passion formed his great strength, as he was equaled by many of his contemporaries in the enunciation of calm sentimental and poetical declamation. His literary talents were respectable, but not eminent; besides the pieces already mentioned he wrote some epigrams, a great number of prologues and epilogues, and a few dramatic interludes, and made many and sometimes judicious alterations of old plays. A collection of his works was published in London (1768-98), and his correspondence 1831-32. Consult Knight, ‘Life of David Garrick’ (London 1894); Parsons, ‘Garrick and his Circle’ (Boston 1907).


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 ткач (-а M) weaver.

ткачиха weaver F.

то (/na N of тот/).

то then. Если он к семи не придёт, то не ждите его больше. If he doesn't come by seven, then don't wait for him any more. — Раз она не хочет, то нечего её уговаривать. Once she doesn't want to, then there's no sense urging her. — Уж если я обещал, то я это сделаю. If I've akeady promised, then I'll do it. □ да и то at that. Я видел его всего один раз, да и то издали. I've seen him once, and at a distance at that. не то otherwise. Так приходите непременно, не то они обидятся. Be sure to come there; otherwise they'll be offended. • or else. Смотрите, сделайте это, а не то худо будет. You better do it, or else you'll get into trouble. не то ... не то either ... or. Он сказал это не то с уважением, не то со страхом. He said that either with respect or fear in his voice. то и дело every so often. Он то и дело выглядывал из окна. Every so often he peered out of the window. то ли ... то ли either ... or. Она ходит к нам то ли по привычке, то ли из вежливости. She visits us either out of habit or out of politeness. — То ли ему некогда было, то ли он забыл, но он не пришёл. He was either busy or he forgot, but in any case he didn't come. □ От неё всё нет письме, и он то и знай на почту бегает. There are no letters from her and yet all he does is run to the post office all day. • Он то за одно дело хватается, то за другое, и ничего не кончает. He starts first one thing and then another and finishes nothing. • Он то бранит меня, то превозносит до небес; не поймёшь его. He scolds me first, and then praises me to the sky. I can't understand him. • А водочку-то мы уже всю выпили, надо было раньше прийти. Tough luck; we've finished off the vodka. You should have come earlier. • Что-то он о нас подумает! I wonder what he'll think of us.

тобой (тобою, /i of ты/).

товар (/g -у/) goods. В колхозную лавку прислана новая партия товару. There's been a new shipment of goods to the kolkhoz store. • merchandise. В этом магазине всегда хороший товар. This store always has good merchandise. □ Он умеет товар лицом показать. He knows how to put his best foot forward.

товарищ (M) friend. Он был моим самым лучшим товарищем. He was my very best friend. • comrade. Товарищи, соблюдайте очередь! Stay in line, comrades! • classmate. Он мой товарищ по университету. He's an old (college) classmate of mine. □ школьный товарищ schoolmate. Это школьные товарищи моего сына. They're my son's schoolmates. □ Товарищ милиционер, как мне пройти к мосту? Officer, can you tell me the way to the bridge?

товарищеский comrade. Он поступил не по-товарищески. He didn't act as a comrade. • friendly. Товарищеская встреча наших футбольных команд назначена на завтра. A friendly game between our soccer teams is set for tomorrow. □ Нет, это не роман, у них просто хорошие товарищеские отношения. No, that's not a love affair; they're just good friends.

товарный freight. На станции стояло несколько товарных поездов. Several freight trains were standing at the station. □ товарная станция freight station. товарный склад warehouse. Товарный склад налево. The warehouse is on the left.

тогда at that time. Я жил тогда в деревне. At that time I lived in the country. • then. Я подумаю и тогда дам вам ответ. I'll think about it and then let you know. — Если вам это не нравится, тогда лучше не берите. If you don't like it, then you'd better not take it. □ тогда ... когда when. Отвечайте только тогда, когда вас спросят. Answer only when you're asked.

то есть that is. Это было в прошлое воскресенье, то есть ровно неделю тому назад. It was last Sunday; that is, exactly a week ago. □ то есть как how come. "В зал больше никого не впускают." "Позвольте, то есть как это, у меня есть билет!" "No one is allowed into the hall." "How come? I've got a ticket!"

тоже too. Я тоже пойду с вами. I'll go with you, too. — Я ему тоже это говорил, но он и слушать не хочет. I told him that, too, but he won't even listen. — Вы тоже против меня? Are you against me, too? □ Он, кажется, учить меня вздумал! Вот тоже! What do you think of that! He's trying to show me how! • Тоже знаток нашёлся! Что он понимает? Since when is he an expert? What does he know about it?

ток current. Наш трамвай долго стоял из-за отсутствия тока. Our trolley was stalled for a long time because the current was cut off. — Ток уже выключен. The current is already turned off. □ Его убило током. He was killed by a live wire.

толкать (/pct: толкнуть/) to bump into. Простите, что я вас всё время толкаю. Excuse me for bumping into you all the time. • to keep after. Если их не толкать, они вам дадут справку через год. If you don't keep after them, they won't give you the information in a year.

-ся to push. Не толкайтесь, пожалуйста! Don't push, please. □ Я здесь уже целую неделю без пользы толкаюсь. I've been knocking around here a whole week doing nothing.

толкнуть (pct of толкать) to push. Толкните дверь, она не заперта. Push the door; it's not locked. — Он так меня толкнул, что я чуть не упал. He pushed me so hard I almost fell. □ Что его толкнуло на такой поступок? What made him do it?

-ся. □ я толкнулся было к его личному секретарю но и его не застал. I tried to see his private secretary, hut he wasn't in either.

толковать to discuss. Мы с ним об этом толковали до самой ночи. I discussed this matter with him till nightfall. — Не стоит об этом так много толковать. Why discuss it so much? • to intepret. Это можно толковать по-разному. You can interpret this several ways. • to harp. А она всё своё толкует. She keeps harping on the same thing.

толпа (P толпы, толп, толпам) crowd. я его сразу распознал в толпе. I recognized him immediately in the crowd. — С утра уже толпы народа стали собираться на улицах. Crowds have been gathering in the streets since morning.


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Garrison, William Lloyd

GARRISON, William Lloyd, American reformer: b. in Newburyport, Mass., 12 Dec. 1805; d. New York, 24 May 1879. He was

apprenticed to a shoemaker, but eventually became a compositor on the Newburyport Herald, an occupation which suited his taste; he soon made himself master of the mechanical part of the business, and when only 16 or 17 began to write for the Herald. His contributions, which were anonymous, were favorably received, and he soon commenced to send articles to the Salem Gazette and other papers, drawing the attention of political circles by a series of articles under the signature “Aristides,” with the view of removing the almost universal apathy on the subject of slavery. In 1824 he became editor of the Herald, and some of Whittier's earliest poems were accepted by him, while their author was yet unknown to fame. In 1827 he became editor of the National Philanthropist, the first American temperance journal, and afterward of a journal in support of the election of John Quincy Adams. With Mr. Lundy, a Quaker, he then started at Baltimore the paper called the Genius of Universal Emancipation (1829). The vigorous expression of his anti-slavery views in this last paper led to his imprisonment for libel, from which he was released by Mr. Tappan, a New York merchant, who paid his fine. He then prepared a series of emancipation lectures, subsequently delivered in New York and other places. He returned to Boston, and in 1831 started The Liberator, without capital or subscribers, a paper published weekly with the aid of one assistant and a negro boy, and with which his name is inseparably associated, and which he carried on for 35 years, until slavery was abolished in the United States. In 1832 appeared his ‘Thoughts on African Colonization,’ and in the same year he established the American Anti-Slavery Society. For several years the mail brought hundreds of letters to Garrison, threatening his assassination if he did not discontinue The Liberator; the legislature of Georgia offered a reward of $5,000 to any one who should prosecute and bring him to conviction in accordance with the laws of that State; in 1835 he was severely handled by a Boston mob, and the mayor of that city was constantly appealed to from the South to suppress his paper. In spite of all, he successfully persevered. In 1833 he visited Great Britain. On his return the results of his conferences with English emancipators were seen, to a limited extent, in a platform for the American Anti-Slavery Society, founded in Philadelphia toward the close of that year. He went to England again, in the furtherance of his anti-slavery opinions, in 1846 and 1848. The diverging views of the anti-slavery party, as to whether a political platform should be adopted, and as to the voting and speaking of women, rent the body for a time, but on 1 Jan. 1863 Lincoln's proclamation of freedom to the slaves as a military measure placed the civil struggle on an anti-slavery basis. In 1865, when Garrison's labors had been completely successful, and after the total abolition of slavery in the United States, his friends presented him with the sum of $30,000 as a memorial of his services.

A bronze statue has been erected to his memory in Boston. Some ‘Sonnets and Other Poems’ by him were published in 1847, and ‘Selections from Writings and Speeches’ in 1852. Consult Johnson, ‘William Lloyd

(1882); ‘William Lloyd Garrison, the Story of His Life,’ by his children (1885-89); and poems to his memory by both Whittier and Lowell. The reformer's character, as revealed in the accounts of his life, shows his great humanitarian schemes to have been the inevitable outcome of a sensitive conscience, a humane spirit and an overpowering sense of justice. Later biographies are those by Swift, L. (Philadelphia 1911), and Chapman, I. J. (New York 1913).


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