'E's got 'is 'and up shadin' off the sun.
Then 'e starts up to them; but Dad don't run:
'E isn't 'owlin' for 'is lost boy's kiss;
'E's got 'is own sweet way in things like this.
'E wanders up, an' stands an' looks at Jim.
An', spare me days, that look was extra grim!
I seen the mother pluckin' at 'er dress;
I seen the girl's white face an' 'er distress.
An' Digger Smith, 'e looks reel queer to me:
Grinnin' inside 'imself 'e seemed to be.
At last Dad sez—oh, 'e's a tough ole gun!—
"Well, are yeh sorry now for wot yeh done?"
Jim gives a start; but answers with a grin,
"Well, Dad, I 'ave been learnin' discipline.
An' tho' I ain't quite sure wot did occur
Way back"—'e's grinnin' worse—"I'm sorry, sir."
(It beats me, that, about these soldier blokes:
They're always grinnin', like all things was jokes.)
P'r'aps Dad is gettin' dull in 'is ole age;
But 'e don't seem to see Jim's cammyflage.
P'r'aps 'e don't want to; for, in 'is ole eye,
I seen a twinkle as 'e give reply.
"Nex' week," 'e sez, "we will begin to cart
The taters. Yeh can make another start."
