Part 2

Keen she was about “the learnin’,” and she told us o’er and o’er Of our luck to have “the schoolin’” right against our very door. And the lectures—Oh, those lectures to our stony hearts addressed! “Don’t be mixin’ with the Regans and the Ryans and the rest”— “Don’t be pickin’ up with Carey’s little talkative kanats”—[5] Well, she had us almost thinking we were born aristocrats. But we found our level early—in disaster, as a rule— For they knocked “the notions” sideways at the old bush school.

Down the road came Laughing Mary, and the beast that she bestrode Was Maloney’s sorry piebald she had found beside the road; Straight we scrambled up behind her, and as many as could fit Clung like circus riders bare-back without bridle-rein or bit, On that corrugated backbone in a merry row we sat— We propelled him with our school-bags; Mary steered him with her hat— And we rolled the road behind us like a ribbon from the spool, “Making butter,” so we called it, to the old bush school.

What a girl was Mary Casey in the days of long ago! She was queen among the scholars, or at least we thought her so; She was first in every mischief and, when overwhelmed by fate, She could make delightful drawings of the teacher on her slate. There was rhythm in every movement, as she gaily passed along With a rippling laugh that lilted like the music of a song; So we called her “Laughing Mary,” and a fitful fancy blessed E’en the bashful little daisies that her dainty feet caressed.

She had cheeks like native roses in the fullness of their bloom, And she used to sing the sweetest as we marched around the room; In her eyes there lurked the magic, maiden freshness of the morn, In her hair the haunting colour I had seen upon the corn; Round her danced the happy sunshine when she smiled upon the stool— And I used to swap her dinners at the old bush school.

Hard the cobbled road of knowledge to the feet of him who plods After fragile fragments fallen from the workshop of the gods; Long the quest, and ever thieving pass the pedlars o’er the hill With the treasures in their bundles, but to leave us questing still. Mystic fires horizons redden, but each crimson flash in turn Only lights the empty places in the bracken and the fern; So in after years I’ve proved it, spite of pedant, crank, and fool, Very much the way I found it at the old bush school.

[4] These names are often applied to the same bird; but Happy Jacks (_alias_ Gray-crowned Babblers) are brown with white markings; Twelve Apostles (_alias_ Apostle-Birds) are gray with brown wings. Peewees, in the next line, are of course Magpie Larks.

[5] The essential kanat (possibly a corruption of gnat) is undersized, mischievous, useless and perky.

SIX BROWN BOXER HATS

The hawker with his tilted cart pulled up beside the fence, And opened out his wondrous mart with startling eloquence; All sorts of toys for girls and boys upon the grass he spread, And dolls, dirt-cheap, that went to sleep when stood upon their head; But our male hearts were beating high for balls and cricket-bats When mother, with the business eye, bought six brown boxer hats.

Six out-of-date extinguishers that fitted us too soon— Six ugly, upturned canisters—but through the afternoon Our rage and scorn were overborne to see swift fingers flit With pad and trim, around the rim, to make the stove-pipes fit. So Monday morning came, and six “ungrateful young kanats” Went off to school like lunatics in six brown boxer hats.

Then friends at every meeting showed an interest all too rare Or chilled our faltered greetings with the silence of a stare; And comrades who, we thought, were true indulged in vulgar jeers, While willing fists of humorists slambanged them round our ears; But worst of all the social smart from taunting plutocrats— “Yez pinched them from the hawker’s cart, them six brown boxer hats.”

(Dress how we will, we feel it still, when friends will stop to chat, To see a broad good-humoured smile is trained upon the hat.) We could not fight with wonted might, for bitter black distress Was in our souls, and on our polls the hateful ugliness. We faced a fine barrage of sticks; and six “broke-up” kanats Went home to meet the storm in six brown battered boxer hats.

THE LIBEL

“The flowers have no scent, and the birds have no song,” We read in the lesson before us, While carols enchanted came floating along, And lifted our hearts in the chorus.

“The landscape is sombre, and dreary, and gray, No colour its mantle adorning”; O’er carpets spread far in a golden array We tramped it to school in the morning.

“The flowers have no scent,” but the wattle we brought From hill-sides and glens where we found it Was filling the room with its glory, we thought, And wafting its sweetness around it.

And fragrant the greeting the eucalypts threw From branches of amber and sorrel; While hard by the door a pittosporum grew— We called it “The Japanese Laurel.”

The birds have no song,” so they told us at school; But sweet in our souls was the ringing Of notes soft and clear from the edge of the pool, Where dainty gay thrushes were singing.

The magpie, the spink,[6] and the pretty blue wren, The butcher-bird up in his eyrie, The trills! Oh, I wish I could hear you again, My dear little Chocolate Wiree!

To the ears of a stranger our birds may lack song, Our flowers have no scent for the alien; But we, who have rambled the gullies along Bedecked in soft colours Australian,

We laugh them to scorn as we read the old phrase— We’ve laughed, since, at many another— And bless in our hearts in a chorus of praise The face of our happy young mother.

[6] No apology is needed for using this name to replace White-shouldered Caterpillar.

WHEN THE CIRCUS CAME TO TOWN

When the circus came to town With its coaches and four, and its steeds galore, And a band and a painted clown, Out to the road with a shout we’d fly To gape at the elephants trudging by, And our hearts beat fast and our hopes ran high, As we followed it up and down; For nought in the air, the sea, or sky Could fill a spot in our youthful eye, When the circus came to town.

So after the show we went, And we got in the way of the men when they Were rigging the circus tent, And we knew that we stood on holy ground, As we followed an empty van around— And got for ourselves a belting sound, Which a charm to the business lent. But we wagged it from school behind the pound, Till some Jack Pudding our shelter found And word to headquarters sent.

When the circus came to town, We swallowed hot tea with tears of glee, And rushed in a tumult down; We took quite the full of our shilling’s worth, And roared at the dummy’s ponderous girth, Or yelled in a salvo of noisy mirth At the tricks of the painted clown. Oh, wondrous thoughts in our minds had birth, And we felt that the band was the best on earth, When the circus came to town.

We fondly recalled the scene, Horses that pranced, and eyes entranced, And the smell of the kerosene; The mule, and the monkey, and tall giraffe, The “juggerlin’-man” with his magic staff, The girl who went round with her photograph (And oh, but we thought her a queen!) We started a show on our own behalf, “Performed” on the back of a poddy calf, And sighed for the might-have-been.

Now the circus comes to town, And it rattles along, and a bare-foot throng Is pacing it up and down; And the elephants trudge as they trudged of yore, With the shabby shebangs, and the steeds galore; But the glee of the youngsters who shout and roar At the tricks of the painted clown Is balm to my soul, and I call _encore_ To the frowsy old jokes I’ve heard before, When the circus came to town.

HIS FATHER

We meet him first in frills immersed, By everyone caressed and nursed, A bonny baby—rather! But, though they please his every whim, Fill up his comforts to the brim, And “ketchie ketchie” say to him, He whimpers for his father; Nor any plan of all the clan, Nor fiction _re_ the bogie-man Can coax him from his father.

Then, done with frocks and curly locks, Promoted into knickerbocks, This wholesome, healthy laddie Will entertain the other kid With tales of what his Daddy did; He lives a splendid dream amid Heroic deeds of Daddy. In grief or mirth he’s proved his worth; The greatest man in all this earth Is Knickerbocker’s Daddy.

Long pants at last, and stretching fast— Said pants are what is termed “half-mast.” And most attenuated— Great notions now his head doth hold, And schemes of mischief manifold. He talks as though he had a cold In slang adulterated. He has the shy and shifty eye, He burns tobacco on the sly, In black butts immolated.

Now mark his ways these latter days; He sounds no more his father’s praise With fervent admiration; In fact, his father’s got to be An out-of-date necessity, A clog upon his destiny And youthful recreation. As like as not, in anger hot, He’ll speak of him as “my old pot”— A homely appellation.

Another page, the dandy stage That starts at eighteen years of age. His talk is all of horses; He now selects his socks and ties To match the colour of his eyes; He’s learnt the art of looking wise, And on his Dad’s resources He gaily goes in Yankee clothes, And backs the ponies through his nose At most suburban courses.

He swaggers when amongst the men, And takes a “tonic” now and then To make a good impression; And by the hour he will relate The deeds that made him truly great, Just pausing to expectorate By way of a digression. And here, mayhap, to fill a gap He’ll just allude to his “old chap”— A valueless possession.

Next, older grown, the rolling-stone Is out in business on his own. We find him somewhat later With this new burden to his song, “Your old contraptions all are wrong.” He’s going to move the world along, His fortune’s own dictator. And, all the while, he can but smile About the antiquated style That ruled the poor old Pater.

We meet him next somewhat perplexed, By business problems badly vexed— The other fellow’s caught him. Then, while he’s chafing in the thrall, Dad in some ways, he can recall, Was not so hopeless after all As in the past he thought him; At any rate, he’s free to state The old man’s head was “screwed on straight,” And knocking round had taught him.

We come again to find him when He’s stood within the lion’s den, And trembled at disaster. It was the Dad who pulled him through, And now he will admit to you The old man knows a thing or two; Then, troubles coming faster, He’s very glad to mount his prad And go and have a word with Dad, For Dad is now the Master.

But further on, life’s springtime gone, The winter snow his brows upon, Adown the current carried, He’ll show you with a tender glance A photo framed with elegance— The old man in the “bell-bot” pants, The suit in which he tarried That day in town a joy to crown (Most likely ’twas a “reach-me-down”), The day the Dad was married.

His dreams dispersed, the bubble burst, We find him where we found him first. Right proud about his father; And now again he writes in sooth The head-line of his early youth, But he observes—unwelcome truth, At times he’s worried, rather— His hopeful son has just begun The same old devious course to run: And now it’s he’s the father.

THE KOOKABURRAS

Fall the shadows on the gullies, fades the purple from the mountain; And the day that’s passing outwards down the stairways of the sky, With its kindly deeds and sordid on its folded page recorded, Waves a friendly hand across the range to bid the world “good-bye.” Comes a buoyant peal of laughter from the tall, white, slender timber, Rugged mirth that floods the bushland with the joy of brotherhood, With the rustic notes sonorous of a happy laughing chorus, When the kookaburras bless the world because the world is good.

Oh, ’tis good and clean and wholesome when we take the sheep-track homewards, And the kindly kitchen chimney flaps its homely bannerets; All our twigs of effort, shooting golden promise for the fruiting, Bring a night in peace enfolded that a useful day begets. Hopeful dreams, their visions weaving, steel our hearts against to-morrow, And we dare the challenge, strengthened by to-day’s assaults withstood; Beam the pregnant days before us; and another laughing chorus Wraps the world in rippling revelry, because the world is good.

Loving eyes to watch our coming, loving arms to twine around us— Tender tendrils, soft and silken, firmer far than iron stay— All our little world upholding, gentle hearts and home enfolding, And a cheery, friendly neighbour dropping in upon his way: Mellow joy the soul refreshes with the scented breath of heaven, With the whispered songs of other spheres, hereafter understood: Angels keep their sure watch o’er us: and another laughing chorus Flings a vesper blessing round the world, because the world is good.

PETER NELSON’S FIDDLE

Do you ever dream you hear it, you who went the lonely track? Do you ever hear its simple melodies Tossing round deserted beaches, with the flotsam and the wrack, When the moonlight sprinkles silver on the trees?

Do you hearken now, I wonder, when the birds have gone to rest, And the blotted book of day once more is shut? When the saffron stains have faded, and the swans have vanished west, Does your heart remember Peter Nelson’s hut?

Lonely, stooped old Peter Nelson, with his “most peculiar” ways, With the clean-cut face, and hair as white as snow! Something lingering round the old man seemed to tell of better days, Seemed to hint of love and laughter long ago.

Kindly silence wrapped the bushland; every warring note was still; Soft heart-tremors stirred, and smiling eyes grew dim. Weaving fancies went the fiddle; dreams prophetic made us thrill— From the grave the visions stretched their hands to him.

There was rapture in the stillness; there were voices in the night; Trooped the angels with a beat of velvet wings; And the stars stood still and listened, and the moon’s face, strangely white, Kissed the sleeping world to dreams of better things.

Joy was lit in every corner, love was smiling at our side, Golden glamour o’er the dawning days was cast; Gaily, gaily sang the fiddle, while we marched with swinging stride Through the flowers that hid the failures of the past.

Do you ever dream you hear it? Does it bring the vision back, With the curlew, and the moonlight on the trees? Do the wavelets ripple shoreward with the flotsam as the wrack, When a fiddle plays the simple melodies?

Lonely, bent old Peter Nelson with the quaint, uncommon ways, “Spruced and tidied” when the book of day was shut, With the dim light in the window, and the friends of better days Summoned round him by the fiddle in the hut.

THE CHURCH UPON THE HILL

A simple thing of knotted pine And corrugated tin; But still, to those who read, a sign, A fortress on the farthest line Against the march of sin.

Though rich man’s gold was lacking quite, We built it strong and sure, With willing hands and (Faith’s delight) The savings spared, the widow’s mite, The shillings of the poor.

Nor could it fail to meet the eye And reverent thoughts instil, As there above the township high, And pointing always to the sky, It stood upon the hill.

And through our lives in wondrous ways Its holy purpose led From limpid lisping cradle-days To where the silent moonlight lays White hands upon the dead.

For when the Holy Morning strung Its beads upon the grass, You’d see us driving—old and young— The tall white graceful trees among, On every road to Mass.

It brought the brave young mother there, Surrounded by her brood, To wrap their tiny hearts in prayer, And teach them how to cast their care Upon the Holy Rood.

It watched the little bush girl grow, And kept her life from harm, Till, spotless as the virgin snow In wreath and veil, it saw her go Upon her husband’s arm.

It blessed strong, trembling shoulders bent: Helped many a soul in thrall To climb again the steep ascent, And reft the grim entanglement That brought about the fall.

It soothed the gray old mother’s pain, A-swaying while she told Her rosary o’er and o’er again, For griefs that rent her heart in twain— So new, and ah, so old!

(There’s “that poor boy who went astray,” And lined her gentle brow; There’s “them that’s wand’rin’ fur away,” And “them that’s in their grave to-day” And “beck’nin’” to her now.)

Refuge it gave the weary heart, Beyond the sordid din And conflict of the crowded mart, One sweet, sequestered nook apart, Where all might enter in.

Though high and grand cathedrals shine, To my mind grander still Is that wee church of knotted pine, That rampart on the outer line That stood upon the hill.

CURRAJONG

Old Father Pat! They’ll tell you still with mingled love and pride Of stirring deeds that live and thrill the quiet country-side; And when they praise his _tours-de-force_, be sure it won’t be long Before they talk about his horse—the old gray Currajong.

For twenty years he drove him through the bush and round the town, Until the old white stager knew the parish upside down; He’d take his time, and calculate, and have his wilful way, And stop at every Catholic gate to bid them all good day.

But well I mind the stories told when Father Pat was young— At least, when he was not so old—his scattered flock among; When health and strength were on his side, you’d see him swing along With that clean, easy, sweeping stride that marked old Currajong.

Through all the years he ne’er was late the second Mass to say, And twenty miles he’d “duplicate,” and pass us on the way. Hard-held and beating clean tattoos, the old gray, stepping kind, Like gravel from his twinkling shoes would fling the miles behind.

And often some too daring lad, a turn of speed to show, Would straighten up his sleepy prad and give the priest a “go”; But, faith, he found what others found, and held the lesson long, That nothing in the country round could move with Currajong.

And, oh, the din! and, oh, the fuss! mere words were vain to tell Of how they stopped the night with us; and don’t I mind it well? The boree log ablaze “inside,” and gay with rug and mat; The “front-room,” to the world denied, made snug for Father Pat.

We knew his distant hoof-beats; ay, and grief they could forebode; So, when we heard a horse go by, clean-stepping down the road, Round many a log-fire burning bright there passed the word along, “There’s someone sick and sore the night; I’ll bet that’s Currajong.”

Whereat you’d hear the old men tell—perhaps a trifle add— Of some sick-call remembered well, when “so-and-so took bad.” “You couldn’t see your hand in front.” “’Twas rainin’ pitchforks, too.” “The doctor jibbed, to put it blunt—but Father Pat went through.”

Ay, he went through in shine or shade; so, when the days were fair, And at our simple sports we played, ’twas good to see him there; And under troubled, angry skies, when all the world went wrong, With aching hearts and misted eyes we watched for Currajong.

We watched, and never watched in vain, whatever might befall. When summoned to the bed of pain, he answered to the call.

He came through rain or storm or heat; and in the darkest night We heard his hoofs the music beat, we saw the welcome light.

And when again, with plumes ahead and horses stepping slow, We followed on, behind our dead, the road all men must go, A loitering line, with knots and gaps, the funeral passed along, And half a mile of lurching traps was led by Currajong.

But, as the good priest older grew, and aches and troubles came, His buggy and the white horse, too, were stricken much the same. The springs went down the side he sat, and altar-boys and such Kept sliding in on Father Pat, and woke him at the touch.

Then, pensioned off at last and done, a sorry thing it stood, With sagging cobwebs round it spun, and nest-eggs in the hood. Just once a year it lived again, and groaned and creaked along To fetch the bishop from the train with limping Currajong.

Ah, newer methods, younger men! the times are moving fast, And but in dreams we tread again the wheel-ruts of the past; The eyes are filmed that watched of old, the kindly hearts are still, And silent tombstones white and cold are glimmering on the hill.

While scorching up the road, belike, with singing gears alive The curate on his motor-bike hits up his forty-five; But tender, tingling memories swell, and love will linger long In all the stirring yarns they tell about Old Currajong.

THE HELPING HAND

When that hour comes when I shall sit alone, And ponder on the things that were, but are no more, The while the weird night-breeze’s dirge-like monotone Is sobbing fitful anthems round the door;

When homing billows moan and croon unchecked, And no light glimmers on the ocean’s broad expanse; When all my anxious hopes are safe in port, or wrecked On sharp uncharted rocks of circumstance;

When I have lived my life, and Time at last Displays the mottled fate the sisters three have spun, When the night’s mystic, sombre, starless cloak is cast Around the naked shoulders of the sun;

I shall be tired, I know, and long to rest, And o’er the past sleep’s veil of sweet oblivion draw, To feel myself drawn softly, dream-like on the breast Of life’s ebb-tide that laps the Eternal Shore.