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 — Телефон звонит. The phone's ringing. — Вал просят к телефону. Somebody's calling you on the phone. — Снеситесь с ними по телефону. Get in touch with them by phone. □ автоматический телефон dial telephone. вызывать по телефону to call up. Вас вызывали по телефону. Somebody called you up. междугородный телефон long-distance telephone. ручной телефон hand telephone.

телефонировать to phone. Телефонируйте, пожалуйста, моей жене, что я опоздаю. Please phone my wife that I'll be late.

телефонист telephone operator.

телефонистка telephone operator F.

телефонный telephone. Есть тут где-нибудь поблизости телефонная будка? Is there a telephone booth somewhere near by? □ телефонная книжка telephone book (directory). Посмотрите в телефонной книжке. Look in the telephone book. телефонная станция telephone exchange.

телефонограмма telegram (delivered over the phone). Я принял для вас телефонограмму. I took a telegram for you over the phone.

тело (P тела) body. У меня боли во всём теле. I have pains all over my body. □ *Он держит её в чёрном теле. He treats her like a slave.

телята See телёнок.

телятина veal. Я вам дам холодной телятины с салатом. I'll give you cold veal cuts and salad.

тема subject. Давайте переменим тему. Let's change the subject. • topic. Вот вам интересная тема для статьи. Here's an interesting topic for an article for you. • theme. Напомните мне тему этой сонаты! Hum the theme of that sonata!

темнеть (/pct: по-, с-/) to tarnish. Этот металл не темнеет. This metal does not tarnish. • to get dark. Как рано темнеет! How early it gets dark here!

темно- (prefixed to adjectives). □ темнокрасный dark red.

темнота (P темноты) darkness. Свет погас, и мы остались в полной темноте. The lights went out and we were left in complete darkness. — В темноте я не мог разобрать номера дома. I couldn't make out the number of the house in the darkness. □ Какая темноте! Быть грозе. Look how dark it is! There must be a storm coming up.

тёмный (sh -темна, -о, -ы) dark. У меня очень тёмная комната. I have a very dark room. — В этих тёмных переулках недолго и заблудиться. It's not hard to get lost in those dark alleys. — Она всегда носит тёмные платья. She always wears dark dresses. • shady. Говорят, что у него тёмное прошлое. They say he has a shady past. • obscure. Это для меня самая тёмная часть его теории. This is the most obscure part of his theory for me. □ темно dark. Мы выехали, когда ещё было совсем темно. We started off while it was still quite dark.

темп speed of work. Нужно ускорить темпы работы. The speed of work must be increased. • rate of work. У вас на заводе темпы медленные, вот в чём беда! At your factory the rate of work is slow. That's your trouble. • rate. Наша промышленность развивается быстрыми темпами. Our industry increases at a rapid rate.

температура temperature. У него уж третий день повышенная температура. This is the third day that his temperature has been above normal. — Вам нужно измерить себе температуру. You have to take your temperature.

тенистый shady. У нас не большой, но тенистый сад. We have a small but shady garden.

теннис tennis. Я давно уж не играл в теннис. I haven't played tennis in a long time.

теннисный. □ теннисная площадка tennis court. теннисная ракетка tennis racket. теннисная сетка termis net. теннисный мяч tennis ball.

тень (P -ни, -ней /в тени/ F) shade. Идёмте сядем в тень. Let's sit in the shade. — Сегодня даже в тени было очень жарко. It was very hot even in the shade today. • shadow. От него осталась одна тень. He's a shadow of his former self. — У меня нет и тени сомнения в его честности. I haven't got a shadow of a doubt about his honesty.

теория theory. Изложите основные принципы этой теории. Explain the main principles of this theory. — Всё это хорошо в теории, а на практике приложить трудно. It's all very good m theory, but hard to put into practice. • ideas. У меня на этот счёт своя теория. I have my own ideas on this subject.

теперешний modern. Теперешняя русская молодёжь интересуется историей. Modern Russian youth is interested in history. • present. Я не знаю его теперешнего адреса. I don't know his present address. □ теперешние времена nowadays. В теперешние времена к таким способам лечения не прибегают. They don't use such cures nowadays.

теперь now. Теперь он занят, но через час он сможет вас принять. He's busy now, but in an hour he'll be able to see you. — Я теперь работаю в ночной смене. I'm now working on the night shift. — Он был очень болен, а теперь поправился. He was very sick, but he's getting better now. □ теперь же right now. Лучше это сделать теперь же. It's better to do it right now.

теплеть to grow warm. Это только по утрам так холодно, к полудню всегда теплеет. It's only this cold in the mornings, but towards noon it grows warm.

тёплый (sh -рла, -о/-ы/) warm. Это очень тёплая квартира. This is a very warm apartment. — У вас есть тёплое пальто? Do you have a warm overcoat? • cordial. Я получил от него очень тёплое письмо. I've received a very cordial letter from him. □ потеплее warmly. Оденьтесь потеплее, сегодня очень холодно. Dress warmly; it's very cold today. теплее warmer. Ну вот, затопили! Сейчас станет теплее. Well, now that we've made a fire it'll get warmer. тепло warm. Как у вас тепло! How warm it is at your place! • hearty. Его встретили очень тепло. He got a hearty welcome. □ Мы приятно провели вечер в тёплой компании. We spent a pleasant evening in good company. • *У них там тёплая компания, они друг друга покрывают. They're a bad lot; they're just covering up for one another.

термометр thermometer.

терпеливый patient. Он очень терпеливый человек. He's a very patient man. □ терпеливо patiently. Она терпеливо переносила боль.


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Scarlett, Sir James Yorke

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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Page:EB1911 - Volume 01.djvu/1003

 three days after the fertilization of the egg, and is very minute and transparent. In August young specimens 1 to 3 in. in length have been taken in the Zuider Zee, and these must be held to have been derived from the spawning of the previous summer. There is no evidence to decide the question whether all the young anchovies as well as the adults leave the Zuider Zee in autumn, but, considering the winter temperature there, it is probable that they do. The eggs have also been obtained from the Bay of Naples, and near Marseilles, also off the coast of Holland, and once at least off the coast of Lancashire. The occurrence of anchovies in the English Channel has been carefully studied at the laboratory of the Marine Biological Association at Plymouth. They were most abundant in 1889 and 1890. In the former year considerable numbers were taken off Dover in drift nets of small mesh used for the capture of sprats. In the following December large numbers were taken together with sprats at Torquay. In November 1890 a thousand of the fish were obtained in two days from the pilchard boats fishing near Plymouth; these were caught near the Eddystone. When taken in British waters anchovies are either thrown away or sent to the market fresh with the sprats. If salted in the proper way, they would doubtless be in all respects equal to Dutch anchovies, if not to those imported from Italy. The supply, however, is small and inconstant, and for this reason English fish-curers have not learnt the proper way of preparing them. The so-called “Norwegian anchovies” imported into England in little wooden kegs are nothing but sprats pickled in brine with bay-leaves and whole pepper.

ANCIEN RÉGIME,, a French phrase commonly used, even by English writers, to denote the social and political system established in France under the old monarchy, which was swept away by the Revolution of 1789. The phrase is generally applicable only to France, for in no other country, with perhaps the exception of Japan, has there been in modern times so clearly marked a division between “the old order” and the new. ANCIENT (also spelt ; derived, through the Fr. ancien, old, from the late Lat. antianum, from ante, before), old or in olden times. “Ancient history” is distinguished from medieval and modern, generally as meaning before the fall of the western Roman empire. In English legal history, “ancient” tenure or demesne refers to what was crown property in the time of Edward the Confessor or William the Conqueror. “The Ancient of days” is a Biblical phrase for God. In the London Inns of Court the senior barristers used to be called “ancients.” From the 16th to the 18th century the word was also used, by confusion with “ensign,” i.e; flag or standard-bearer, for that military title, as in the case of Shakespeare’s “ancient Pistol”; but this use has nothing to do with “ancient” meaning “old.” ANCIENT LIGHTS, a phrase in English law for a negative (q.v.) consisting in the right to prevent the owner or occupier of an adjoining tenement from building or placing on his own land anything which has the effect of illegally obstructing or obscuring the light of the dominant tenement. At common law a person, who opens a window in his house, has a natural right to receive the flow of light that passes through it. But his neighbour is not debarred thereby from building on his own land even though the effect of his action is to obstruct the flow of light thus obtained. Where, however, a window had been opened for so long a time as to constitute immemorial usage in law, the light became an “ancient light” which the law protected from disturbance. The Prescription Act 1832 created a statutory prescription for light. It provided (s. 3) that “when the access and use of light to and for” (any building) “shall have been actually enjoyed therewith for the full period of 20 years without interruption, the right thereto shall be deemed absolute and indefeasible, any local usage or custom to the contrary notwithstanding, unless it shall appear that the same was enjoyed by some consent or agreement, expressly made or given for that purpose by deed or writing.” The statute does not create an absolute or indefeasible right immediately on the expiration of twenty years. Unless and until the dominant owner’s claim is brought into question (s. 4) no absolute or indefeasible title can arise under the act. The dominant owner has only an inchoate right to avail himself under the act of the twenty years’ uninterrupted enjoyment, if his claim is brought into question. But in the meantime, however long the enjoyment may have been, his right is just the same, and the origin of his right is just the same as if the act had never been passed. These principles were laid down in 1904 by the House of Lords in the leading case of Colls v. Home & Colonial Stores Ltd. (1904 A.C. 179). They overrule an earlier view propounded by Lord Westbury in 1865 (Tapling v. Jones, 11 H.L.C. 290) that the Prescription Act 1832 had abrogated the common law prescription as to light, that the right to “ancient lights” now depends upon positive enactment alone, and does not require, and ought not to be rested on, any fiction of a “lost grant” (see ). There has been much difference of judicial opinion as to what constitutes an actionable interference with “ancient lights.” On the one hand, the test has been prescribed that if an angle of 45°—uninterrupted sky light—was left, the easement was not interfered with, and, while this is not a rule of law, it is a good rough working criterion. On the other hand, it was held in effect by the Court of Appeal in the case of Colls v. Home & Colonial Stores Ltd. (1902; 1 Ch. 302) that to constitute an actionable obstruction of ancient lights it was sufficient if the light was sensibly less than it was before. The House of Lords, however, in the same case (1904 A. C. 179) overruled this view, and held that there must be a substantial privation of light enough to render the occupation of the house or building uncomfortable according to the ordinary notions of mankind and (in the case of business premises) to prevent the plaintiff from carrying on his business as beneficially as before. See also Kine v. Jolly (1905, 1 Ch. 480).

There is, in Scots law, no special doctrine as to “ancient lights.” The servitude of light in Scotland is simply the Roman servitude non officiendi luminibus vel prospectui (see and ). The same observation applies to the Code Civil and other European Codes based on it. The doctrine as to ancient lights does not prevail generally in the United States (consult Ruling Cases, under “Air”). ANCILLARY (from the Lat. ancilla, a handmaid), an adjective meaning “subordinate to” or “merely helping,” as opposed to “essential.” By Thackeray and some other writers it is also employed rather affectedly in its primary meaning of “pertaining to a maid-servant.” ANCILLON, CHARLES (1659–1715), one of a distinguished family of French Protestants, was born on the 28th of July 1659, at Metz. His father, David Ancillon (1617–1692), was obliged to leave France on the revocation of the edict of Nantes, and became pastor of the French Protestant community in Berlin. Charles Ancillon studied law at Marburg, Geneva, and Paris, where he was called to the bar. At the request of the Huguenots at Metz, he pleaded its cause at the court of Louis XIV., urging that it should be excepted in the revocation of the edict of Nantes, but his efforts were unsuccessful, and he joined his father in Berlin. He was at once appointed by the elector Frederick “juge et directeur de colonie de Berlin.” He had before this published several works on the revocation of the edict of Nantes and its consequences, but his literary capacity was mediocre, his style stiff and cold, and it was his personal character rather than his reputation as a writer that earned him the confidence of the elector. In 1687 he was appointed head of the so-called Académie des nobles, the principal educational establishment of the state; later on, as councillor of embassy, he took part in the negotiations which led to the assumption of the title of king by the elector. In 1699 he succeeded Pufendorf as historiographer to the elector, and the same year replaced his uncle Joseph Ancillon as judge of all the French refugees in Brandenburg. He died on the 5th of July 1715. Ancillon’s chief claim to remembrance is the work that he did for education in Prussia, and the share he took, in co-operation with Leibnitz, in founding the Academy of Berlin. Of his fairly numerous works the only one still of value is the Histoire de l’établissement des Français réfugiés dans les états de Brandebourg (Berlin, 1690).

title: Page:EB1911 - Volume 01.djvu/1003


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Ancient Lights


text: Page:Summa Theologica (2nd rev. ed.) - Volume 6.djvu/5


text: Index:Moscow conference 1943.djvu

title: Index:Moscow conference 1943.djvu


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The governments of the United States of America, United Kingdom, the Soviet Union, and China;

United in their determination, in accordance with the declaration by the United Nations of January, 1942, and subsequent declarations, to continue hostilities against those Axis powers with which they respectively are at war until such powers have laid down their arms on the basis of unconditional surrender;

Conscious of their responsibility to secure the liberation of themselves and the peoples allied with them from the menace of aggression;

Recognizing the necessity of insuring a rapid and orderly transition from war to peace and of establishing and maintaining international peace and security with the least diversion of the world's human and economic resources for armaments;

Jointly declare:

1. That their united action, pledged for the prosecution of the war against their respective enemies, will be continued for the organization and maintenance of peace and security.

2. That those of them at war with a common enemy will act together in all matters relating to the surrender and disarmament of that enemy.

3. That they will take all measures deemed by them to be necessary to provide against any violation of the terms imposed upon the enemy.

4. That they recognize the necessity of establishing at the earliest practicable date a general international organization, based on the principle of the sovereign equality of all peace-loving states, and open to membership by all such states, large and small, for the maintenance of international peace and security.

5. That for the purpose of maintaining international peace and security pending the re-establishment of law and order and the inauguration of a system of general security they will consult with one another and as occasion requires with other members of the United Nations, with a view to joint action on behalf of the community of nations.

6. That after the termination of hostilities they will not employ their military forces within the territories of other states except for the purposes envisaged in this declaration and after joint consultation.

7. That they will confer and cooperate with one another and with other members of the United Nations to bring about a practicable general agreement with respect to the regulation of armaments in the post-war period.

The Foreign Secretaries of the United States, the United Kingdom and the Soviet Union have established that their three governments are in complete agreement that Allied policy toward Italy must be based upon the fundamental principle that Fascism and all its evil influence and configuration shall be completely destroyed and that the Italian people shall be given every opportunity to establish governmental and other institutions based on democratic principles.

The Foreign Secretaries of the United States and the United Kingdom declare that the action of their governments form the inception of the invasion of Italian territory, in so far as paramount military requirements have permitted, has been based upon this policy.

In furtherance of this policy in the future the Foreign Secretaries of the three governments are agreed that the following measures are important and should be put into effect:

1. It is essential that the Italian Government should be made more democratic by inclusion of representatives of those sections of the Italian people who have always opposed Fascism.

2. Freedom of speech, of religious worship, of political belief, of press and of public meeting, shall be restored in full measure to the Italian people, who shall be entitled to form anti-Fascist political groups.

3. All institutions and organizations created by the Fascist regime shall be suppressed.

4. All Fascist or pro-Fascist elements shall be removed from the administration and from institutions and organizations of a public character.

5. All political prisoners of the Fascist regime shall be released and accorded full amnesty.

6. Democratic organs of local government shall be created.

7. Fascist chiefs and army generals known or suspected to be war criminals shall be arrested and handed over to justice.

title: Page:Moscow conference 1943.djvu/1


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 In making this declaration the three Foreign Secretaries recognize that so long as active military operations continue in Italy the time at which it is possible to give full effect to the principles stated above will be determined by the Commander-in-Chief on the basis of instructions received through the combined chiefs of staff.

The three governments, parties to this declaration, will, at the request of any one of them, consult on this matter. It is further understood that nothing in this resolution is to operate against the right of the Italian people ultimately to choose their own form of government.

The governments of the United Kingdom, the Soviet Union and the United States of America are agreed that Austria, the first free country to fall a victim to Hitlerite aggression, shall be liberated from German domination.

They regard the annexation imposed on Austria by Germany on March 15, 1938, as null and void. They consider themselves as in no way bound by any charges effected in Austria since that date. They declare that they wish to see re-established a free and independent Austria and thereby to open the way for the Austrian people themselves, as well as those neighboring States which will be face with similar problems, to find that political and economic security which is the only basis for lasting peace. Austria is reminded, however that she has a responsibility, which she cannot evade, for participation in the war at the side of Hitlerite Germany, and that in the final settlement account will inevitably be taken of her own contribution to her liberation.

The United Kingdom, the United States and the Soviet Union have received from many quarters evidence of atrocities, massacres and cold-blooded mass executions which are being perpetrated by Hitlerite forces in many of the countries they have overrun and from which they are now being steadily expelled. The brutalities of Nazi domination are no new thing, and all peoples or territories in their grip have suffered from the worst form of government by terror. What is new is that many of the territories are now being redeemed by the advancing armies of the advancing armies of the liberating powers, and that in their desperation the recoiling Hitlerites and Huns are redoubling their ruthless cruelties. This is now evidenced with particular clearness by monstrous crimes on the territory of the Soviet Union which is being liberated from Hitlerites, and on French and Italian territory.

Accordingly, the aforesaid three Allied powers, speaking in the interest of the thirty-two United Nations, hereby solemnly declare and give full warning of their declaration as follows:

At the time of granting of any armistice to any government which may be set up in Germany, those German officers and men and members of the Nazi party who have been responsible for or have taken a consenting part in the above atrocities, massacres and executions will be sent back to the countries in which their abominable deeds were done in order that they may be judged and punished according to the laws of these liberated countries and of free governments which will be erected therein. Lists will be compiled in all possible detail from all these countries having regard especially to invaded parts of the Soviet Union, to Poland and Czechoslovakia, to Yugoslavia and Greece including Crete and other islands, to Norway, Denmark, Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg, France and Italy.

Thus, Germans who take part in wholesale shooting of Polish officers or in the execution of French, Dutch, Belgian or Norwegian hostages of Cretan peasants, or who have shared in slaughters inflicted on the people of Poland or in territories of the Soviet Union which are now being swept clear of the enemy, will know they will be brought back to the scene of their crimes and judged on the spot by the peoples whom they have outraged.

Let those who have hitherto not imbrued their hands with innocent blood beware lest they join the ranks of the guilty, for most assuredly the three Allied powers will pursue them to the uttermost ends of the earth and will deliver them to their accusors in order that justice may be done.

The above declaration is without prejudice to the case of German criminals whose offenses have no particular geographical localization and who will be punished by joint decision of the government of the Allies.

title: Page:Moscow conference 1943.djvu/2


text:
Joint Four-Nation Declaration

{{header | title     = {{PAGENAME}} | author    = |override_author=The governments of the United States of America, United Kingdom, the Soviet Union, and China | year      = | translator = | section   = | previous  = | next      = |portal     = United Nations |wikipedia  = Moscow Declaration | edition = yes | notes   =  The formal name of the declaration was Declaration of the Four Nations on General Security

title: Joint Four-Nation Declaration


text:
Page:A Life of Matthew Fontaine Maury.pdf/38

24 at such a round rate; however, I may have none. In that case we will call yours ours. I cannot say when I shall be married; that depends upon my promotion, and God knows whether I am to look for that this year, or the next, or the next. I am, and have been for the last year, doing the duties and receiving the pay of a lieutenant. I am sorry to hear you have had such ill-luck with your crops. I hope you will make up this year for all lost time, and be able to place yourself square in the world. But can't you farmers make more than three hundred dollars a year? That seems monstrous little. How much will it cost me to live on shore? I have given A.K. (the 4th auditor) directions to pay to you the sum of three hundred dollars—a claim which I have had standing with the department for some years; reading your letter reminded me of it. The claim is a just one; I have ordered him to send you the amount. This little sum I send you to speculate with; if you make anything from it, we will share the net profits; if you lose it, the loss is mine, and we will say nothing about it. I suppose even ten or fifteen dollars off it, a year, would be some little help to you? If you do not get more than that from your investment, appropriate the whole profits, my good fellow, to your own purposes. You need not be scrupulous about it, for it is lying idle in the department, and would continue there doing nothing until I should call for it after I get to the U. S.. ..

When I was last in the U. S., thought if I could get employment as a surveyor, or anything of that sort, by a State, I would try a hand at it and let "Uncle Sam off": but I believe I have too many notions, and that after all "Uncle Sam" will have the selling of my bones to the doctors.

I like what you say of Charles. I hope he will make a useful man of business; I wish he was not so unsociable as he appeared to be when I saw him last. Say something affectionate and encouraging to him from me.

From the continuance of K.'s silence, I suppose he must be miffed at something I may have said to him from Georgetown. I do not care how little I have done to injure his feelings, or how innocently; be pleased to make any


text: Talk:Joint Four-Nation Declaration

title: Talk:Joint Four-Nation Declaration


text:
Page:A Life of Matthew Fontaine Maury.pdf/39

Rh apologies that are becoming. Make advances on my part and meet him more than half way. I hope, though, that I may be mistaken about his feeling hurt at anything I've done or said.

Having been transferred from the 'Falmouth' to the schooner 'Dolphin', Maury performed the duty of first lieutenant on that vessel until he joined the frigate 'Potomac', on which he returned to the United States in 1834.

The ship was paid off at Boston, and the young officer returned to Fredericksburg, Virginia, and married his cousin, Miss Ann Hull Herndon, to whom he had been engaged for several years.

His fee to the clergyman who married them, the Rev. Dr. Maguire, was the last ten dollars he possessed in the world. Not long after his marriage he went on to Philadelphia to make arrangements with Mr. Biddle, a prominent publisher of that place, to bring out his "first-born," as he used to call it—his work on navigation. So great was his poverty while there that he lived on cheese and crackers, which he would eat at odd moments in his little garret chamber.

It was considered a bold step on the part of an officer of no higher rank than that of a passed midshipman to publish a work on navigation; but the book, like its author, had the ring of true mettle, and made its way in spite of all obstacles. It was favorably noticed by the highest nautical authorities in England, and it became the textbook of the United States Navy.

At about this time Maury's eldest child, Elizabeth Herndon Maury, was born.

A month after his work on navigation was published, he applied for sea service again, and was attached to the South Sea Exploring Expedition, then fitting out under the


text:
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26 command of Commodore Catesby Jones. He joined the expedition as astronomer and hydrographer, although he was at that time junior lieutenant on the list. On receiving the appointment, he went to Philadelphia for study and to prepare himself for this responsible position. In a little plank observatory in Rittenhouse Square, he became adept in the use of the telescope, transit instrument, and theodolite. In 1834 Captain Charles Wilkes succeeded Commodore Catesby Jones in the command of the expedition. Captain Charles Wilkes, it was understood, wished to reorganize it, and Maury, with great delicacy offered to resign. But on the same day he again applied for active service, and was then assigned the duty of making surveys of southern harbors. On leaving home he took with him a tiny shoe from the foot of each of his little daughters (for by this time he had two) to hang up in his cabin and remind him of the pattering feet he loved so tenderly and would miss so sorely.

In the following letter to his brother, written while he was in Philadelphia, he writes of his plans and aspirations for the future:—

Yours of the 10th instant is before me; for which I thank you most heartily. But first I must tell you how comes it that I am here. I left Fredericksburg ten days ago, and am here for the purpose of hurrying my book through the press. The publishers were to let me have the proof sheets in Fredericksburg but they came to me so slowly that I resolved to come on here and use every exertion to bring the book out before Congress meets. Without wishing to excite your expectations, I will let you into the secret of my plans, which I wish you to preserve as secret, in order that, if I should not succeed in what I undertake, my friends and family may not feel the effects of disappointment. You must bear in mind that this is the first nautical work of science that has ever come from the pen of a naval officer;


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Rh and upon its merits I intend to base a claim for promotion. Such a case has no precedent. Therefore you must look upon it as an experiment in which I may, or I may not, be successful. If I succeed, I shall be put over the heads of many who are now above me. You see in this another motive for secrecy, for many of those over whose heads it is likely I would be placed would, if they knew I contemplated such a thing, use every exertion to prevent it. I shall ask to be made a Lieutenant of ten years rank. If this is done (of which I am by no means sanguine), besides the advantage of making me old in rank, it will entitle me (I think) to back pay, as though I had been a lieutenant for these ten years; and this back pay will amount to some $4,000 or $5,000. I shall be promoted next March at any rate, and my object is to get the book out and present my claim before that time, which, by being presented before I receive any promotion, will be doubly strong. Hence the haste to have the book out. I wish to impress upon you that I am not sanguine of success, but am resolved to try every honourable means to accomplish the object, and to take the most favourable time for it. The book, I hope, will be out in about six weeks. One hundred pages are printed; them are about 300 more. Negotiations for having 150 of the latter stereotyped (they are tables) are on foot. So much for my book, and my secret plans.

Now, Dick, for your letter and your generosity, which you prove to be what, Dick, I know it is. In my dilemma last Fall I did not apply to you for assistance, not because I thought you would not render it cheerfully (for I have always felt that to do so would be a pleasure to you), but because I thought K. would do it cheerfully also, and with less inconvenience than you could. While I was waiting for his reply, I was relieved by having the greater part of the money, which the department had withheld from me, allowed to me. This placed me beyond the necessity of calling upon my friends for pecuniary aid. I then announced this circumstance to K., and offered to serve him in any way I could, and I assure you I should be very happy to serve him. So, Dick, I beg that you will not suffer yourself to have any


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28 unpleasant feelings about the matter; for I feel that security in your friendship and affection which I have ever felt, which grew up with us from our childhood, and which has been and is a source of unutterable gratification to me. You know that of all of our brothers, we two were more as one in feeling and in disposition; even our boyish fights never interrupted the tide of affection between us. It has never been the custom with us to use words in order to express our feelings for each other, nor shall I break in upon that custom now; but I delight to think of our happy days together when we were young. I do not think that I shall want any money, Dick. I am making the book bear my expenses while I am here, and my pay is appropriated to the use of my family. I shall be here about six weeks, I expect. I have put matters in such a train that I shall know of this to-morrow.

Tell A. R. M. that if I am not in Fredericksburg when he passes through, my wife will be there, who will be much pleased to form his acquaintance, and that I hope he will allow her an opportunity of so doing. How does little Mat come on, and who is he like? Give my love to Sr. Peggy and every one of the children. Tell Charles I hope he is getting rich. He must write to me. I never know where to find him, else he should hear from me. Love to Pa and Ma and Catherine. Tell the latter she must knit me a pair of yarn socks. Good-night, dear Dick, and believe me as ever,

The following is a remarkable letter from a young man of twenty-eight to his elder brother. He writes as if he felt every word, although he did not become a professing Christian himself until 1867, when he joined the Episcopal Church while in London after the war:—

For several days I have been promising myself this pleasure. I am at leisure today, and housed in consequence


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User talk:186.172.194.239

Hello, and welcome to Wikisource. We appreciate your contribution, but it unfortunately does not seem to be appropriate for Wikisource. Wikisource is a collection of previously published texts. If the page you contributed does not meet these requirements, it will be deleted shortly. Thank you. Beeswaxcandle (talk) 08:18, 31 May 2012 (UTC)

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xii


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chalkhill, John


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chalkley, Thomas


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Challice, John


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Challis, James


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Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/13

 CONTENTS.

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text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Challoner, Richard


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The first flush of grey light, the herald of daylight, Is dimly outlining the musterers’ camp, Where over the sleeping the stealthily creeping Breath of the morning lies chilly and damp,

As, blankets forsaking, ’twixt sleeping and waking, The black-boys turn out to the manager's call— Whose order, of course, is, ‘Be after the horses, And take all sorts of care you unhobble them all!’

Then, each with a bridle (provokingly idle), They saunter away his commands to fulfil, Where, cheerily chiming, the musical rhyming From equine bell-ringers comes over the hill. Rh

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Rh But now the dull dawning gives place to the morning: The sun, springing up in a glorious flood Of golden-shot fire, mounts higher and higher, Till the crests of the sandhills are stained with his blood.

Now hobble-chains’ jingling, with thud of hoofs mingling, Though distant, sounds near—the cool air is so still— As, urged by their whooping, the horses come trooping In front of the boys round the point of the hill.

What searching and rushing for bridles and brushing Of saddle marks, tight’ning of breastplate and girth! And what a strange jumble of laughter and grumble— Some comrade’s misfortune the subject of mirth.

I recollect well how that morning Jack Bell Had an argument over the age of a mare— The C O B gray one, the dam of that bay one Which storekeeper Brown calls the Young Lady Clare;

How Tomboy and Vanity caused much profanity, Scamp'ring away with their tails in the air, Till, after a chase at a deuce of a pace, They ran back in the mob and we collared them there.

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6 Then the laugh and the banter, as gaily we canter, With a pause for the nags at a miniature lake, Where the yellowtop catches the sunlight in patches, And lies like a mirror of gold in our wake.

O, the rush and the rattle of fast-fleeing cattle, Whose hoofs beat a mad rataplan on the earth! Their hot-headed flight in! Who would not delight in The gallop that seems to hold all life is worth?

And over the rolling plains slowly patrolling To the sound of the cattle’s monotonous tramp, Till we hear the sharp pealing of stockwhips, revealing The fact that our comrades have put on the camp.

From the spot where they're drafting the wind rises, wafting The dust till it hides man and beast from our gaze, Till, suddenly lifting and easterly drifting, We catch a short glimpse of the scene through the haze—

A blending and blurring of swiftly recurring Colour and movement, that pass on their way; An intricate weaving of sights and sounds, leaving An eager desire to take part in the fray;

A dusty procession, in circling succession, Of bullocks that bellow in impotent rage; A bright panorama, a soul-stirring drama— The sky for its background, the earth for its stage.

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Rh How well I remember that twelfth of November When Jack and his little mare, Vanity, fell! On the Diamantina there never was seen a Pair who could cut out a beast half as well.

And yet in one second Death’s finger had beckoned, And horse and bold rider had answered the call Brooking no hesitation, without preparation, That sooner or later must come to us all.

Thrice a big curly-horned Cobb bullock had scorned To meekly acknowledge the ruling of Fate; Thrice Jack with a clout of his whip cut him out, But each time the beast galloped back to his mate.

Once more he came blund’ring along, with Jack thund'ring Beside him, his spurs in poor Vanity's flanks, When, from some cause or other forsaking its mother, A little white calf trotted out from the ranks

’Twas useless, I knew it; yet I turned to pursue it: At the same time I gave a loud warning to Jack: It was all unavailing: I saw him come sailing Along as the weaner ran into his track.

Little Vanity tried to turn off on one side, Then altered her mind and attempted to leap. . . The pace was too fast: that jump was her last; For she and her rider fell all in a heap.

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8 I was quickly down kneeling beside him, and feeling With tremulous hand for the throb of his heart. ‘The mare—is she dead?’ were the first words he said, As he suddenly opened his eyes with a start.

He spoke to the creature—his hand could just reach her— Gently caressing her lean Arab head: She acknowledged his praising with eyes quickly glazing. . . A whinny. . . a struggle. . . and there she lay dead!

I sat there and nursed his head, for we durst Not remove him: we knew where he fell he would die. As I watched his life flicker, his breath growing thicker, I'd have given the world to be able to cry.

Rough-voiced, sunburnt men, far away beyond ken Of civilisation, our comrades, stood nigh— All true-hearted mourners, and sadly forlorn as He gave them a handshake and bade them good-bye.

In my loving embrace there he finished life's race, And nobly and gamely that long course was run; Though a man and a sinner he weighed out a winner, And God, the Great Judge, will declare he has won.

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Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed: The evening cowslips oped Their yellow eyes to look at her; The love-sick lilies moped With envy that she rather chose To take a creamy-petalled rose And lean it ’gainst her ebon hair, All in that garden fair.

A languid breeze, with stolen scent Of box-bloom in his grasp, Sighed out his longing in her ear, And with his dying gasp Scattered the perfume at her feet To blend with others not less sweet: He loved her, but she did not care, All in that garden fair. Rh

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Rh The rose she honoured nodded down: His comrades burst with spite: Poor fool! he knew not he was doomed To barely last the night. Are hearts to her but as that flower, The plaything of a careless hour, To lacerate and never spare All in that garden fair?

I held her hand that I might trace Her fortune in its palm: A bolder moonbeam than the rest Crept up and kissed her arm, And, kissing once, was loth to leave, So hid himself within the sleeve That clasped the lithe arm, white and bare, All in that garden fair.

I traced her fortune: love and wealth— Though life, alas! was short. But will that wealth be bought with love? Or love with wealth be bought? I know not: knowing only this— Her hand seemed waiting for a kiss: I longed to, but I did not dare, All in that garden fair.

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12 But she, alas! is not for me, And I am not for her; Yet ever deep within my heart A faint regret must stir— A thrill of longing that among Those moonlit paths with lover’s tongue I might return, and woo her there All in that garden fair.

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The rum was rich and rare:

There were wagers in the air:

The atmosphere was rosy, and the tongues were wagging free;

But one was in the revel

Whose occiput was level—

Plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree!

The conversation's flow

Was not devoid of blow,

And neither was it wanting in the mild, colloquial D

With a most ingenuous smile,

'This here is not my style,'

Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

Rh

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14 'And I wouldn't be averse To emptying my purse, And laying some small wager with the present companee: To cut the matter short, Foot-racing is my forte,' Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

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Rh 'I think it's on the cards I can run three hundred yards (The match to be decided where you gentlemen agree) Against your fleetest horse: The race would prove a source Of pleasure,' said Josephus, from the North Countree.

'To equalise the task, This little start I ask: The rider, ere he follows, must imbibe a cup of tea— A simple breakfast-cup He will have to swallow up. That's me!—Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.'

Then a knowing 'un looked wise— Begged to apologise; But might he ask what temp'rature the liquid was to be? Would it come from out the pot Milkless, steaming, boiling hot? 'Oh, not at all!' said Riley, from the North Countree.

'Allow me to explain: I do observe with pain This jocular reflection on my native honestee. My bump of truth is huge: I'd scorn a subterfuge,' Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

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16 'Before the parties start I'll take the Judge apart To prove, by tasting, whether I have tampered with the tea; And I beg to state again Your suspicions give me pain,' Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

Then they all were satisfied That the match was 'boneefied': The bond was signed, and Riley went to 'preparate' the tea; But his slow, ambiguous smile Would have seemed to token guile In any man but Riley, from the North Countree.

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Rh He brought the fatal cup By its saucer covered up: The Judge examined its contents with awful gravitee; Then read the papers o'er, But could not find a flaw: 'Wade in, Josephus Riley, from the North Countree!'

Then the wagerer just bowed, And, passing through the crowd, He handed up the beverage unto the wageree; And off across the flat, Springing gaily, pit-a-pat, Went plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

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18 But behind him what a yell Of execration fell From lips that lent themselves to shapes of great profanitee! For the people of that town Were done a lovely brown By plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

And here's the reason why: The tea was simply ! You might eat it, but to drink it was impossibilitee; Yet, curious to state, Men did not appreciate This hum'rous innovation from the North Countree.

You'll understand, of course, That wager was a source Of very little profit to the hapless wageree; And, dating from that day, I much regret to say Men look askance at Riley, from the North Countree.

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Far reaching downs a solid sea sunk everlastingly to rest, And yet whose billows seem to be for ever heaving toward the west: The tiny field-mice make their nests, the summer insects buzz and hum Among the hollows and the crests of this wide ocean stricken dumb, Whose rollers move for ever on, though sullenly, with fettered wills, To break in voiceless wrath upon the crumbled bases of far hills, Where rugged outposts meet the shock, stand fast, and hurl them back again, An avalanche of earth and rock, in tumbled fragments on the plain; But, never heeding the rebuff, to right and left they kiss the feet Of hanging cliff and bouldered bluff till on the farther side they meet, And once again resume their march to where the afternoon sun dips Toward the west, and Heaven's arch salutes the Earth with ruddy lips. 19

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20 Such is the scene that greets the eye: wide sweep of plain to left and right: In front low hills that seem to lie wrapped in a veil of yellow light— Low peaks that through the summer haze frown from their fancied altitude, As some small potentate might gaze upon a ragged multitude. Thus does the battlemented pile of high-built crags, all weather-scarred, Where grass land stretches mile on mile, keep scornful solitary guard; Where the sweet spell is not yet broke, while from her wind-swept, sun-kissed dream Man's cruel touch has not yet woke this Land where silence reigns supreme:

Not the grim silence of a cave, some vaulted stalactited room, Where feeble candle-shadows wave fantastically through the gloom— But restful silence, calm repose: the spirit of these sky-bound plains Tempers the restless blood that flows too fiery through the swelling veins; Breathes a faint message in the ear, bringing the weary traveller peace; Whispers, 'Take heart and never fear, for soon the pilgrimage will cease!

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text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chalmers, George (d.1791)


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Rh Beat not thy wings against the cage! Seek not to burst the padlocked door That leads to depths thou canst not gauge! Life is all thine: why seek for more? Read in the slow sun's drooping disc an answer to the thoughts that vex: Ponder it well, and never risk the substance for its dim reflex.'

Such is the silent sermon told to those who care to read this page Where once a mighty ocean rolled in some dim, long-forgotten age. Here, where the Mitchell grass waves green, the never-weary ebb and flow Of glassy surges once was seen a thousand thousand years ago: To such a sum those dead years mount that Time has grown too weary for The keeping of an endless count, and long ago forgot their score.

But now—when, hustled by the wind, fast-flying, fleecy cloud-banks drift Across the sky where, silver-skinned, the pale moon shines whene'er they lift, And throws broad patches in strange shapes of light and shade, that seem to meet In dusky coastline where sharp capes jut far into a winding-sheet

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22 Of ghostly, glimmering, silver rays that struggle 'neath an inky ledge Of driving cloud, and fill deep bays rent in the shadow's ragged edge— Sprung from the gloomy depths of Time, faint shapes patrol the spectral sea, Primeval phantom-forms that climb the lifeless billows silently, Trailing along their slimy length in thirst for one another's blood, Writhing in ponderous trials of strength, as once they did before the flood.

They sink, as, driven from the North by straining oar and favouring gale, A misty barge repels the froth which hides her with a sparkling veil:

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Rh High-curled the sharpened beak doth stand, slicing the waters in the lead; The low hull follows, thickly manned by dim, dead men of Asian breed: Swift is her passage, short the view the wan moon's restless rays reveal Of dusky, fierce-eyed warrior crew, of fluttering cloth and flashing steel; Of forms that mouldered ages past, ere from recesses of the sea, With earthquake throes this land was cast in Nature's writhing agony.

As the warm airs of Spring-time chase reluctant snows from off the range, And plant fresh verdure in their place, so the dimvisioned shadows change; And glimpses of what yet shall be bid the past fly beyond all ken, While rising from futurity appear vast colonies of men Who from the sea-coast hills have brought far-quarried spoils to build proud homes Of high-piled palaces, all wrought in sloping roofs and arching domes, Smooth-pillared hall, or cool arcade, and slenderest sky-piercing spire, Where the late-sinking moon has laid her tender tints of mellow fire,

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24 And golden paves the spacious ways where, o'er the smoothen granite flags, The lightning-driven car conveys its freight with force that never lags.

A goodly city! where no stain of engine-smoke or factory grime Blemishes walls that will retain their pristine pureness for all time: Lying as one might take a gem and set it in some strange device Of precious metal, and might hem it round with stones of lesser price— So from encircling fields doth spring this city where, in emerald sheen, Man hath taught Nature how to bring a mantle of perennial green— Hewing canals whose banks are fringed by willows bending deeply down To waters flowing yellow-tinged beneath the moon toward the town— Filling from mighty reservoirs, sunk in the hollows of the plain, That flood the fields without a pause though Summer should withhold her rain. Labour is but an empty name to those who dwell within this land, For they have boldly learnt to tame the lightning's flash with iron hand:

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Rh That Force, the dartings from whose eyes not even gods might brave and live, The blasting essence of the skies, proud Jupiter's prerogative— His flashing pinions closely clipt, pent in a cunning-fashioned cage, Of all his flaming glory stript—these men direct his tempered rage: A bondman, at their idlest breath with silent energy he speeds, From dawn of life to hour of death, to execute their slightest needs.

Slow to her couch the moon doth creep, but, going, melts in sparkling tears Of dew, because we may not keep this vision of the future years: Swiftly, before the sunrise gleam, I watch it melting in the morn— The snowy city of my dream, the home of nations yet unborn!

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Yes! there it hangs upon the wall And never gives a sound: The hand that trimmed its greenhide fall Is hidden underground— There, in that patch of sallee shade, Beneath that grassy mound.

I never take it from the wall: That whip belonged to him— The man I singled from them all: He was my husband, Jim. I see him now—so straight and tall, So long and lithe of limb.

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Rh That whip was with him night and day When he was on the track: I've often heard him laugh and say That when they heard it crack, After the breaking of the drought, The cattle all came back.

And all the time that Jim was here, A-working on the run, I'd hear that whip ring sharp and clear Just about set of sun, To let me know that he was near And that his work was done.

I was away that afternoon, Penning the calves, when—bang! I heard his whip: 'twas rather soon: A thousand echoes rang And died away among the hills, As toward the hut I sprang.

I made the tea and waited, but, Seized by a sudden whim, I went and sat outside the hut And watched the light grow dim: I waited there till after dark, But not a sign of Jim.

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28 The evening air was damp with dew: Just as the clock struck ten His horse came riderless—I knew What was the matter then ... Why should the Lord have singled out My Jim from other men?

I took the horse and found him where He lay beneath the sky, With blood all clotted in his hair. I felt too dazed to cry: I held him to me as I prayed To God that I might die.

But sometimes now I seem to hear— Just when the air grows chill— A single whip-crack, sharp and clear, Re-echo from the hill. That's Jim! to let me know he's near And thinking of me still.

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The snow lies deep on hill and dale, In rocky gulch and grassy vale: The tiny, trickling, tumbling falls Are frozen 'twixt their rocky walls That grey and brown look silent down Upon Kiandra's shrouded town.

The Eucumbene itself lies dead, Fast frozen in its narrow bed; And distant sounds ring out quite near, The crystal air is froze so clear; While to and fro the people go In silent swiftness o'er the snow.

And, like a mighty gallows-frame, The derrick in the New Chum claim Hangs over where, despite the cold, Strong miners seek the hidden gold, And stiff and blue, half-frozen through, The fickle dame of Fortune woo. 29

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30 Far out, along a snow-capped range, There rose a sound which echoed strange: Where snow-emburthen'd branches hang, And flashing icicles, there rang A gay refrain, as towards the plain Sped swiftly downward Carl the Dane.

His long, lithe snow-shoes sped along In easy rhythm to his song; Now slowly circling round the hill, Now speeding downward with a will; The crystals crash and blaze and flash As o'er the frozen crust they dash.

Among the hills the first he shone Of all who buckled snow-shoe on; For though the mountain lads were fleet, But one bold rival dare compete, To veer and steer, devoid of fear, Beside this strong-limbed mountaineer.

'Twas Davy Eccleston who dared To cast the challenge: If Carl cared On shoes to try their mutual pace, Then let him enter for the race, Which might be run by anyone— A would-be champion. Carl said 'Done!'

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Rh But not alone in point of speed They sought to gain an equal meed; For in the narrow lists of love Dave Eccleston had cast the glove: Though both had prayed, the blushing maid As yet no preference betrayed,

But played them off, as women will, One 'gainst the other one, until— A day when she was sorely pressed— To loving neither youth confessed; But did exclaim—the wily dame!— 'Who wins this race, I'll bear his name!'

Her words were ringing through Carl's head As o'er the frozen crust he sped, But suddenly became aware That not alone he travelled there: He sudden spied, with swinging stride, A stranger gliding by his side:

The breezes o'er each shoulder tossed His beard, bediamonded with frost; His eyes flashed strangely, bushy-browed; His breath hung round him like a shroud; He never spoke, nor silence broke, But by the Dane sped stroke for stroke.

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32 'Old man! I do not know your name, Nor what you are, nor whence you came— But this: if I but had your shoes This champion race I ne'er could lose. To call them mine, those shoes divine, I'll gladly pay should you incline.'

The stranger merely bowed his head— 'The shoes are yours,' he gruffly said. 'I change with you, though at a loss; And in return I ask that cross Which, while she sung, your mother hung Around your neck when you were young.'

Carl hesitated when he heard The price, but not for long demurred, And gave the cross. With trembling haste The shoes upon his feet were laced— So long, yet light and polished bright— His heart beat gladly at the sight.

Now, on the morning of the race, Expectancy on every face, They come the programme to fulfil Upon the slope of Township Hill. With silent feet the people meet, While youths and maidens laughing greet.

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Rh High-piled the flashing snowdrifts lie, And laugh to scorn the sun's dull eye, That, glistening feebly, seems to say: 'When Summer comes you'll melt away! You'll change your song when I grow strong: I think so, though I may be wrong.'

The pistol flashed, and off they went Like lightning on the steep descent. Resistlessly down-swooping, swift O'er the smooth face of polished drift The racers strain with might and main; But in the lead flies Carl the Dane.

Behind him Davy did his best, With hopeless eye and lip compressed: Beat by a snow-shoe length at most, They flash and pass the winning-post. The maiden said, 'I'll gladly wed The youth who in this race has led.'

But where was he? Still speeding fast, Over the frozen stream he passed. They watched his flying form until They lost it over Sawyers' Hill; Nor saw it more: the people swore The like they'd never seen before.

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34 The way he scaled that steep ascent Was quite against all precedent; While others said he could but choose To do it on those demon shoes. They talked in vain, for Carl the Dane Was never seen in flesh again.

But now the lonely diggers say That sometimes at the close of day, They see a misty wraith flash by, With the faint echo of a cry. It may be true; perhaps they do: I doubt it much; but what say you?

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The Bree was up; the floods were out Around the hut of Culgo Jim: The hand of God had broke the drought And filled the channels to the brim: The outline of the hut loomed dim Among the shades of murmurous pine, That eve of good Saint Valentine.

He watched, and to his sleepy gaze The dying embers of the fire, Its yellow reds and pearly greys, Made pictures of his younger days. Outside the waters mounted higher Beneath a half-moon's sickly shine, That eve of good Saint Valentine.

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36 There, in the great slab fire-place The oak log, burnt away to coal, Showed him the semblance of a face Framed in a golden aureole: Eyes, the clear windows of a soul— Soul of a maid, who used to sign Herself, 'Jim, dear, your Valentine.'

Lips, whose pink curves were made to bear Love's kisses, not to be the mock Of grave-worms ... Suddenly a whirr, And twelve loud strokes upon the clock; Then at the door a gentle knock. The collie dog began to whine That morn of good Saint Valentine.

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Rh He opened; by his heels the hound Sniffed at the night. 'Who comes, and why? What? no one! Hush! was that a sound? Methought I heard a human cry. Bah! 'twas a curlew passing by Out where the lignum bushes twine, This morn of good Saint Valentine.

'What ails the dog? Down, Stumpy, down! No? Well, lead on, perchance a sheep It is, poor brute, that fears to drown. Heavens! how chill the waters creep! Why, Stumpy, do you splash and leap? 'Tis but a foolish quest of thine, This morn of good Saint Valentine.

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38 'Nay, not so foolish as I thought ... Hark! 'mid those reeds a feeble scream! Mother of God! a cradle—brought Down from some homestead up the stream! A white-robed baby! Do I dream? No, 'tis that dear dead love of mine Who sends me thus a Valentine!'

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Long time beside the squatter's gate A great grey Box-Tree, early, late, Or shine or rain, in silence there Had stood and watched the seasons fare: Had seen the wind upon the plain Caress the amber ears of grain; The river burst its banks and come Far past its belt of mighty gum: Had seen the scarlet months of drought Scourging the land with fiery knout; And seasons ill and seasons good Had alternated as they would. The years were born, had grown and gone, While suns had set and suns had shone; Fierce flames had swept; chill waters drenched;— That sturdy yeoman never blenched. 39

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40 The Tree had watched the station grow— The buildings rising row on row; And from that point of vantage green, Peering athwart its leafy screen, The wondering soldier-birds had seen The lumbering bullock-dray draw near, Led by that swarthy pioneer Who, gazing at the pleasant shade, Was tempted, dropped his whip and stayed; Brought there his wanderings to a close; Unloosed the polished yokes and bows.

The bullocks, thankful for the boon, Rang on their bells a merry tune: The hobbles clinked; the horses grazed; The snowy calico was raised; The fire was lit; the fragrant tea Drunk to a sunset melody Tuned by the day before it died To waken on Earth's other side. There 'twas, beneath that Box-Tree's shade, Fortune's foundation-stone was laid; Cemented fast with toil and thrift, Stone upon stone was laid to lift A mighty arch, commemorate Of one who reached the goal too late. That white-haired pioneer with pride Fitted the keystone; then he died: His toil, his thrift, all to what boot? He gave his life for Dead Sea fruit:

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Rh What did it boot his wide domain Of feathered pine and sweeping plain, Sand-ridge and turf? for he lay dead— Another reigning in his stead.

His sons forgot him; but that Tree Mourned for him long and silently, And o'er the old man's lonely bier Would, if he could, have dropped a tear. One other being only shared His grief: one other only cared: And she was but a six years' maid— His grandchild, who had watched him fade In childish ignorance; and wept Because the poor old grand-dad slept So long a sleep, and never came To smile upon her at her game, Or tell her stories of the fays And giants of the olden days. She cared; and, as the seasons sped, Linked by the memory of the dead, They two, the Box-Tree and the Child, Grew old in friendship; and she smiled, Clapping her chubby hands with glee, When for her pleasure that old Tree Would shake his limbs, and let the light Glance in a million sparkles bright From off his polished olive cloak. Then would the infant gently stroke

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42 His massive bole, and laughing try To count the patches of blue sky Betwixt his leaves, or in the shades That trembled on the grassy blades Trace curious faces, till her head Of gold grew heavy; then he'd spread His leaves to shield her, while he droned A lullaby, so softly toned It seemed but as the gentle sigh Of Summer as she floated by; While bird and beast grew humble-voiced, Seeing those golden ringlets moist With dew of sleep. With one small hand Grasping a grass-stem for a wand, Titania slept. Nature nor spoke, Nor dared to breathe, until she woke.

The years passed onward; and perchance The Tree had shot his tufted lance Up to the sky a few slow feet; But one great limb grew down to greet His mistress, who had ne'er declined In love for him, though far behind Her child-life lay, and now she stood Waiting to welcome womanhood. She loved him always as of old; Yet would his great roots grasp the mould, And knotted branches grind and groan To see her seek him not alone;

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Rh For lovers came, and 'neath those boughs With suave conversing sought to rouse The slumbering passion in a breast Whose coldness gave an added zest To the pursuit;—but all in vain: They spoke the once, nor came again— Save one alone, who pressed his suit (Man-like, he loved forbidden fruit) And strove to change her Nay to Yea, Until it fell upon a day Once more he put his fate to proof Standing beneath that olive roof; And though her answer still was 'No' He, half-incensed, refused to go, Asking her, Had she heart for none Because there was some other one Who claimed it all?

Whereon the maid Slipped off her ring and laughing said: Look you, my friend! here now I prove The truth of it, and pledge my love!'— And, poised on tiptoe, touched a limb That bent to gratify her whim. She slipped the golden circle on A tiny branchlet, whence it shone Mocking the suitor with its gleam— A quaint dispersal of his dream. She left the trinket there; but when She came to take it back again

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44 She found it not; nor—though she knelt Upon the scented grass and felt Among its roots, or parted sheaves And peered among the shining leaves— Could it be found. The Box-Tree held Her troth for aye: his great form swelled Until the bitter sap swept through His veins and gave him youth anew.

With busy fingers, lank and thin, The fatal Sisters sit and spin Life's web, in gloomy musings wrapt, Caring not, when a thread is snapt, What harm its severance may do— Whether it strangleth one or two.

Alas! there came an awful space Of time wherein that sweet young face Grew pale, its sharpened outline pressed Deep in the pillow; for a guest, Unsought, unbidden, forced his way Into the chamber where she lay. 'Twas Death! ... Outside the Box-Tree kept Sad vigil, and at times he swept His branches softly, as a thrill Shot through his framework, boding ill To her he loved; and so he bade A bird fly ask her why she stayed. The messenger, with glistening eye, Returned, and said, 'The maid doth lie

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Rh Asleep. I tapped upon the pane: She stirred not, so I tapped again. She rests so silent on the bed, Friend, that I fear the maid is dead; For they have cut great sprays of bloom And laid them all about the room. The scent of roses fills the air: They nestle in her breast and hair— Like snowy mourners, scented, sweet, Around her pillow and her feet.' Ah, me!' the Box-Tree, sighing, said; My love is dead! my love is dead!' And shook his branches till each leaf Chorused his agony of grief.

They bore the maiden forth, and laid Her down to rest where she had played Amid her piles of forest-spoil In childhood: now the sun-caked soil Closed over her. 'Ah!' sighed the Tree, Mark how my love doth come to me!' He pushed brown rootlets down, and slid Between the casket and its lid; And bade them very gently creep And wake the maiden from her sleep. The tiny filaments slipped down And plucked the lace upon her gown. She stirred not when they ventured near And softly whispered in her ear.

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46 The silken fibres gently press Upon her lips a chill caress: They wreathe her waist: they brush her hair: Under her pallid eyelids stare: Yet all in vain; she will not wake— Not even for her lover's sake. The Box-Tree groaned aloud and cried: Ah, me! grim Death hath stole my bride. Where is she hidden? Where hath flown Her soul? I cannot bide alone; But fain would follow.'

Then he called And whispered to an ant that crawled Upon a bough; and bade it seek The white-ant colony and speak A message where, beneath a dome Of earth, the white queen hath her home. She sent a mighty army forth That fall upon the tree in wrath, And, entering by a tiny hole, Fill all the hollow of his bole; Through all its pipes and crannies pour; Sharp at his aching heart-strings tore; Along his branches built a maze Of sinuous, earthen-covered ways. His smooth leaves shrunk, his sap ran dry The sunbeams laughing from the sky Helped the ant workers at their toil, Sucking all moisture from the soil.

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Rh Then on a night the wind swept down And rustled 'mid the foliage brown. The mighty framework creaked and groaned In giant agony, and moaned— Its wind-swept branches growing numb— I come, my love! my love, I come!' A gust more furious than the rest Struck the great Box-Tree's shivering crest The great bole snapped across its girth; The forest monarch fell to earth With such a mighty rush of sound The settlers heard it miles around, While upward through the windy night That faithful lover's soul took flight.

The squatter smiled to see it fall: He sent his men with wedge and maul, Who split the tree; but found it good For nothing more than kindling-wood. They marvelled much to find a ring— Asking themselves what chanced to bring The golden circlet which they found Clasping a branchlet firmly round. Foolish and blind! they could not see The faithfulness of that dead Tree.

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A WAYSIDE QUEEN

She was born in the season of fire, When a mantle of murkiness lay On the front of the crimson Destroyer: And none knew the name of her sire But the woman; and she, ashen grey, In the fierce pangs of motherhood lay.

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Rh The skies were aflame at her coming With a marvellous message of ill; And fear-stricken pinions were drumming The hot, heavy air, whence the humming Of insects rose, sudden and shrill, As they fled from that hell-begirt hill.

Then the smoke-serpent writhed in her tresses: The flame kissed her hard on the lips: She smiled at their ardent caresses As the wanton who smiles, but represses A lover's hot haste, and so slips From the arm that would girdle her hips.

Such the time of her coming and fashion: How long ere her day shall be sped, And she goes to rekindle past passion With languorous glances that flash on The long-straightened limbs of the dead, Where they lie in a winter-wet bed?

Where the wide waves of evergreen carry The song sad and soft of the surge To feathered battalions that harry The wizen-armed bloodwoods that tarry For ever, chained down on the verge Of a river that mutters a dirge.

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text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chalmers, George (1742-1825)


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50 'Tis a dirge for the dead men it mutters— Those weed-entwined strangers who lie With the drift in the whirlpools and gutters— Swoll'n hand or a garment that flutters Wan shreds as the waters rush by, And the flotsam, froth-freckled, rides high.

Is it there that she buries her lovers, This woman in scarlet and black? Those swart caballeros, the drovers— What sovranty set they above hers? Riding in by a drought-beset track To a fate which is worse than the rack.

A queen, no insignia she weareth Save the dark, lustrous crown of her hair: Her beauty the sceptre she beareth: For men and their miseries careth As little as tigresses care For the quivering flesh that they tear.

She is sweet as white peppermint flowers, And harsh as red gum when it drips From the heart of a hardwood that towers Straight up: she hath marvellous powers To draw a man's soul through his lips With a kiss like the stinging of whips.

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Rh Warm nights, weighted down with wild laughter, When sex is unsexed and uncouth: In the chorus that climbs to the rafter No thought of the days to come after: She has little regret and less ruth As she tempts men to murder their youth.

Is she marked down as yet by the flaming Great eye of the Righter of Wrong? How long ere the Dreaded One, claiming His due, shall make end of our shaming? 'How long, Mighty Father, how long?' Is our wearisome burden of song.

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A sweat-dripping horse and a half-naked myall, And a message: 'Come out to the back of the run— Be out at the stake-yards by rising of sun! Ride hard and fail not! there's the devil to pay: For the men from Monkyra have mustered the run— Cows and calves, calves of ours, without ever a brand, Fifty head, if there's one, on the camp there they stand. Come out to the stake-yards, nor fail me, or by all The saints they'll be drafted and driven away!' Boot and saddle it was to the rolling of curses: Snatching whip, snatching spurs, where they hung on the nail. In his wrath old McIvor, head stockman, turned pale, Spitting oaths with his head 'neath the flap of his saddle, Taking up the last hole in the girth with his teeth; Then a hand on the pommel, a quick catch of breath, A lift of the body, a swing to the right— And, ten half-broken nags with ten riders astraddle, We sped, arrow-swift, for the heart of the night. Thud of hoofs! thud of hearts! breath of man! breath of beast! With M'Ivor in front, and the rest heel to flank, So we rode in a bunch down the steep river bank, 52

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Rh Churning up the black tide in the shallows like yeast. Through the coolabahs, out on the plain, it increased Till we swung with the stride of the dingo-pack, swooping On scent of weak mother with puny calf drooping. Staring eyes, swaying forms o'er the saddle-bow stooping, With the wind in our shirts, grip of knee, grip of rein, Losing ground, falling back, creeping forward again. Behind us the low line of dark coolabah; Overhead a sky spangled by planet and star; And to left, on our shoulder, the mighty Cross flaring. While afoot the quick pulsing of hoof-beats disturbs Moist silence of grasses and salty-leaved herbs.

Steering on by the stars, over hollow and crest; Tingling eyes looking out through a curtain of tears From the slap of the wind over forward-pricked ears, Over forehead and nose stretching out for the west, And into the face of the sombre night staring. Threading in, threading out, through a maze of sand rises That spring either side, loom a moment, then flee: Dim hillocks of herbage and sun-blasted tree, Till again a dark streak of far timber arises; And anon, through the thick of a lignum swamp tearing, Bare tendrils, back-springing, switch sharp on the knee.

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54 Plain again! and again, with the speed of the wind, The long miles in front join their comrades behind; Then a sound in our ears like to far summer thunder Or the booming of surf in a southerly gale; And we shouted aloud each to each in our wonder, For we knew that those beasts must have come fast and far, That they moaned as the breaking of waves on a bar.

But behold! overhead the dark sky had grown pale, With the azure-tinged paleness of newly-skimmed milk, And the dawn-spiders floated on threads of floss-silk As the guards of the sun drew aside the thick veil And made ready to fling the dawn-portals asunder. Still that sound swelled and rolled, thrilling deep on the air, Calling long, calling loud in the ear of each steed, Bringing courage and strength in the moment of need, And light'ning the weight of the burdens they bare.

But that moment behind us upshot a red glare As the sun swept the sky with a roseate sponge; And McIvor's blue roan gave a rear and a plunge, A half-sob, and so fell, like an over-ripe pear. Not a rein did we pull, not a stride did we stay, Speeding onward and speeding! For long we could hear

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 Old Mac.’s maledictions ring loud in our rear As we rode in hot haste from the incoming day. Then all sudden and strangely we came face to face With the lead of the cattle, and lo! our long race Was run out; and we drew up the horses, all panting In stress of the chase, and yet ready for more; And our eager ears drank in that thunderous roar, While we watched the red squadrons come over the levels As if view-holloa’d by a pack of night-devils— Cow and calf chasing heifer and lumbering steer, With their grey, dripping nostrils, and eyes wide with fear, As if Burgess’s cob followed hard on their rear.

So we blocked them, and lo! the new sun laid a slanting Red finger on one who rode over the plain, Steed treading full slowly, head drooping, slack rein, Turning often aside through the dew-laden grasses To crop a sweet mouthful. We needed no glasses To see it was Fogarty. Once and again, And again did we hail—yet he never looked round, Neither made the least motion of hearing the sound.

Riding on like a man who should ride in his sleep, Or as one in the web of some deep-woven charm, So he came through the grass—his horse striding breast-deep— With a woman held close in the crook of his arm;

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56 And her hair, all unbound, rippled over his shoulder, Dead black; and her brow, where the sweat of fierce pain Had dried, was brown-tinged as bronze is, but colder— Ah, many times colder! and as he pulled rein, He unwrapped saddle-blanket in which he had rolled her, And lo! the gay sunlight lit ominous stain, Where a murderous bullet had torn a blue vein And let out her life in a warm crimson rain.

Then gently he laid his sad load on the ground, And with sorrowing glances we gathered around. Then he turned to the west, with his eyes all aflame, With his brawny fists raised, calling witness from Heaven—

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 On his shoulder and flank the dark blood of the slain— And he hurled his curse back on the place whence he came: A loud curse, and a threat that he yet would stand even With those of Monkyra who wrought this foul shame— Though, to tell the God’s truth, we’d have done just the same In their place, and have reckoned it nothing but right: For the black girl and Fogarty quietly crept On the Monkyra men in the dead of the night; And it happened the watchman was weary and slept, So the gin, who no doubt was a game little pullet, Slipped in, and brought both their night horses away, While Fogarty started the cattle that lay On the camp; and the trick was so bold it succeeded; For the Monkyra men, when their cattle stampeded, Had nothing to send in pursuit but a bullet. Yet that was as much as the little gin needed: She made no great fuss, though, nor murmured nor cried; Only rode on the right of her lord till she died. Her life ended well—nothing scamped or by halves: Where she went who can tell? But we branded the calves.

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Drip, drip, drip! It tinkles on the fly— The pitiless outpouring of an overburdened sky: Each drooping frond of pine has got a jewel at its tip— First a twinkle, then a sprinkle, and a drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip! They must be shearing up on high. Can't you see the snowy fleeces that are rolling, rolling by? How many bales, I wonder, are they branding to the clip? P'r'aps the Boss is keeping tally with this drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip! while the sodden branches sigh: The jovial jackass dare not laugh for fear that he should cry: The merry magpie's melody is frozen on his lip; He glowers at the showers, with their drip, drip, drip.

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 Drip, drip, drip! and one’s ‘nap’ is far from dry: ’Tis hard to keep the water out, however one may try: I’d sell myself to Satan for three fingers of a nip: There’s cramps and vile rheumatics in that drip, drip, drip.

Pat, pat, pat! how it patters on the land! ’Tis certainly consoling to be camped upon the sand: There’s naught but mud and water over yonder on the flat, Where the spots of rain are splashing with their pat, pat, pat.

Rain, rain, rain! and the day is nearly done: I wonder shall we see another rising of the sun? Has the sky shut down and stifled him; or will he come again And stop the cursed clatter of this rain, rain, rain?

Drop, drop, drop! monotonous as Life, With now and then a western breeze that cuts one like a knife: Sputter on the fire: is it never going to stop? Has the weather-clerk gone crazy, with his drop, drop, drop?

Drip, drip, drip! the squatter wouldn’t say ’Thank God!’ so earnestly if he were camped in it to-day. ’Tis in at last: I knew it! there’s a pool about my hip: Oh, ’tis maddening and sadd’ning, with its drip, drip, drip!

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Dozens of damp little curls; One little short upper lip; Two rows of teeth like diminutive pearls; Eyes clear and grey as the creek where it swirls Over the ledges—that's Tip! With a skip!— A perfectly hopeless young nip!

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 Smudge on the tip of his nose; Mischievous glance of a Puck; Heart just as big as the rents in his clothes; Lungs like a locust and cheeks like a rose;— Total it!—there you have Tuck! And bad luck To the man who would question his pluck!

School is all over at last— School with its pothooks and strokes: Homeward they toddle, but who could go fast?— So many wonderful things to be passed— Froggie, for instance, who croaks ’Neath the oaks By the creek where the watercress soaks.

Sandpipers dance on the bars; Swallows, white-throated and fleet, Dip thirsty beaks in the stream as they pass; Smooth water-beetles that twinkle like stars Watch the gay dragon-flies greet. Hark how sweet Is the pipe of the tiny pee-weet!

Near, too, the earth is all torn: Strong, willing workers have thrown Great heaps of tailings, smooth-polished and worn, Round the mysterious caverns that yawn— Stacks of the snowy quartz stone, Grass-grown Piles of the Earth's dry bone.

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 Grasshoppers chirp on the brace; Briars drop berries blood-red Into the mouldering void of the race; Green mosses flourish on cutting and face; Children speak softly, with dread, When they tread In this desolate place of the dead.

‘Tum on!’ said Tip, ‘here's a nest!’ Looking behind as he ran. ‘No,’ said his brother, expanding his chest, ‘I like to play at pro’pectin’ the best’— Thumping a rusty old pan; Then began To wash up a dish like a man.

‘Tum on! Here’s four little eggs! Do tum!’—he whimpers his lip: A-tremble his eyes, wet by tears as he begs, And sharp briars are scratching his legs. A branch strikes his face like a whip; Then a slip— And a shaft swallows poor little Tip!

Peering and catching his breath, Tuck felt his little heart swell: Nothing at all could he see underneath— P’r’aps poor old Tippy had gone to his death— Would it hurt him if he fell? Who could tell The depth of that horrible well?

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 ‘Tippy! oh, Tip! are you dead?’. . . Never a sound or a sigh! Tuck held his breath, his heart heavy as lead: Then: ‘Tuck! where are you? I've hurted my head!’ Came up the quav’ring reply; And a cry: ‘Oh, Tuck! don't go ’way, or I’ll die!

‘Tuck! It’s so dark; I’m afraid!’. . . He drew down his eyebrows and frowned Up the creek, down the creek, somewhat dismayed. Miles to go home; but, again, if he stayed, How would they ever be found Underground In that cavern that swallowed all sound?

‘Tuck, I'm all covered with blood!' Sobbed the small voice without cess. ‘Why don't you help me up out of the mud?’ Tuck foraged out a long length of pine wood; Stripped off his little print dress, And—just guess! Rigged a white flag of distress!

Truly the depth was not great— That, though, the babe did not know; Lowering himself till the whole of his weight Hung on the fingers that clutched the blue slate. . . ‘Please God!’. . . he let himself go; And I trow That angel hands caught him below.

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64 Never a scratch or a mark! No, and not even a tear! Little hands feeling their way through the dark. . . What if that other should be stiff and stark? ‘Here I am, Tippy! quite near— Oh, dear!’ Then came the answer: ‘I'm here!’

Crouched in the mouth of a drive, Tippy sobbed out his delight— Not so much hurt, after all—quite alive: Almost convinced that no harm could arrive Now that Tuck’s arms clasped him tight. Then the light Died slowly, and lo! it was Night.

Above—the flag blows to the air: Sad parents seek vainly and weep: There are lights ’mid the thistles, and cries of despair: A rifle cracks loudly, and bonfires glare. . . Below—where the blind creatures creep, Hidden deep, Two pretty babes smile in their sleep.

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Scrape the bottom of the hole: gather up the stuff! Fossick in the crannies, lest you leave a grain behind! Just another shovelful and that’ll be enough— Now we’ll take it to the bank and see what we can find. . . Give the dish a twirl around! Let the water swirl around! Gently let it circulate—there’s music in the swish And the tinkle of the gravel, As the pebbles quickly travel Around in merry circles on the bottom of the dish.

Ah, if man could wash his life—if he only could! Panning off the evil deeds, keeping but the good: What a mighty lot of diggers’ dishes would be sold! Though I fear the heap of tailings would be greater than the gold. . . Give the dish a twirl around! Let the water swirl around! Man’s the sport of circumstance however he may wish: Fortune! are you there now? Answer to my prayer now— Drop a half-ounce nugget in the bottom of the dish.

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 Gently let the water lap! Keep the corners dry! That’s about the place the gold will generally stay. What was that bright particle that just then caught my eye? I fear me by the look of things ‘twas only yellow clay. . . Just another twirl around! Let the water swirl around! That’s the way we rob the river of its golden fish. . . What’s that? . . . Can’t we snare a one? Don’t say that there’s ne’er a one! . . . Bah! there’s not a colour in the bottom of the dish!

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Do I know Polly Brown? Do I know her? Why, damme! You might as well ask if I know my own name! It’s a wonder you never heard tell of old Sammy, Her father, my mate in the Crackenback claim.

He asks if I know little Poll! Why, I nursed her As often, I reckon, as old Mother Brown When they lived at the Flats, and old Sam went a burster In Chinaman’s Gully, and dropped every crown.

My golden-haired mate, ever brimful of folly And childish conceit, and yet ready to rest Contented beside me: ’twas I who taught Polly To handle four horses along with the best.

’Twas funny to hear the small fairy discoursing Of horses and drivers! I’ll swear that she knew Every one of the nags that I drove to the Crossing— Their voices, and paces, and pedigrees too.

She got a strange whim in her golden-haired noddle That a driver’s high seat was a kind of a throne: I’ve taken her up there before she could toddle, And she’d talk to the nags in a tongue of her own.

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 Then old Mother Brown got the horrors around her: (I think it was pineapple rum drove her daft) She cleared out one night, and next morning they found her, A mummified mass, in a forty-foot shaft.

And Sammy? Well, Sammy was wailing and weeping, And raving, and raising the devil’s own row: He was only too glad to give into our keeping His motherless babe—we’d have kept her till now;

But Jimmy Maloney thought proper to court her: Among all the lasses he loved but this one: She’s no longer Polly, our golden-haired daughter; She’s Mrs. Maloney, of Packsaddle Run.

Our little girl Polly’s no end of a swell (you Must know Jimmy shears fifty thousand odd sheep)— But I’m clean off the track: I was going to tell you The way in which Polly paid us for her keep.

It was this way: My wife’s living in Tumbarumba, And I’m down at Germanton yards, for a sale, Inspecting coach-horses (I wanted a number) When they flashed down a message that made me turn pale.

’Twas from Polly, to say that the old wife had fallen Down-stairs, and in falling had fractured a bone: There was no doctor nearer than Tumut to call on, So she and the blacksmith had set it alone.

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 They’d have to come down by the coach in the morning, As one of the two buggy ponies was lame: Would I see the old doctor, and give him fair warning To keep himself decently straight till they came?

I was making good money those times, and a fiver Per week was the wages my deputy got; A good, honest worker, an out-and-out driver— But, like all the rest, a most terrible sot.

So, just on this morning—which made it more sinful— With my women on board, the unprincipled skunk Hung round all the bars till he loaded a skinful Of grog, and then started his journey—dead drunk!

Drunk! with my loved ones on board—drunk as Chloe! He might have got right by the end of the trip Had he rested contented and quiet; but no, he Must pull up at Rosewood, for one other nip.

That finished him off quick, and there he sat, dozing Like an owl on his perch, half awake, half asleep, Till a lurch of the coach came, when, suddenly losing His balance, he fell to earth all of a heap;

While the coach, with its four frightened horses, went sailing Downhill to perdition and Carabost break— Four galloping devils, with reins loosely trailing, And passengers falling all roads in their wake.

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 Two bagmen, who sat on the box, jumped together And found a soft bed in the mud of the drain; The barmaid from Murphy’s fell light as a feather— I think she got off with a bit of a sprain;

While the jock, with his nerves most decidedly shaken, Made straight for the door, never wasting his breath In farewell apologies: basely forsaken, My wife and Poll Brown sat alone with grim Death.

While the coach thundered downward, my wife fell a-praying; But Poll in a fix, now, is dashed hard to beat: She picked up her skirts, scrambled over the swaying High roof of the coach, till she lit on the seat,

And there looked around. In her hand was a pretty, Frail thing made of laces, with which a girl strives To save her complexion when down in the city— A lace parasol! yet it saved both their lives.

Oh, Polly was game, you may bet your last dollar! She leans on the splashboard, and stretches and strains With her parasol, down by the off-sider’s collar, Until she contrives to catch hold of the reins.

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Rh They lay quite secure in the crook of the handle, She clutched them—the parasol fell underneath. I tell you no girl ever could hold a candle To Poll, as she hung back and clenched her white teeth.

The bolters sped downward, with nostrils distended, She must get a pull on them ere they should reach The fence on the hill, where the road had been mended ... The blocks bit the wheels with a scroop and a screech;

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 The little blue veins in her arms swelled and blackened; The reins were like fiddle-strings stretched in her grip; When the break hove in sight, the mad gallop had slackened: She had done it, by God! they were under the whip.

They still had the pace on; but Polly was able To steer ’twixt the fences with never a graze: They flashed past the change, where the groom at the stable Just stood with his mouth open, dumb with amaze.

On the level she turned them—the best bit of driving That ever was done on this side of the range— And trotted them back up the hill-side, arriving With not a strap broken in front of the change.

And the wife? Well, she prayed to the Lord till she fainted: I reckon He answered her prayers: all the same, He must have helped Polly, It’s curious now, ain’t it? To see a thin slip of a girl be so game.

Did I summons the driver? I had no occasion The coroner came with his jury instead, Who found that he died from a serious abrasion— Both wheels of the coach had gone over his head.

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The fight was over, and the battle won. A soldier, who beneath his chieftain’s eye Had done a mighty deed and done it well, And done it as the world will have it done— A stab, a curse, some quick play of the butt, Two skulls cracked crosswise, but the colours saved— Proud of his wounds, proud of the promised cross, Turned to his rear-rank man, who on his gun Leant heavily apart. ‘Ho, friend!’ he called, ‘You did not fight then: were you left behind? I saw you not.’ The other turned and showed A gaping, red-lipped wound upon his breast. ‘Ah,’ said he sadly, ‘I was in the smoke!’ Threw up his arms, shivered, and fell and died.

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The western sun, ere he sought his lair, Skimmed the treetops, and, glancing thence, Rested awhile on the curling hair Of Kitty McCrae, by the boundary fence: Her eyes looked anxious; her cheeks were pale; For father was two hours late with the mail.

Never before had he been so late; And Kitty wondered and wished him back, Leaning athwart the big swing gate That opens out on the bridle-track— A tortuous path that sidles down From the single street of a mining town.

With her raven curls and her saucy smile— Dark eyes that glow with a changeful light, Tenderly trembling all the while Like a brace of stars on the breast of Night— Where could you find in the light of day A bonnier lass than Kitty McCrae?

Born in the saddle, this girl could ride Like the fearless Queen of the silver bow; And nothing that ever was lapped in hide Could frighten Kitty McCrae, I trow. She would wheel a mob in the hour of need If the Devil himself were in the lead.

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 But now, in the shadows’ deepening When the last sun-spark has ceased to burn, Afar she catches the sullen ring Of horse-hoofs swinging around the turn; Then painfully down the narrow trail Comes Alec McCrae with the Greytown mail.

‘The fever-and-ague, my girl,’ he said— ‘’Twas all I got on that northern trip: When it left me then I was well-nigh dead— Has got me fast in its iron grip; And I’d rather rot in the nearest gaol Than ride to-night with the Greytown mail.

‘At Golden Gully they heard to-day— ‘Twas a common topic about the town— That the Mulligan Gang were around this way. They wouldn’t despatch the gold-dust down; And Brown, the manager, said he thought ’Twere wise to wait for a strong escort.

‘I rode the leaders; the other nags I left with the coach at the ‘Travellers’ Rest.’ Kitty, my lass, you must take the bags— Postboy, I reckon’s about the best; ‘Tis dark, I know, but he’ll never fail To take you down with the Greytown mail.’

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 It needed no further voice to urge This dutiful daughter to eager haste; She donned the habit of rough blue serge That draped itself from her slender waist; And Postboy stood by the stockyard rail While she mounted behind the Greytown mail.

Dark points, the rest of him iron-grey, Boasting no strain of expensive blood, Down steepest hill he could pick his way, And never was baulked by a winter flood— Strong as a lion, hard as a nail, Was the horse that carried the Greytown mail.

A nag that really seemed to be Fit for a hundred miles at a push: With the old Monaro pedigree— By ‘Furious Riding,’ out of ‘The Bush’; For he was run from a mountain mob By Brian O’Flynn and Dusty Bob.

And Postboy’s bosom was filled with pride As he felt the form of his mistress sway, In its easy grace, to his swinging stride As he dashed along down the narrow way. No prettier Mercury, I’ll go bail, Than Kitty e’er carried a Government mail.

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text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chalmers, James