Branded. [FOR THE BULLETIN.] SWOONING hot mid-summer day, We sweltered in our sweat From dawn until the glaring sun Reluctantly had set; He glared upon us as he sank As tho' against his will; He went to bed, as tho' he'd like To stay and scorch us still. All day we worked and cursed the smoke The sullen brand- fires made; The gum-trees' withered, shri- velled leaves Gave precious little shade— What with the dust, the heat, the smoke, We all were pretty cross, But no one grumbled, for we had A devil of a boss. Bill Jackson was the boss's name, A lawless cove was Bill; * His jockey, Yellow Bob, was there, His breaker, Richmond Will. Old bow-legged Jim, the boundary-boy, The driver, Joey Crewe, And I, a man of no account, The new-chum jackeroo. And Johnny Hardwicke (quite a kid) A crazy Vernon boy— These were the chaps that Bill, the boss, Had then in his employ. Since early dawn we ail had worked Like niggers in the yard, With heat a hundred Fahrenheit; The "graft" was pretty hard. I grieve to say our work was not According to the law, But well we knew that for that lot Bill did not care a straw. I'm sure if we essayed it now It would be called a crime, But it was common in what some Still call "the good old time;" Young cattle that were not our own We branded by the score— It was a thing that most of us Had often done before— But little Jack, the Vernon boy (A trifle "off his dot") When told to brand the stolen calves Says bluntly, "No, I'll not!" Says he, "I will not be a thief— God says, 'Thou shalt not steal.'" Says Bill, "You booby, do your work, Or, by the Lord, you'll feel!" (I guess we were a bit surprised To hear the youngster speak, And tho' we did not like his jaw We all admired his cheek.) Says Bill, "Get on and do your work, Or I will tan your skin!" Says Hardwicke, "I will brand no more, For it would be a sin." "You won't!" says Bill. "I'll not!" says Jack, Ere we could stay Bill's hand He pinned Jack's face against the fence And on it pressed the brand! And all the words that I may write Would never serve to tell The awful pain that Jack expressed By that one piercing yell. Bill, laughing like a demon, held The brand upon his cheek— The blood gushed out and turned to steam, Lord! how poor Jack did shriek! We pulled Bill off while Hardwicke roared With choking, gurgling hiss, "You murd'ring dog! you fiend of hell! I'll have your blood for this!" Bill laughed, a rasping kind of laugh, But turned a trifle red— "Go home and get your mug tied up, You blooming flat," he said; "And if you wish to save your skin You'll do as you are bid, - Or you may cut your coffin-wood, My fine, religious kid." Jack, vanishing, on Bill bestowed A parting look of hate; We finished work in silence then And got home pretty late. Jack was not home, and tho' we searched The bush for miles around For many days, the deuce a sign Of Jack we ever found— We found no trace of little Jack On swamp or flat or hill, And some there were who scrupled not To blame his death on Bill. But Bill said often: "I feel sure I'll meet that kid some day, And know him, too, because he'll wear My cattle-brand 3J. From what I know of branding calves The pain they have to stand, I don't think, of his own free will, That boy will fake the brand." Well, years went quickly fleeting by fTim« «on**how vitn'♦ tUnH •(■ill) And changes come lo all mankind, So changes came to Bill. He owned a station further back, He took to him a wife. And, like the nigger in the song, He "led a different life" Was not that reckless, careless chap, He was not half so wild (It seems to tame a fellow down To own a wife and child). He dandified himself a bit, He very seldom swore— In fact, was quite a different man From what he was before. And all the hands who worked with us On that remembered day Were dead, or lost, or disappeared, Or somehow passed away, Save Yellow Bill, the jockey-boy, (Bill sometimes trained a horse) And I, who then was jackeroo, Promoted now to boss. Well, Bill and I were nearing home One autumn eve from town, Quite pleased we'd hit the market well With stock we'd taken down; Bill had been talking of the past— "The only thing I did," Says he, "of which I feel ashamed Was branding that poor kid. It's strange we never found a trace Of him for all we tried— I often lie awake at night And wonder if he died; I'd like to know what came of him I'd give a hundred quid To know I had not spoilt his life, Poor, lonely, friendless kid." Well, talking thus we rode along, And, when not far fromTiome, Met Yellow Bob on Bill's best horse 'c V Full speed and white with foam. Bad news was Bob's—a tribe of blacks, By some armed white man led, Had stuck the station homestead up And shot the super, dead. Through sable foes old Bob, the jock., Somehow contrived to bolt, And, with a spear-wound in his back, Escaped on Bill's best colt. Bill gasped, thro' parched and bloodless lips: "Oh, God preserve my wife!" Then off, at break-neck-pace, he went, As if for very life. I need not tell of deep suspense That gnawed us as we rode— Our horses only seemed to crawl Tho' tip-top pace they showed. Arrived at home—the place was dark— We passed the shattered door, And stumbled o'er a silent heap: Bill's wife upon the floor; Alive, thank God! She soon revived, But wild and haggard-eyed— "My child, my child, they've killed my child," In piteous tones she cried. 'Twas Hardwicke—who we all supposed Was numbered with the dead— That, thirsting for revenge on Bill, The murderous niggers led! We sought him, armed, in killing mood, But sought him all in vain, For what had happened years before Now happened once again. Bill would have skinned him, so he swore, But he had disappeared; We found him not, he hid as well As if from earth he cleared. We found (which almost sent Bill wild, Good Lord, what oaths he swore!) His child marked with the brand ho used On Hardwicke long before. Her infant cheek, with blistered marks, Was horrible to view; Tho dainty skin all seared and burnt, The VJUwJ 'Twas thus that Hardwick fed, at last, His wild, unholy hate— Revenge comes round to every man Who has the strength to wait. Ulmarra. JACKARANDALO. The Priest's Dinner. One of the best-known Irish R.C. priests of the early days of Victoria was the late Father Courtenay. He had seen a lot of life on the dig- gings, and was chock-full of queer old yarns. At a "spread" given to him on one occasion, up- country, when he had to speak of the unbounded generosity of his flock he mentioned that he had never been mistaken in his people's liberality, except on one memorable occasion. It was this; He first took possession of the Presbytery at Murdering Gully on a Saturday night. The next morning a twelve-year old "gurrl" presented herself at the priest's house and handed in a fore-quarter of mutton in a tin-dish. "'Well,' sez I to myself 'they're beginning early.' "Shortly afterwards a six-foot digger turned up with a leg of mutton supported by peeled potatoes. "'They mean I shall have plenty of victuals, anyhow,' sez I to my servant man." He had hardly made the remark when a woman who spoke vehemently in Irish (which the priest couldn't understand, Heaven forgive him!) made an oration over a dead rooster. Father Courtenay took this as a formal welcome to Murdering Gully, and made a brief but gracious acknowledgement in the tongue of the "base and brutal Sassenach." He had just retired to jot down the pearls of his first sermon to the kind but barbarous miners of the Gully, when a bootless lad handed in a piece of beef, which was quickly followed up by a pig's- cheek donated by a man with one eye and a wooden leg. Then followed dishes of dumplings, treacle-puddings, rabbit-pies, and all sorts of things till the table groaned—and so did the priest. Then there came a calm; and it was the first time that Father Courtenay thought it was possible to have too much of a good thing—all at once—particularly as many of the articles pre- sented to him were eminently perishable—in hot weather. Well, after Mass, he was more aston- ished than ever when the old Irishwoman called again and kicked up a furious row. With the aid of an interpreter, Father Courtenay ascertained that she demanded to get back her deceased rooster! The priest began to philosophise on the volatile nature of human benignity, when the bare-footed youth presented himself with a jaunty salutation: "Want the beef, mister, and look sharp!" Then came the timid little girl with, 1 Please, sir, I called for the forequarter." "Here it is, me gurrl," says the serving-man, "an' tell yer ma, like a nice little child, to be hanged to her and her durty generosity!" and as the dumbfounded little maid turned the corner of the house, up came the long digger with the goatee. "That leg o' mutton, boss, plaze," sez he, addressing the coachman,, who was stand- ing at the garden gate. Well, Mick, the man, was exasperated-like, and sez he: "What the divil did you bring it here for, at all, if you wanted it back?" Sez Mike: "D'ye suppose me and the priest kem hero to be made omadhauns of?" Hearing signs of a mighty storm, Father Cour- tenay presented himself upon the scene to prevent a breach of the peace and a scandal. He arrived just in time to hear the digger demand of the stable- man: "Then what the blazes d'ye mane by hang- n'up that there thing on the fence?" The priest and his man followed the digger's digit and be- held, hung upon the garden railings, a piece of board upon which was neatly painted the words "DINNERS BAKED DAILY." The matter was at once placed in the hands of the policeman, when it was ascertained that on Saturday night the looal_ sign-writer had, while in a beastly state of intoxication, hung upon Father Courtenay's fence an "order" whinh h* wm taking home to An Idyll of Dandaloo.* (FOR THE BULLETIN.) On Western plains, where shade is not, Neath summer skies of cloudless blue, Where all is dry and all is hot, 1 here stands the town of Dandaloo— A township where life's total sum Is sleep, diversified with rum. Its grass-grown streets with dust are deep, 'Twere vain endeavour to express 1 he dreamless silence of its sleep, Its wide, expansive drunkenness. The yearly races mostly drew A lively crowd to Dandaloo. I here came a sportsman from the East, The Eastern land where sportsmen blow, And brought with him a speedy beast A speedy beast as horses go. He came afar in hope to "do" The little town of Dandaloo. Now this was weak of him, I wot— Exceeding weak, it seemed to me— For we in Dandaloo were not The Jugginses we 'peared to be; In fact, we rather thought we knew Our book by heart in Dandaloo. We held a meeting at the bar, And met the question fair and square— "We've stumped the country near and far lo raise the cash for races here; We've got a hundred pounds or two— Not half so bad for Dandaloo "And now, it seems, we have to be Cleaned out by this here Sydney bloke, With his imported horse; and he Will scoop the pool and leave us broke. Shall we sit still, and make no fuss While this chap climbs all over us?" Ihe races came to Dandaloo, And all the cornstalks from the West On ev'ry kind of moke and screw, Game forth in all their glory drest. Ihe stranger's horse, as hard as nails, Look'd fit to run for New South Wales. He won the race by half a length— Quite half a length, it seemed to me— Dut Dandaloo, with all its strength, Roared out "Dead-heat!" most fervently; And, after hesitation meet, The judge's verdict was "Dead-heat!" And many men there were could tell What gave the verdict extra force: I he stewards, and the judge as well— I hey all had backed the second horse. I or things like this they sometimes do In larger towns than Dandaloo. They ran it off; the stranger won, Hands-down, by near a hundred yards. He smiled to think his troubles done; But Dandaloo held all the cards. They went to scale and—cruel fate! His jockey turned out under-weight. Perhaps they'd tampered with the scale ) I cannot tell. I only know It weighed him out all right. I fail To paint that Sydney sportsman's woe. He said the stewards were a crew Of low-lived thieves in Dandaloo. He lifted up his voice, irate, And swore till all the air was blue; So then we rose to vindicate (( The dignity of Dandaloo. "My friend," said we, "you must not poke Such oaths at us poor country folk." We rode him softly on a rail, We shied at him, in careless glee, Some large tomatoes, rank and stale, And eggs of great antiquity— Their wild, unholy fragrance flew About the town of Dandaloo. He left the town at break of day, He led his racehorse through the streets, And now he tells the tale, they say, To every racing-man he meets. And Sydney sportsmen all eschew The atmosphere of Dandaloo. THE BANJO.
- Which the name of the place was not Dandaloo but
Dandaloo is melodious and rhymey. Here is a very pathetic incident, which lias been known to move strong men. It transpired at Goldsborough, near Dunolly (Vic.) in '86. The White Horse Company was sinking on the Birth- day line. One day, just before "knock-off," the braceman—a dreamy individual of alcoholic habits — dropped his spanner down the shaft, greatly to the detriment of Philip O'Daley, who was indus- triously delving below. Poor Phil, was badly damaged about the head, and when brought to the surface was quite unconscious. Whilst the boys were carrying the injured miner across the pad- dock to his little home on the outskirts of the township, the boss ran on ahead to break the news to his wife. Now, although Mr. and Mrs. O'Daley agreed pretty well in general, there were times when Philip smote his spouse with considerable force. Mr. O'D. was something of an epicure in a humble way, and when his victuals were not up to expectations he impressed his con victions on Mary's mind withmuch variegated profanity and a "skelp" or two. The boss found Mrs. O'Daley bending anxiously over a composite dish of some kind Which she was testing with a spoon. He gravely hinted at impending difficulties, and earnestly ad- vised the lady to be calm and bear up. "F what's wrong?" queried the housewife, anxiously. "Is O'Daley off dhrinking?" "Worse than that," re- plied the boss. "He has been hurt at the mine, and is being carried in here unconscious." "On- conscious!" exclaimed Mrs. O'D., dropping the spoon and heaving a pro r ound sigh of relief. "Onoonscious, is it? Ooh, then! Misther Burins, H mn'S'ht- »v bin th'»ht«w'» Rhmolrud •" Image: 18 Image18
