Part 3

"And in the lowest deep a lower deep," Thou sightless seer, indeed it may be so, The road to--well, we know--is somewhat steep, And who shall stay us when that road we go? Thrice cursèd wire, whose lightning strikes to blast, Whose babbling tongue proclaims throughout the town The news, which, being ill, has travelled fast, The dire intelligence that--wool is down.

A rise in copper and a rise in jute, A fall alone in wool--but what a fall! Jupp must have made a pile this trip, the brute, He don't deserve such splendid luck at all. The smiles for him--for me the scalding tears; He's worth ten thousand if he's worth a crown, While I--untimely shorn by Fate's harsh shears-- Feel that my game is up when wool is down. Bolter, take back these prancing greys of thine, Remove as well the vanquished warrior's bays, My fortunes are not stable, they decline; Aye, even horses taunt me with their neighs. And thou, sweet puppy of the "Lightning" breed, Through whose fleet limbs I pictured me renown, Hie howling to thy former home with speed, Thy course with me is up--for wool is down.

Why, Jane, what's this--this pile of letters here? Such waste of stamps is really very sad. Your birthday ball! Oh, come! not _twice_ a year, Good gracious me! the woman must be mad. You'd better save expense at once, that's clear, And send a bellman to invite the town! There--there--don't cry; forgive my temper, dear, But put these letters up--for wool is down.

My station "Gerringhup"--yes, that must go, Its sheep, its oxen, and its kangaroos, First 'twas the home of blacks, then whites, we know, Now is it but a dwelling for "the blues." With it I leave the brotherhood of Cash Who form Australian Fashion's tinsel crown; I tread along the devious path of Smash, I go where wool has gone--down, ever down.

Thus ends my dream of greatness; not for me The silken couch, the banquet, and the rout, They're flown--the base _residuum_ will be A mutton chop and half a pint of stout-- Yet will I hold a corner in my soul Where Hope may nestle safe from Fortune's frown. Thou hoodwinked jade! my heart remaineth whole-- I'll keep my spirits up--though wool be down.

GARNET WALCH.

_THE HIGHLAND BRIGADE BURIES ITS DEAD._

BY LIEUT.-COLONEL W. T. REAY.

(_By kind permission of the Author._)

How am I to describe the sadly impressive scene at Modder River on the evening of the 13th of December? The sun has just set, and the period of twilight has commenced. The great heat of the day has passed, and although there is not a breath of wind, the air is cool and refreshing. The whole British camp at Modder River is astir. Not, however, with the always gay bustle of warlike preparations; not with the laughter and jest which--such strange creatures are we--almost invariably come from the lips of men who dress for the parade which precedes a plunge into battle. There is this evening a solemn hush over the camp, and the men move from their lines in irregular and noiseless parties, for the time their pipes put out of sight, and their minds charged with serious thought. To what is given this homage of silence as the soldiers gather, and mechanically, without word of command or even request of any kind, leave a roadway from the head-quarters' flag to a point a quarter of a mile away, where a dark mound of upraised earth breaks the monotonous flatness of the whitey-green veldt? For these are mere spectators, deeply interested, it is true, yet still only spectators. What, then, is afoot? Civilians, hats off, and attention everyone. The Highland Brigade is about to bury its dead.

Stand here at the head of the lines of spectator soldiers--here where that significant mound is; here at the spot selected as a last resting-place--and observe. The whole Brigade, some of the regiments sadly attenuated, is on parade, and has formed funeral procession, under Colonel Pole-Carew. First come the pipers, and it is seen that they have for the nonce discarded their service kit, and are in the full dress of their several clans. "Savage and shrill" is the Byronic description of the pibroch, which, in the "noon of night," startled the joyous revellers before Waterloo. Now it is a low, deep wail, yet voluminous and weirdly euphonious, that comes from the music-makers of the Highlands, and every heart stands still to listen. Oh, so sad it is! "The Flowers of the Forest"--("He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down")--they are--playing, shall I say? No; rather does the music flow out from the very souls of the pipers in a succession of strangely harmonious moans, and soul calls to soul. Yet beneath it all, beneath the dominant note of heart-bursting sorrow, lurks that other element--"the savage and shrill." Yes, indeed; soul calls to soul through these pipes--calls for sobs and tears for the brave who have fallen--calls for vengeance on the yet unbeaten foe. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.

Following the pipers marches a small armed party. It would have been the firing party, but volleys are not fired over soldiers' graves in time of war. Then the chaplain, in his robes, preceding the corpse of General Wauchope (who had fallen at the head of his men), borne on a stretcher. One of the bearers is of the dead man's kin--a promising young Highland officer. Then come the several regiments of the Brigade, the Black Watch leading. The men march with arms reversed, stately, erect, stern, grim. They lift their feet high for the regulation step of the slow, funeral march. But observe that even in their grim sternness these men are quivering with an emotion which they cannot control--an emotion which passes out in magnetic waves from their ranks to those of their comrade spectators of England and Ireland, and brings tears to the eyes and choking sobs to the throats of the strong and the brave. "Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!" The Highland Brigade is burying its dead.

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

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

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

_AUSTRALIA'S CALL TO ARMS._

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

(_By kind permission of the Author._)

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

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

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

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

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

_GOOD NEWS._

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

GARNET WALCH.

_FREE TRADE v. PROTECTION._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GARNET WALCH.

_THE LION'S CUBS._

PATRIOTIC SONG AND CHORUS.

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

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

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

Then there's not, &c.

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

Yes, there's not, &c.

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

For there's not, &c.

GARNET WALCH.

_THE LITTLE DUCHESS._

BY ETHEL TURNER.

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

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

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