"Jim, do you know what heroes are?" says she, when I'd "behaved."
"Why, yes," says I. "They're blokes that save fair maids that won't be saved."
"You're mine," says she, an' smiles at me, "an' will be all my life—
That is, if it occurs to you to ask me for your wife."
••••••
Grey thrush is in the wattle-tree when I get home that day—
Back to my silent, lonely house—an' still he sings away.
There is no other voice about, no step upon the floor;
An' none to come an' welcome me as I get to the door.
Yet in the happy heart of me I play at make-believe:
I hear one singin' in the room where once I used to grieve;
I hear a light step on the path, an', as I reach the gate,
A happy voice, that makes me glad, tells me I'm awful late.
Now what's a man to think of that, an' what's a man to say.
Who's been out workin' in the bush, tree-fallin', all the day?
An' how's a man to greet his wife, if she should meet him here?
But Grey Thrush in the wattle-tree says, "Oh, you pretty dear!"
THE END
