Jim of the Hills

Front matter

". . lurchin' down the crazy wooden ways."

JIM OF THE HILLS

A STORY IN RHYME

Swingin' Douglas

Swingin' Douglas

THERE'S a breeze about the mountain, it is singin' in the trees A song to mock the little men who choose to live at ease, Or play at toil or pleasure where their fellows crowd and push; But put my good axe in my hand and leave me in the bush— And it's: Hey, boy! Hi, boy! Heave it in the wood! Oh, the green bush is around us, and the smell of it is good. The great bush is before us, and a giant's task to do. And hearty men and hefty men alone may see it thro'. So it's: Ho, boys! Hey, boys ! Swing it with a will! For the saws are howlin' hungry for logs, down at the mill.

The hope for man is honest work, an' out-o'-doors his place, The good brown earth beneath him an' the clean breeze in his face; The work for man is with his hands, his muscles strong as steel, When health an' strength within him make him feel as he should feel.

Oh, it's: Hey, boys! Shake her up! Twenty logs to get! The tail-rope's fouled a saplin' an' the boss is in a sweat. He's swearin' like a trooper, for they're falling grubby wood; The boy has broke the whistle-string, which isn't for his good. But it's: Ho, boys! Slog along! Watch her when she goes! An' ringin' down the gully runs the echo of the blows.

High above us, on the hill-top, where the tall trees rake the sky, The cockatoos are craaking and the crimson parrots cry. From below us, where the sawdust by the mill is gleamin' brown. Comes the dronin' of the twin-saws while the boys are breakin' down. An' it's: Ho, boys! Let her go! Watch her, how she sways! An' the loggin' truck goes lurchin' down the crazy wooden ways. With the driver at the brake-rope—Oh, that truckie has a nerve! An' he howls a merry "Hoop-la !" as she swings around a curve. Then it's: Hey, boys! Plug ahead! Feed the greedy mill! We have fed her logs in dozens, but she's shriekin' for 'em still.

When you test the strength that's in you, oh, it's good to be alive In the green bush, the clean bush, an' with your fellows strive … There's Simon, of the sniggin' gang, in trouble with his log, An' he slews her with a cant-hook as she wallows in a bog. But it's: Hey, boys! Steady, boys! Haul away the slack! An' the shackled giant's snakin' down the deeply-furrowed track. Now the boss he swears to heaven that the timber's all bewitched, An' Simon toils like seven men to get the tackle hitched. An' it's: Ho, boys! Right away! Slew her at the nose! An' the old winch coughs an' clatters every time the whistle blows.

The crowded world' may call at times, but here I'd rather be. With the strong men, the brown men, who work along with me; With the good tan on their faces an' the clear look in their eyes That come to men who ply their trade beneath the open skies: The rough men. The straight men. With coarse words on the tongue, An' hearts that work can never break an' minds that must keep young.

Oh, it's swingin', swingin' Douglas with a strength you glory in, Where willin' hands are honoured hands, an' shirkin' is the sin— An' it's: Hi, boys! Clear, boys! More to feed the mill! An' the great tree whistles downward to a crash that shakes the hill.

A Lonely Man

A Lonely Man

WHEN I'm out among the fellows, with the work to hold my mind. Then there's heaps of joy in livin' an' the world seems awful kind— Awful kind an' awful jolly, with no trace of melancholy. An' I tell myself the bloke that don't enjoy it must be blind— When I'm out among the fellows; but, when I am sittin' here, Dreamin' by my lonely fireside, then the world gets kind of queer.

I suppose it's how you take it: what they call the point of view; An' a man don't look for dreamin' when there's work for him to do. But he can't be ever toilin', an' at times he gets to spoilin' All the joy the day has brought him — when he lets the black thoughts through. I suppose it's livin' lonely, as a fellow never should; For a lonely man gets broodin', an' the broodin' isn't good.

It's never good, the sayin' is, for man to live alone. But 'tain't because I like it that I'm batchin' on my own. For a bloke must take what's goin', an' my life ain't all been growin'

Daffodils an' hummin' dance tunes just to give my soul a tone. It's muscle that I've had to grow since days when I was small, An' all the music that I've made is with the axe an' maul.

When folks are poor an' toil is hard an' times are harder still A boy soon learns the use of time if he would eat his fill. Long before I'd finished schoolin' I had put aside my foolin', Till now, at thirty an' a bit, I'm workin' at a mill. It isn't much; but then my folks knew that my chance was dim, Or they might have named me Reginald instead of just plain Jim.

Just Jim the Hatter, Lonely Jim, the bloke that don't say much. I've heard how people talk of me: the gossippers an' such. An' they say I'm slow at givin'; but I've got my way of livin', An' I've got my bit of farm-land an' a house that ain't a hutch. An' tho' it hurts if this man sneers or that misunderstands, I'm proud to know that all I've got was earned with my two hands.

Suppose I don't go gay at times an' throw around the cash: It's knowin' want that frightened me from gettin' over rash. I know I'm keen on savin'; but the pinchin' an' the slavin' An' the starvin' in the old days keeps a man from bein' flash. I never treated neighbours mean or grudged a mate a pound; But I ain't out to buy loud cheers by flingin' it around.

An', after all—well, I don't know—it sums up much the same: No matter how a man has lived, no matter what his aim— If it's savin', if it's spendin'—all his life is just a blendin' Of the gay days an' the grey days: an' he's got to play the game. So where's the use of grumblin' if the game don't suit your bent? I tells myself all this at night—an' yet I ain't content.

There's days that sometimes come to me when toilin's simple bliss, An' every little job becomes a joy I wouldn't miss: When the labour seems like playin', an' I catch myself a-sayin', "Why, it's grand to think a man gets paid for doin' things like this!" But, after, came the lonely night, when I've looked back an' said, "To think I have to slave like that to earn a bit of bread!"

When I'm out among the fellows, oh, the world's a place to prize; But here, beside my lonely fire, the glamour of it dies. Sittin' here I take to gettin' gloomy views of things, an' frettin' Till my dog looks up, and wonders, with a question in his eyes. He's been my mate for years an' years, an' things that folk don't see Both good an' bad has been thrashed out by my old dog an' me.

Well he knows he's safe for sharin' while I've got a bite an' sup. When I'm fit, he's full of frolic, laughin' like a silly pup Out for fun. But when I'm feelin' sad at night, he just comes stealin' To the fire an' stretches out there with his brown eyes lookin' up, Lit with such a queer soft sadness that I feel it isn't fair My own private little worries spoils the evenin' for the pair.

Here, to-night, I've sat an' told him—while his tail flopped on the floor— Of particular conditions that have got me feelin' sore. An' my present little worry is the matter of Ben Murray An' his sudden-like attentions to the widow at the store. I ain't nothin' to the widow, as Ben Murray ought to see; But I hear he's talked fight lately, with some reference to me.

I ain't nothin' to the widow—not as yet, at any rate; Tho' a bloke can't be dead certain what is like to be his fate. But I own that I've been thinkin', an' there ain't no use in blinkin' At the fact a man must settle down before it gets too late. I ain't nothin' to the widow—don't know that I ever will. Seems to me it's awful reckless takin' lifelong chances—still …

Me an' my old dog's been talkin' quite a lot—of love an' things: Weighin' matters; an' we reckon this here love is full of stings,

Fuller than a stingin' nettle. If a fellow wants to settle He needs solid care an' comfort, not the stuff the poet sings. Love an' all that talk, we reckon, is a silly sort of fake— What's a plain man wantin' further if his wife can wash an' bake ?

I ain't nothin' to the widow… Neither is Ben Murray though! An' he won't find me unwillin' if he wants a little go. I'm not over-keen on fightin'; but his boastin' an' his skitin' Puts my back up; an' his sneerin' often gets down pretty low. Course, the widow's never mentioned—that's to say, by name, outright; But I know what's gnawin' at him when I hear he's talkin' fight.

Talkin' fight an' actin' ugly: not reel-earnest, half an' half— Shootin' sneers into his smilin', slingin' spite into his chaff. Tho' a fight I'm never shirkin', when I'm with the fellows, workin', I can give him good as he does, an' just take it with a laugh. But at evenin' when I'm broodin', I chew over all the lot. Till his jokes swell into insults an' his hintin' makes me hot.

He can have it—if he wants it! He won't be too long denied! But I've heard he's mentioned fivers — wants to fight five pounds a side. If I'm licked, of course, I lose it; an' that fool will go an' booze it:

Throw it clean into the gutter with the other cash he's shied. I been told to-day he's sayin' that his fiver saves his skin… Wonder what he meant, the blighter, that should make the fellows grin: …

Jumpin' Moses! … He can have it! Anywhere an' anywhen! Fivers? Let him talk of fivers! Holy wars, I'll make it ten! He'll get fightin', too, in plenty. If he likes I'll make it twenty! We shall see whose skin is safest an' whose hide is toughest then. I ain't got no grudge against him—only what the rotter's said. I ain't nothin' to the widow! … Here, old dog, we'll get to bed.

A Morning Song

A Morning Song

THE thrush is in the wattle tree, an', "O, you pretty dear!" He's callin' to his little wife for all the bush to hear. He's wantin' all the bush to know about his charmin' hen; He sings it over fifty times, an' then begins again. For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! The world is wet with dew, With tiny drops a-twinkle where the sun comes shinin' thro'.

The thrush is in the wattle tree, red robin's underneath. The little blue-cap's dodgin' in an' out amongst the heath; An' they're singin', boy, they're singin' like they'd bust 'emselves to bits; While, up above, old Laughin' Jack is havin' forty fits. For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! The leaves are all ashine: There's treasure all about the place; an' all of it is mine.

Oh, it's good to be a wealthy man, it's grand to be a king With mornin' on the forest-land an' joy in everything. It's fine to be a healthy man with healthy work to do In the singin' land, the clean land, washed again with dew. When sunlight slants across the trees, an' birds begin to sing. Then kings may snore in palaces, but I'm awake—and king.

But the king must cook his breakfast, an' the king must sweep the floor; Then out with axe on shoulder to his kingdom at the door,

His old dog sportin' on ahead, his troubles all behind, An' joy mixed in the blood of him because the world is kind. For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! Time to out an' strive! Oh, there's not a thing I'm askin' else but just to be alive!

It's cranky moods a man will get an' funny ways of mind; For I've a memory of one whose thoughts were all unkind: Who sat an' brooded thro' the night beside the blazin' log. His home a mirthless, silent house, his only pal a dog. But it's Mornin! Mornin'! I nurse no thought but praise, I've more good friends than I could count, tho' I should count for days.

My friends are in the underbrush, my friends are in the trees. An' merrily they welcome me with mornin' melodies. Above, below, from bush an' bough each calls his tuneful part; An' best of all, one trusty friend is callin' in my heart. For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! When night's black troubles end. An' never man was friendless yet who stayed his own good friend.

Ben Murray, he's no friend of mine, an' well I know the same; But why should I be thinkin' hate, an' nursin' thoughts of blame? Last evenin' I'd no friend within, but troubles all around, An' madly thought to fight a man for ten or twenty pound. But it's Mornin'! Mornin'! my friend within's alive. An' he'd never risk a twenty—tho' he might consider five.

But where's the call to think of strife with such good things about? The gum-leaves are a-twinkle as the sun comes peepin' out. The blue-cap's in an' out the fern, red robin's on the gate, An' who could hear the song of them and hold a thought of hate? Oh, it's Mornin'! Mornin'! No time for thinkin' wrong. An' I'd be scared to strike a man, I feel so awful strong.

Grey thrush is in the wattle, an' it's, "O, you pretty dear!" He's callin' to his little wife, an' don't care who should hear In the great bush, the fresh bush, washed again with dew. An' my axe is on my shoulder, an' there's work ahead to do. Oh, it's Mornin'! Singin' Mornin'! in the land I count the best. An' with the heart an' mind of me I'm singin' with the rest.

A Freak of Spring

A Freak of Spring

AAT any other time of year It might have passed, but Spring is queer. He says somethin'—I dunno— Somethin' nasty. I says, "Ho!" "Ho, yourself !" he says, an' glares. I says nothin'—only stares. "Coot!" says he … Then up she goes! An' I land him on the nose.

It was Spring, Spring, Spring! Just to hear the thrushes sing Would make a fellow laugh, or love, or fight like anything. Which mood called I wasn't carin'; I was feelin' fine an' darin'; So I fetches him a beauty with a lovely left-arm swing. Ben Murray staggered back a bit an' howled a wicked word Which gave me feelin's of great joy … An' that's how it occurred.

"On the sawdust!" yells old Pike, Gloatin' an' bloodthirsty-like. "On the sawdust with yeh both!" Truth to tell, I'm nothin' loth. I peel off my coat an' vest. Murray, with his rage suppressed, Comes up eager, pale with spite. "Glory!" shouts old Pike. "A fight!"

It was Spring, glad Spring, an' the swallows on the wing Made a man feel kind an' peaceful with their cheery twittering. As I watched their graceful wheelin' with a pleasant sort of feelin' Old man Pike pulled out his ticker, an' the mill-hands made a ring. There was gold upon the wattle an' the blackwood was in bud, An' I felt the call for action fairly sizzin' in my blood.

Murray comes on like a bull; Both his eyes with spleen are full. Let him have it—left an' right. … Pike is bustin' with delight. … Right eye once and left eye twice — Then he grabs me like a vise. … Down into the dust we go— Bull-dog grip and short-arm blow.

It was Spring! Mad Spring! Just to feel him clutch an' cling Told me plain that life was splendid an' my strength a precious thing. On the sawdust heap we scrambled, while the fellows yelled an' gambled On the fight; an' Ben loosed curse-words in a never-endin' string. Oh, I glimpsed the soft sky shinin' an' I smelled the fresh-cut wood; An' as we rolled I pummelled him, an' knew the world was good.

" 'Tain't a dog-fight!" shouts Bob Blair. "Stand up straight an' fight it fair." I get end-up with a grin. "Time!" yells Pike, an' bangs a tin. "Corners, boys. A minute's spell." "Good lad, Jim! You're doin' well," Says the little Dusty, Dick. . . . Murray's eye is closin' quick.

It was Spring, sweet Spring, an' a man must have his fling: Healthy men must be respondin' to the moods the seasons bring. That sweet air, with scrub scents laden, all my body was invadin', Till each breath I drew within me made me feel I was a king. 'Twas the season to be doin' — fondlin' maids, or fightin' men— An' I felt my spirit yearnin' for another crack at Ben.

Pike bangs on his tin again. "Time!" he roars. "Get to it, men!" I come eager, fit to dance; Ben spars cautious for a chance. With a laugh I flick him light; Then—like lightnin' comes his right Full an' fair upon the jaw — Lord, the purple stars I saw!

It was Spring, wild Spring! When I felt the sudden sting Of a clout all unexpected, I was just a maddened thing— Just a savage male thing ragin'; battle all my wits engagin'. Instant I was up an' at him, an' I punched him round the ring. I forgot the scents an' season; I lost count of time an' place; An' my only aim an' object was to batter Murray's face.

Pike is dancin' wild with joy; Dusty Dick howls, "At him, boy!" I am at him, fast an' hard. Then, as Murray drops his guard, I get in one, strong an' straight, Full of enmity an' weight. Down he goes; the fellows shout. "One!" starts Pike, then … "Ten—an' out!"

It was Spring, gay Spring. Still were swallows on the wing. An', on a sudden, once again I heard the thrushes sing. There was gold upon the wattle, an' my recent wish to throttle Murray, as he lay there groanin', was a far-forgotten thing. In the soft blue sky were sailin' little clouds as fine as fluff. "Wantin' more?" I asked him gently; but Ben Murray said, "Enough."

"Well done, Jim," says old Bob Blair. "'Tis the brave deserves the fair."

An' he laughs an' winks at Pike In a way that I don't like. "Widders," grins young Dusty Dick, "Likes a bloke whose hands is quick. Now poor Ben can take the sack." But I frowns, an' turns my back.

It was Spring, the fickle Spring; an' a most amazin' thing Came upon me sudden-like an' set me marvelling. For no longer was I lookin' for a wife to do my cookin'. But for somethin' sweet an' tender of the kind that kiss an' cling. Oh, for such a one I'd battle, an' I'd win by hook or crook; But it did seem sort of foolish to go fightin' for a cook.

Standin' on the sawdust heap I feel mean an' rather cheap. Widows? Let the widow go! What we fought for I don't know. Murray offers me his hand: "Jim, you've won; so, understand, I don't mean to block your road …" But I answer, "That be blowed!"

"Why, it's Spring, man. Spring!" (An' I gave his fist a wring) "If you reckoned me your rival, give up thinkin' such a thing. I just fought for fun an' frolic, so don't you get melancholic; An', if you have notions yonder, why, buck up an' buy the ring!

Put some beefsteak on your eye, lad, an' learn how to keep your guard." Then I put my coat an' vest on, an' walked homeward … thinkin' hard.

The Vision

The Vision

OF things that roam about the bush I ain't got many fears, For I knows their ways an' habits, an' I've chummed with them for years. For man or beast or gully ghost I've pluck enough to spare; But I draws the line at visions with the sunlight in their hair.

When a man has fought an' conquered it is good in many ways: There's the pride in havin' done it, an' the other fellows' praise; There's the glory an' the standin' that you get among the men— All their looks are more respectful since I socked it into Ben.

I was feelin' fine this mornin' when I started out to work; An' I caught myself high-steppin' with a boastful sort of jerk; With my head a trifle higher an' my eye a little stern. I thought the world was mine for keeps; but I'd a lot to learn.

Young Dick, the Dusty, wasn't half so cheeky as of old; The men were actin' friendly-like, but I kept kind of cold An' distant, as becomes a bloke who's scored a knock-out thump— Till just approachin' dinner time; an' then I got my bump.

It's fine to see your cobbers lookin' at you like they know You're not a man to trifle with; at least, I found it so. Ben Murray was quite affable, an' once he whispered me There's a certain somethin' doin', an' he'll see me privately.

I was workin' at the rip saw; for the boss had called me in, From the peaceful bush an' quiet to the sawmill's fuss an' din; An' there he put me tailin' out—a game I never like; But, "Likin' isn't gettin' in the bush," says Daddy Pike.

I was workin' at the rip saw, cursin' at my achin' back, When I saw the blessed vision comin' down the log-yard track. There were others in the party, but the one that got my stare Was her with two brown, laughin' eyes an' sunlight in her hair.

"More visitors!" growled old man Pike. "Another city push. I'll bet a quid they ask us why we 'spoil the lovely bush.'" I hardly heard him saying it, for like a fool I stand, My eyes full of the vision an' a batten in my hand.

"You gone to sleep?" the sawyer said. "What's got you mesmerized?" I start to work like fury, but my thoughts can't be disguised. "Oh, Jim's gone dippy with the Spring"; replies old Pike an' grins. I turn to answer dignified; but trip, an' bark my shins.

Next thing I know the boss is there, an' talkin' fine an' good, Explainin' to the visitors how trees are made of wood. They murmur things like "Marvellous!" an' "What a monster tree!" An' then the one with sunlit hair comes right bang up to me.

"I saw you fall," she sort of sung: you couldn't say she talked, For her voice had springtime in it, like the way she looked an' walked. "I saw you fall," she sung at me. "I hope you were not hurt." An' suddenly I was aware I wore my oldest shirt.

"It never hurt me half as much as your two smilin' eyes." That's how I could have answered her — an' watched old Pike's surprise— "It never harmed me half as much as standin' here like this With tattered shirt an' grimy hands" … But I just says, "No, Miss."

"Oh, no," I says. "We're pretty hard, an' have to take them cracks." (But, just to see her sudden smile, made me as soft as wax.) "You're strong," she smiles. I answers, "Oh, I'm pretty strong, all right." An' close behind I heard old Pike observin', "Hear 'im skite!"

That finished me. I lost what little nerve I had, an' grew Dead certain that I looked a fool, an' that she thought so, too. She talked some more; but I can't tell what other things she said. I went all cold, except my ears, an' they were burnin' red.

I only know her eyes were soft, her voice was kind an' low. I never spoke another word exceptin' "Yes" an' "No." I never felt a bigger chump in all my livin' days. Well knowin' I was gettin' worse at every word she says.

An' when she went off with the rest I stood there, lookin' sick, Until I caught a chance remark of little Dusty Dick. "What price the widders now?" says he. I answer fierce an' low: "Were you addressin' me?" I says; an' Dick was prompt with "No!"

I don't know how I finished up; my thoughts were far from clear; For, in between me an' the bench, that vision would appear. No other man chucked off at me, but by their looks 'twas plain I'd lost a bit of that respect it took a fight to gain.

An', when the knock-off whistle blew, Ben Murray he came by. An' says he'd like that private talk, but, "Pickle it," says I.

"'Twill have to keep till later on." He answers, "As you like." Soon after that I saw him talkin' earnest with old Pike.

If I'd been right, I might have known there's somethin' in the air By the way the blokes were actin'; but a fat lot did I care. Swell visions an' the deadly pip was what was wrong with me. I slung a word to my old dog, an' we trudged home to tea.

An' after, in the same old way, we sits beside the fire, To have a talk, my dog an' me, on fools an' vain desire. I tell him I'm a silly chump to think the things I do. An', with a waggle of his tail, he says he thinks so too.

I tell him I suppose she's rich, or so she seems to be; Most likely some reel city swell—an' he don't disagree. I says to him the chances are I'll not see her no more. Then he gives me a funny look, an' curls up on the floor.

But I was slow to take the tip, an' went on talkin' rot About injustice in the world, an' boiled up good an' hot. I spouts of wrongs of workin' men an' how our rulers fail. His eyes are shut, but he just seconds motions with his tail.

All beauty's only for the rich, all times, an' every way. The toilers just take what is left, as I've heard Murray say

When he's been talkin' to the boys about the workers' rights. An' spoutin' of equality, down at the huts, of nights.

I turned the social system inside-out for my old dog, Tho' he don't seem much entertained, but lies there like a log. I spoke of common people's wrongs—especially of mine; But when I came to mention love I thought I heard him whine.

But I went on, an' said straight out that, tho' I seemed above Such nonsense once, I'd changed a bit, an' I believed in love. I said love was a splendid thing! … Then, true as I am born. He rose, an' yawned, an' shut me up with one crook glance of scorn.

It's bad enough to be a bloke without one reel close friend; But when your dog gives you the bird it's pretty near the end. Ashamed, I sneaked away to bunk; an' fell to dreamin' there Of a little brown-eyed vision with the sunlight in her hair.

Old Bob Blair

Old Bob Blair

I GOT so down to it last night, With longin' for what could not be, That nothin' in the world seemed right— Or everything was wrong with me. My house was just a lonely hole. An' I had blisters on my soul.

Top of my other worries now The boys are talkin' strike, an' say If we put up a sudden row We're sure of forcin' up our pay. I'm right enough with what I get; But some wants more, an' then more yet.

Ben Murray's put it up to me: He says I got some influence Amongst them, and if I agree — "Which I will do if I have sense" — We'll make the boss cough up a bit. That's how Ben Murray looks at it.

I don't know that the old boss can. I've heard he's pushed to make ends meet. To me he's been a fair, straight man That pays up well an' works a treat. But if I don't get in this game, Well, "blackleg" ain't a pretty name.

This thing has got me thinkin' hard. But there is worse upon my mind. What sort of luck has broke my guard That I should be the man to find A girl like that? … The whole world's wrong! Why was I born to live and long?

I get so down to it last night. With broodin' over things like this, I said "There's not a thing in sight Worth havin' but I seem to miss." So I go out to get some air An' have a word with old Bob Blair.

Bob's livin' lonely, same as me; But he don't take to frettin' so An' gettin' megrims after tea. He reads a lot at night, I know; His hut has books half up the wall That I don't tumble to at all.