Let me tell you all the story, an' if then you think it strange, That I'd like to fee ye extry--why, I'll take the bloomin' change.

If yer bill had said a hundred ... I'm a poor man, doc., and yet I'd 'a' slaved till I had squared it; ay, an' still been in yer debt.

Well, you see, the wife's got notions on a heap o' things that ain't To be handled by a man as don't pretend to be a saint; So I minds "the cultivation," smokes my pipe an' makes no stir, An' religion an' such p'ints I lays entirely on to her.

No, she's got it fixed within her that, if children die afore They've been sprinkled by the parson, they've no show for evermore; An' though they're spared the pitchfork, the brimstun, an' the smoke, They ain't allowed to mix _up there_ with other little folk.

So when our last began to pine, an' lost his pretty smile, An' not a parson to be had within a hunder mile-- (For though there is a chapel down at Bluegra.s.s Creek, you know, The clargy's there on dooty only thrice a year or so)--

Well, when our yet unchristen'd mite grew limp, an' thin, an' pale, It would 'a' cut you to the heart to hear the mother wail About her "unregenerate babe," an' how, if it should go, 'Twould have no chance with them as had their registers to show.

Then awful quiet she grew, an' hadn't spoken for a week, When in came brother Bill one day with news from Bluegra.s.s Creek.

"I seen," says he, "a notice on the chapel railin' tied; They'll have service there this evenin'--can the youngster stand the ride?

For we can't have parson here, if it be true, as I've heard say, There's a dyin' man as wants him more'n twenty mile away; So"--He hadn't time to finish ere the child was out of bed, With a shawl about its body an' a hood upon its head.

"Saddle up," the missus said. I did her biddin' like a bird.

Perhaps I thought it foolish, but I never said a word; For though I have a vote in what the kids eat, drink, or wear, Their sperritual requirements are entirely _her_ affair.

We started on our two hours' ride beneath a burnin' sun, With Aunt Sal and Bill for sureties to renounce the Evil One; An' a bottle in Sal's basket that was labelled "Fine Old Tom"

Held the water that regeneration was to follow from.

For Bluegra.s.s Creek was dry, as Bill that very day had found, An' not a sup o' water to be had for miles around; So, to make salvation sartin for the babby's little soul, We had filled a dead marine, sir, at the fam'ly waterhole.

Which every forty rods or so Sal raised it to her head, An' took a snifter, "just enough to wet her lips," she said; Whereby it came to pa.s.s that when we reached the chapel door, There was only what would serve the job, an' deuce a dribble more.

The service had begun--we didn't like to carry in A vessel with so evident a carritur for gin; So we left it in the porch, an', havin' done our level best, Went an' owned to bein' "mis'rable offenders" with the rest.

An' nigh upon the finish, when the parson had been told That a lamb was waitin' there to be admitted to the fold, Rememberin' the needful, I gets up an' quietly slips To the porch to see--a swagsman--with our bottle at his lips!

Such a faintness came all over me, you might have then an' there Knocked me down, sir, with a feather or tied me with a hair.

Doc., I couldn't speak nor move; an' though I caught the beggar's eye, With a wink he turned the bottle bottom up an' drank it dry.

An' then he flung it from him, bein' suddintly aware That the label on't was merely a deloosion an' a snare; An' the crash cut short the people in the middle of "A-men,"

An' all the congregation heard him holler "Sold again!"

So that christ'nin' was a failure; every water-flask was drained; Ev'n the monkey in the vestry not a blessed drop contained; An' the parson in a hurry cantered off upon his mare, Leavin' baby unregenerate, an' missus in despair.

That night the child grew worse, but all my care was for the wife; I feared more for her reason than for that wee spark o' life....

But you know the rest--how Providence contrived that very night That a doctor should come cadgin' at our shanty for a light....

Baby? Oh, he's chirpy, thank ye--been baptised--his name is Bill.

It's weeks and weeks since parson came an' put him through the mill; An' his mother's mighty vain upon the subjick of his weight, An' reg'lar c.o.c.k-a-hoop about his sperritual state.

So now you'll take the tenner. Oh, confound the bloomin' change!

Lord, had Billy died!--but, doctor, don't you think it summut strange That them as keeps the gate would have refused to let him in Because a fool mistook a drop of Adam's ale for gin?

_THE MARTYR._

BY VICTOR J. DALEY.

(_From "At Dawn and Dusk" poems, by kind permission of Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._)

Not only on cross and gibbet, By sword, and fire, and flood, Have perished the world's sad martyrs Whose names are writ in blood.

A woman lay in a hovel Mean, dismal, gasping for breath; One friend alone was beside her: The name of him was--Death.

For the sake of her orphan children, For money to buy them food, She had slaved in the dismal hovel And wasted her womanhood.

Winter and spring and summer Came each with a load of cares; And autumn to her brought only A harvest of grey hairs.

Far out in the blessed country, Beyond the smoky town, The winds of G.o.d were blowing Evermore up and down;

The trees were waving signals Of joy from the bush beyond; The gum its blue-green banner, The fern its dark-green frond;

Flower called to flower in whispers By sweet caressing names, And young gum shoots sprang upward Like woodland altar-flames;

And, deep in the distant ranges The magpie's fluting song Roused musical, mocking echoes In the woods of Dandenong;

And riders were galloping gaily, With loose-held flowing reins, Through dim and shadowy gullies, Across broad, treeless plains;

And winds through the Heads came wafting A breath of life from the sea, And over the blue horizon The ships sailed silently;

And out of the sea at morning The sun rose, golden bright, And in crimson, and gold, and purple Sank in the sea at night;

But in dreams alone she saw them, Her hours of toil between; For life to her was only A heartless dead machine.

_Her_ heart was in the graveyard Where lay her children three; Nor work nor prayer could save them, Nor tears of agony.

On the lips of her last and dearest Pressing a farewell kiss, She cried aloud in her anguish-- "Can G.o.d make amends for _this_?"

Dull, desperate, ceaseless slaving Bereft her of power to pray, And Man was careless and cruel, And G.o.d was far away.

But who shall measure His mercies?

His ways are in the deep; And, after a life of sorrow, He gave her His gift of sleep.

Rest comes at last to the weary, And freedom to the slave; Her tired and worn-out body Sleeps well in its pauper grave.

But His angel bore her soul up To that Bright Land and Fair, Where Sorrow enters never, Nor any cloud of care.

They came to a lovely valley, Agleam with asphodel, And the soul of the woman speaking, Said, "Here I fain would dwell!"

The angel answered gently: "O Soul, most pure and dear, O Soul, most tried and truest, Thy dwelling is not here!

"Behold thy place appointed-- Long kept, long waiting--come!

Where bloom on the hills of Heaven The roses of Martyrdom!"