The squatter saw his pastures wide
Decrease as, one by one,
The farmers, moving to the west, Selected on his run;Selectors took the water up And all the black soil round;The best grass-land the squatter had Was spoilt by Ross"s ground.
One Christmas time, when months of drought Had parched the western creeks,The bush fires started in the north
And travelled south for weeks. At night along the river sideThe scene was grand and strange-
The hill fires looked like lighted streets Of cities in the range.
The cattle-tracks between the trees Were like long, dusky aisles;And on a sudden breeze the fire Would sweep along for miles; Like sounds of distant musketry It crackled through the brakes; And o"er the flat of silver grassIt hissed like angry snakes.
Drawn by Allan T. Bernaldo
" "Then let it burn," the squatter said."
It leapt across the flowing streams, And raced o"er pastures broad;It climbed the trees, and lit the boughs, And through the scrubs it roared.
The bees fell stifled in the smoke,
Or perished in their hives;
And with the stock the kangaroos
Went flying for their lives.
The sun had set on Christmas Eve, When through the scrub-lands wide Young Robert Black came riding home As only natives ride.
He galloped to the homestead door
And gave the first alarm:
"The fire is past the granite spur And close to Ross"s farm.
"Now, father, send the men at once,
They won"t be wanted here; Poor Ross"s wheat is all he has To pull him through the year.""Then let it burn," the squatter said; "I"d like to see it done;I"d bless the fire if it would clear
Selectors from the run.
"Go, if you will," he thundered on, "You shall not take the men;Go out and join your precious friends,But don"t come here again."
"I won"t come back," young Robert said,
And, reckless in his ire,
He sharply turned his horse"s head And raced towards the fire.
And there for three long, weary hours, Half blind with smoke and heat,Old Ross and Robert fought the flames
That neared the ripened wheat.
The farmer"s hand was nerved by fears
Of danger and of loss;
And Robert fought the stubborn foe For love of Jenny Ross.
But serpent-like the curves and lines Slipped past them and between,Until they reached the bound"ry where
The old coach-road had been. "The track is now our only hope; There we must stand," cried Ross;"For naught on earth can stop the fire
If once it gets across."
Then came a cruel gust of wind,
And, with a fiendish rush,
The flames leapt o"er the narrow path,
And lit the fence and brush.
"The crop must burn!" the farmer cried, "We cannot save it now;"And down upon the blackened ground He dashed the ragged bough.
But wildly, in a rush of hope, His heart began to beat,For o"er the crackling fire he heard The sound of horses" feet.
"Here"s help at last," young Robert cried;
And even as he spoke
The squatter with a dozen men
Came spurring through the smoke.
Down on the ground the stockmen jumped, And bared each brawny arm;They tore green branches from the trees
And fought for Ross"s farm;
And when before the gallant band
The beaten flames gave way,
Two grimy hands in friendship joined- And it was Christmas Day.
Henry Lawson
Author.-Henry Lawson (see "The Drover"s Wife").
General Notes.-Who was Ross? Who was Black? What was the quarrel between them? Why did Robert Black go to help fight the fire? What made the elder Black come to the rescue? Do you know any other story of a bush fire? Was Robert right in disobeying his father? Why was Christmas Eve an appropriate time to make peace? Which is your favourite stanza in the poem? Why?
There is some Australian history in this poem as well as a good story. In the early days of Australian settlement, sheep farmers in the search for new land drove their flocks into unsettled country and established sheep runs. They did not own the land, and because of that they were known as "squatters." Later came the "selectors," who were allowed to buy small farms. Often the squatter found the best parts of his run taken up by selectors, and this caused many quarrels.