The baby was blinking happily up at a great fat golden beetle that was making a lazy way up the wattle. It had lost its "comforter" and was sucking its thumb thoughtfully. It had kicked off its white knitted boots, and was curling its pink toes up in the sunshine with great enjoyment.

"Baby!" Larrie said. The big fellow was trembling in every limb.

"_Baby!_" said Dot. She gathered it up in her little shaking arms, she put her poor white face down upon it, and broke into such pitiful tears and sobs that it wept too. Larrie took them both into his arms, and sat down on a fallen tree. He soothed them, he called them a thousand tender, beautiful names; he took off Dot's hat and stroked her little curls, he kissed his baby again and again; he kissed his wife. When they were all quite calm and the bullocks ten miles away, they started again.

"I'll carry him," said Larrie.

"Ah no, let me," Dot said.

"Darling, you're too tired--see, you can hold his hand across my shoulder."

"No, no, give him to me--my arms ache without him."

"But the hill--my big baby!"

"Oh, I _must_ have him--Larrie, _let_ me--see, he is so light--why, he is nothing to carry."

_THE OLD GUM._

Stand here; he has once been a grand old gum, But it makes one reflect that the time will come When we all shall have had our fling; Yet, our life soon pa.s.ses, we scarce know how-- You would hardly think, to see him now, That once he had been a king.

In his youth, in the silence of the wood, A forest of saplings around him stood; But he overtopped them all.

And, over their heads, through the forest shade, He could see how the sunlight danced and played, So straight he grew, and so tall.

Each day of his life brought something new, The breeze stirred the bracken, the dry leaves flew, The wild bird pa.s.sed on the wing: He heard the low, sad song of the wood, His childhood was pa.s.sed in its solitude; And he grew--and became a king.

Oft has he stood on the stormy night, When the long-forked flash has revealed to sight The plain where the floods were out; When the wind came down like a hurricane, And the branches, broken and snapped in twain, Were scattered and strewn about.

Oft, touched by the reddening bush-fire glow, When clouds of smoke, rolling up from below, Obscured the sun like a pall; When the forest seemed like a flaming sea, And down came many a mighty tree, Has he stood firm through it all.

Those days of his youth have long gone by; The magpie's note and the parrot's cry, As borne on the evening wind, Recall to his thoughts his childhood flown, Old memories, fresh, yet faintly blown, Of the youth he has left behind.

On the brow of the hill he stands to-day, But the pride of his life has pa.s.sed away; His leaves are withered and sere.

And oft at night comes a sound of woe, As he sways his tired limbs to and fro And laments to the bleak night air.

He can still look down on the plain below, And his head is decked by the sunset glow With a glorious crown of light; And from every field, as the night draws on, To his spreading arms the magpies come To shelter there for the night.

Some night, when the waters rage and swell, He will hear the thunder roll his knell, And will bow his head to the ground; And the birds from their nests will wheel in the air, And the rabbits burrow deeper in fear, At the thundering, rending sound.

And the magpies must find another home; No more, at the sunset, will they come To warble their evening song.

Ah, well! our sorrow is quickly flown, For the good old friends we have loved and known: And the old tree falls by the tall new grown, And the weak must yield to the strong.

FLORENCE BULLIVANT.

_MURPHY SHALL NOT SING TO-NIGHT._

Specimens of Ireland's greatness gathered round O'Connor's bar, Answering the invitation Patsy posted near and far.

All the chandeliers were lit, but did not shed sufficient light, So tallow candles, stuck in bottles, graced the bar that famous night.

All the quality were there; before such talent ne'er was seen; Healy brought the house down fairly with "The Wearin' o' the Green."

Liquor went around in lashins, everything was going off right, When O'Connor sent the word round, "Murphy shall not sing to-night."

Faces paled at Patsy's order; none were listening to the song; Through their hearts went vague sensations--awful dreads of coming wrong; For they knew that Danny Murphy thought himself a singer quite, And knew that if he made his mind up, that, bedad, he'd sing that night.

Everyone was close attention, knew that there would be a row, When the chairman said that "Mr. Murphy will oblige us now."

"Not so fasht," said Pat O'Connor, rising to his fullest height, "This here pub belongs to me, and Murphy shall not sing to-night."

Up jumps Murphy, scowling darkly as he looks at Pat O'Connor: "Is this the way," he says to Pat, "that you uphold Ould Oireland's honour?"

"Oi know Oi'm not much at singin'; any toime Oi'd sooner foight; But, to show me independence, s'help me bob, Oi'll sing to-night."

"Gintlemin," says Pat O'Connor, wildly gazing round about, "It will be my painful duty to chuck Danny Murphy out; It has been a rule with me that no man sings when he is tight; When Oi say a thing Oi mane it--Murphy shall not sing to-night."

Then says Doolan to O'Connor, "Listen what Oi've got to tell; If yez want to chuck out Murphy, yez must chuck out me as well."

This lot staggered Pat O'Connor, Doolan was a man of might; But he bluffed him, loudly crying, "Murphy shall not sing to-night."

Then he rushed on Danny Murphy and he smote him hip and thigh; Patsy looked a winner straight, when Doolan jabbed him in the eye.

All the crowd at once took sides, and soon began a rousing fight; The battle cry of Patsy's push was "Murphy shall not sing to-night."

The noise soon brought a copper in: 'twas Patsy's cousin, Jim Kinsella.

"Hould yer row," he says to Doolan, when Mick lands him on the smeller.

They got the best of Doolan's push, though; lumbered them for getting tight.

Patsy then had spoken truly, "Murphy did not sing that night."

EPILOGUE.

Specimens of Ireland's greatness gathered round the City court.

There before the awful sentence was a touching lesson taught-- Then away they led the prisoners to a cell, so cool and white; And for fourteen days to come Murphy shall not sing at night.

MONTAGUE GROVER.

_CHRISTMAS BELLS._

BY JOHN B. O'HARA, M.A.

(_By kind permission of the Author._)