Their hoofs’ dull thunder brought the wife in wonder to the gate:
She waved her hand in answer to his shout;
While Dandy from his paddock whinnied loudly to his mate
To know what all the trouble was about.
‘God help us now! the end has come!’ the wretched woman cried,
And leant against the gate to catch her breath;
While the tiny, blue-eyed toddler cheered his father on his ride
Towards the ghastly winning-post of Death.
‘The filly’s failing fast!’ thought Jack; ‘she’s nothing but a weed;
It’s a certainty she can’t keep long in front.
I’ll make a splendid target, if he likes to draw a bead,
As I try to cross the river on the punt.’
He left the mare and scrambled through the ti-tree growing rank,
Deep-rooted in its bed of yellow clay;
But when he reached the river, stood and trembled on the bank:
‘My God!’ he hoarsely said, ‘it’s swept away!’
The punt was gone: the wire rope still stretched from shore to shore:
Jack paused but half a moment to decide,
