Read Ebook: The Coo-ee Reciter: Humorous Pathetic Dramatic Dialect Recitations & Readings by Various

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Ebook has 116 lines and 34942 words, and 3 pages

and slowly, as the trucks rattle into the gloom, Inch by inch they advance to the conquest of a prison--or is it a tomb? And the workings re-echo a volley as the timbers are driven in place; Then a whisper is borne to the toilers: "Boys, his mother is there on the brace!"

Like veterans late into action, fierce with longing to hew and to hack, Riordan's shift rushes in to relieve them, and the toil-stricken men stagger back. "Stow the stuff, mates, wherever there's stowage! Run the man on the brace till he drops! There's no time to think on this billet! Bark the heels of the trucker who stops! Keep the props well in front, and be careful. He's in there, and alive, never fret." But the grey dawn is softening the ridges, and the word has not come to us yet.

"Hello! there on top!" they are calling. "They are through! He is seen in the drive!" "They have got him--thank Heaven! they've got him, and oh, blessed be God, he's alive!" "Man on! heave away!" "Step aside, lads; let his mother be first when he lands." She was silent and strong in her anguish; now she babbles and weeps where she stands, And the stern men, grown gentle, support her at the mouth of the shaft, till at last With a rush the cage springs to the landing, and her son's arms encircle her fast.

BY A. B. PATERSON.

Now this is the law of the Overland, that all in the West obey, A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day; But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood. They travel their stage where the grass is bad, but they camp where the grass is good; They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains, Then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of the saltbush plains. From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand, For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland.

For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, 'tis written in white and black-- The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track; And the drovers keep to a half-mile track on the runs where the grass is dead, But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till they go with a two-mile spread. So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night, And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight; Yet the squatters' men, though they hunt the mob, are willing the peace to keep, For the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go with the travelling sheep; But this is a tale of a Jackeroo that came from a foreign strand, And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland.

Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough, as ever the country knew, He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes from the sea to the Big Barcoo; He could tell when he came to a friendly run that gave him a chance to spread, And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead; He was drifting down in the Eighty drought with a mob that could scarcely creep , And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run; "We must manage a feed for them here," he said, "or the half of the mob are done!" So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go, Till he grew aware of a Jackeroo with a station-hand in tow,

And they set to work on the straggling sheep, and with many a stockwhip crack They forced them in where the grass was dead in the space of the half-mile track; So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blue But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in the teeth of that Jackeroo. So he turned and he cursed the Jackeroo, he cursed him alive or dead, From the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his ugly head, With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran, Till the Jackeroo from his horse got down and he went for the drover-man; With the station-hand for his picker-up, though the sheep ran loose the while, They battled it out on the saltbush plain in the regular prize-ring style.

Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake and the pride of the English race, But the drover fought for his daily bread, with a smile on his bearded face; So he shifted ground and he sparred for wind and he made it a lengthy mill, And from time to time as his scouts came in they whispered to Saltbush Bill-- "We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, and the grass it is something grand, You must stick to him, Bill, for another round for the pride of the Overland." The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home, Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky and glared on the brick-red loam, Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest, Then the drover said he would fight no more, and he gave his opponent best.

So the new chum rode to the homestead straight and he told them a story grand Of the desperate fight that he fought that day with the King of the Overland. And the tale went home to the public schools of the pluck of the English swell, How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell. But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep were boxed on the Old Man Plain. 'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again. With a week's good grass in their wretched hides, with a curse and a stockwhip crack They hunted them off on the road once more to starve on the half-mile track. And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite How the best day's work that ever he did was the day that he lost the fight.

BY J. BRUNTON STEPHENS.

Let me tell you all the story, an' if then you think it strange, That I'd like to fee ye extry--why, I'll take the bloomin' change. If yer bill had said a hundred ... I'm a poor man, doc., and yet I'd 'a' slaved till I had squared it; ay, an' still been in yer debt.

Well, you see, the wife's got notions on a heap o' things that ain't To be handled by a man as don't pretend to be a saint; So I minds "the cultivation," smokes my pipe an' makes no stir, An' religion an' such p'ints I lays entirely on to her.

So when our last began to pine, an' lost his pretty smile, An' not a parson to be had within a hunder mile-- --

Well, when our yet unchristen'd mite grew limp, an' thin, an' pale, It would 'a' cut you to the heart to hear the mother wail About her "unregenerate babe," an' how, if it should go, 'Twould have no chance with them as had their registers to show.

Then awful quiet she grew, an' hadn't spoken for a week, When in came brother Bill one day with news from Bluegrass Creek. "I seen," says he, "a notice on the chapel railin' tied; They'll have service there this evenin'--can the youngster stand the ride?

For we can't have parson here, if it be true, as I've heard say, There's a dyin' man as wants him more'n twenty mile away; So"--He hadn't time to finish ere the child was out of bed, With a shawl about its body an' a hood upon its head.

We started on our two hours' ride beneath a burnin' sun, With Aunt Sal and Bill for sureties to renounce the Evil One; An' a bottle in Sal's basket that was labelled "Fine Old Tom" Held the water that regeneration was to follow from.

For Bluegrass Creek was dry, as Bill that very day had found, An' not a sup o' water to be had for miles around; So, to make salvation sartin for the babby's little soul, We had filled a dead marine, sir, at the fam'ly waterhole. Which every forty rods or so Sal raised it to her head, An' took a snifter, "just enough to wet her lips," she said; Whereby it came to pass that when we reached the chapel door, There was only what would serve the job, an' deuce a dribble more.

The service had begun--we didn't like to carry in A vessel with so evident a carritur for gin; So we left it in the porch, an', havin' done our level best, Went an' owned to bein' "mis'rable offenders" with the rest.

An' nigh upon the finish, when the parson had been told That a lamb was waitin' there to be admitted to the fold, Rememberin' the needful, I gets up an' quietly slips To the porch to see--a swagsman--with our bottle at his lips!

Such a faintness came all over me, you might have then an' there Knocked me down, sir, with a feather or tied me with a hair. Doc., I couldn't speak nor move; an' though I caught the beggar's eye, With a wink he turned the bottle bottom up an' drank it dry.

An' then he flung it from him, bein' suddintly aware That the label on't was merely a deloosion an' a snare; An' the crash cut short the people in the middle of "A-men," An' all the congregation heard him holler "Sold again!"

So that christ'nin' was a failure; every water-flask was drained; Ev'n the monkey in the vestry not a blessed drop contained; An' the parson in a hurry cantered off upon his mare, Leavin' baby unregenerate, an' missus in despair.

That night the child grew worse, but all my care was for the wife; I feared more for her reason than for that wee spark o' life.... But you know the rest--how Providence contrived that very night That a doctor should come cadgin' at our shanty for a light....

Baby? Oh, he's chirpy, thank ye--been baptised--his name is Bill. It's weeks and weeks since parson came an' put him through the mill; An' his mother's mighty vain upon the subjick of his weight, An' reg'lar cock-a-hoop about his sperritual state.

So now you'll take the tenner. Oh, confound the bloomin' change! Lord, had Billy died!--but, doctor, don't you think it summut strange That them as keeps the gate would have refused to let him in Because a fool mistook a drop of Adam's ale for gin?

BY VICTOR J. DALEY.

A woman lay in a hovel Mean, dismal, gasping for breath; One friend alone was beside her: The name of him was--Death.

For the sake of her orphan children, For money to buy them food, She had slaved in the dismal hovel And wasted her womanhood.

Winter and spring and summer Came each with a load of cares; And autumn to her brought only A harvest of grey hairs.

Far out in the bless?d country, Beyond the smoky town, The winds of God were blowing Evermore up and down;

The trees were waving signals Of joy from the bush beyond; The gum its blue-green banner, The fern its dark-green frond;

And, deep in the distant ranges The magpie's fluting song Roused musical, mocking echoes In the woods of Dandenong;

And riders were galloping gaily, With loose-held flowing reins, Through dim and shadowy gullies, Across broad, treeless plains;

And winds through the Heads came wafting A breath of life from the sea, And over the blue horizon The ships sailed silently;

And out of the sea at morning The sun rose, golden bright, And in crimson, and gold, and purple Sank in the sea at night;

But in dreams alone she saw them, Her hours of toil between; For life to her was only A heartless dead machine.

Dull, desperate, ceaseless slaving Bereft her of power to pray, And Man was careless and cruel, And God was far away.

But who shall measure His mercies? His ways are in the deep; And, after a life of sorrow, He gave her His gift of sleep.

Rest comes at last to the weary, And freedom to the slave; Her tired and worn-out body Sleeps well in its pauper grave.

But His angel bore her soul up To that Bright Land and Fair, Where Sorrow enters never, Nor any cloud of care.

They came to a lovely valley, Agleam with asphodel, And the soul of the woman speaking, Said, "Here I fain would dwell!"

The angel answered gently: "O Soul, most pure and dear, O Soul, most tried and truest, Thy dwelling is not here!

"Behold thy place appointed-- Long kept, long waiting--come! Where bloom on the hills of Heaven The roses of Martyrdom!"

BY ETHEL TURNER.

Larrie had been carrying it for a long way, and said it was quite time Dot took her turn.

Dot was arguing the point.

She reminded him of all athletic sports he had taken part in, and of all the prizes he had won; she asked him what was the use of being six-foot-two and an impossible number of inches round the chest if he could not carry a baby.

Larrie gave her an unexpected glance and moved the baby to his other arm; he was heated and unhappy, there seemed absolutely no end to the red, red road they were traversing, and Dot, as well as refusing to help to carry the burden, laughed aggravatingly at him when he said it was heavy.

"He is exactly twenty-one pounds," she said, "I weighed him on the kitchen scales yesterday. I should think a man of your size ought to be able to carry twenty-one pounds without grumbling so."

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