Amelia Jane sat down and cried.

"Sakes, Amelia, what's up now?

Leading old Sambo, too, I vow, And him dead beat. Where have you been?

"Bolted with Jim! What _do_ you mean?"

"Met the old man with Sambo licked From running old Bowneck." "Well, I'm kicked-- Ran 'em till Sambo nearly dropped?

What did Jim do when you were stopped?

Did you bolt from father across the plain?

Jim made you get off Crazy Jane!

And father got on, and away again The two of 'em went to the ranges grim.

Good boy, Jimmy! Well done, Jim!

They're sure to get them now, of course, That Tambourine is a spanking horse.

And Crazy Jane is good as gold.

And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold; Not like your father, but very fair.

Jim will have to follow the mare."

"It never was yet in father's hide To best my Jim on the mountain-side.

Jim can rally, and Jim can ride."

But here again Amelia cried.

The sound of a whip comes faint and far, A rattle of hoofs, and here they are, In all their tameless pride.

The fleet wild horses snort with fear, And wheel and break as the yard draws near.

Now, Jim the Ringer, ride!

Wheel 'em! wheel 'em! Whoa back there, whoa!

And the foam-flakes fly like the driven snow, As under the whip the horses go Adown the mountain side.

And Jim, hands down, and teeth firm set, On a horse that never has failed him yet, Is after them down the range.

Well ridden! well ridden! they wheel--whoa back!

And long and loud the stockwhips crack, Their flying course they change, "Steadily does it--let Sambo go!

Open those sliprails down below.

Smart! or you'll be too late.

They'll follow old Sambo up--look out!

Wheel that black horse--give Sam a clout.

They're in! Make fast the gate."

The mob is safely in the yard!

The old man mounts delighted guard.

No thought has he but for his prize.

Jim catches poor Amelia's eyes.

"Will you come after all? the job is done, And Crazy Jane is fit to run For a prince's life--now don't say no; Slip on while the old man's down below At the inner yard, and away we'll go.

Will you come, my girl?" "I will, you bet, We'll manage this here elopement yet."

By the winding Wollondilly stands the hut of Ringer Jim.

And his loving little Meely makes a perfect G.o.d of him.

He has stalwart sons and daughters, and, I think, before he's done, There'll be numerous "Six-fortys" taken on Mylora run.

The Pannikin Poet

There's nothing here sublime, But just a roving rhyme, Run off to pa.s.s the time, With nought t.i.tanic in The theme that it supports, And, though it treats of quarts, It's bare of golden thoughts-- It's just a pannikin.

I think it's rather hard That each Australian bard-- Each wan, poetic card-- With thoughts galvanic in His fiery soul alight, In wild aerial flight, Will sit him down and write About a pannikin.

He makes some new-chum fare From out his English lair To hunt the native bear, That curious mannikin; And then when times get bad That wandering English lad Writes out a message sad Upon his pannikin:

"Oh, mother, think of me Beneath the wattle tree"

(For you may bet that he Will drag the wattle in) "Oh, mother, here I think That I shall have to sink, There ain't a single drink The water-bottle in."

The dingo homeward hies, The sooty crows uprise And caw their fierce surprise A tone Satanic in; And bearded bushmen tread Around the sleeper's head-- "See here--the bloke is dead!

Now where's his pannikin?"

They read his words and weep, And lay him down to sleep Where wattle-branches sweep, A style mechanic in; And, reader, that's the way The poets of to-day Spin out their little lay About a pannikin.

Not on It

The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet-- The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get.

The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you bet He was on it.

The bell was rung, the nags came out their quality to try, The band played "What Ho! Robbo!" as our hero cantered by, The people in the Leger Stand cried out, "Hi, Mister, Hi!

Are you on it?"

They watched him as the flag went down; his fate is quickly told-- The pony gave a sudden spring, and off the rider rolled.

The pony finished first all right, but then our hero bold Was not on it.

The Protest

I say 'e _isn't_ Remorse!

'Ow do I know?

Saw 'im on Riccarton course Two year ago!

Think I'd forget any 'orse?