So we worked a little 'paddock' on a place they called the 'Bar', And we sank a shaft together, and at night we worked the STAR.

Charlie thought and did his writing when his work was done at night, And the missus used to 'set' it near as quick as he could write.

Well, I didn't shirk my promise, and I helped the thing, I guess, For at night I worked the lever of the crazy printing-press; Brown himself would do the feeding, and the missus used to 'fly' -- She is flying with the angels, if there's justice up on high, For she died on Cambaroora when the STAR began to go, And was buried like the diggers buried diggers long ago.

Lord, that press! It was a jumper -- we could seldom get it right, And were lucky if we averaged a hundred in the night.

Many nights we'd sit together in the windy hut and fold, And I helped the thing a little when I struck a patch of gold; And we battled for the diggers as the papers seldom do, Though when the diggers errored, why, we touched the diggers too.

Yet the paper took the fancy of that roaring mining town, And the diggers sent a nugget with their sympathy to Brown.

Oft I sat and smoked beside him in the listening hours of night, When the shadows from the corners seemed to gather round the light -- When his weary, aching fingers, closing stiffly round the pen, Wrote defiant truth in language that could touch the hearts of men -- Wrote until his eyelids shuddered -- wrote until the East was grey: Wrote the stern and awful lessons that were taught him in his day; And they knew that he was honest, and they read his smallest par, For I think the diggers' Bible was the CAMBAROORA STAR.

Diggers then had little mercy for the loafer and the scamp -- If there wasn't law and order, there was justice in the camp; And the manly independence that is found where diggers are Had a sentinel to guard it in the CAMBAROORA STAR.

There was strife about the Chinamen, who came in days of old Like a swarm of thieves and loafers when the diggers found the gold -- Like the sneaking fortune-hunters who are always found behind, And who only shepherd diggers till they track them to the 'find'.

Charlie wrote a slinging leader, calling on his digger mates, And he said: 'We think that c.h.i.n.kies are as bad as syndicates.

What's the good of holding meetings where you only talk and swear?

Get a move upon the c.h.i.n.kies when you've got an hour to spare.'

It was nine o'clock next morning when the Chows began to swarm, But they weren't so long in going, for the diggers' blood was warm.

Then the diggers held a meeting, and they shouted: 'Hip hoorar!

Give three ringing cheers, my hearties, for the CAMBAROORA STAR.'

But the Cambaroora petered, and the diggers' sun went down, And another sort of people came and settled in the town; The reefing was conducted by a syndicate or two, And they changed the name to 'Queensville', for their blood was very blue.

They wanted Brown to help them put the feathers in their nests, But his leaders went like thunder for their vested interests, And he fought for right and justice and he raved about the dawn Of the reign of Man and Reason till his ads. were all withdrawn.

He was offered shares for nothing in the richest of the mines, And he could have made a fortune had he run on other lines; They abused him for his leaders, and they parodied his rhymes, And they told him that his paper was a mile behind the times.

'Let the times alone,' said Charlie, 'they're all right, you needn't fret; For I started long before them, and they haven't caught me yet.

But,' says he to me, 'they're coming, and they're not so very far -- Though I left the times behind me they are following the STAR.

'Let them do their worst,' said Charlie, 'but I'll never drop the reins While a single sc.r.a.p of paper or an ounce of ink remains: I've another truth to tell them, though they tread me in the dirt, And I'll print another issue if I print it on my shirt.'

So we fought the battle bravely, and we did our very best Just to make the final issue quite as lively as the rest.

And the swells in Cambaroora talked of feathers and of tar When they read the final issue of the CAMBAROORA STAR.

Gold is stronger than the tongue is -- gold is stronger than the pen: They'd have squirmed in Cambaroora had I found a nugget then; But in vain we sc.r.a.ped together every penny we could get, For they fixed us with their boycott, and the plant was seized for debt.

'Twas a storekeeper who did it, and he sealed the paper's doom, Though we gave him ads. for nothing when the STAR began to boom: 'Twas a paltry bill for tucker, and the crawling, sneaking clown Sold the debt for twice its value to the men who hated Brown.

I was digging up the river, and I swam the flooded bend With a little cash and comfort for my literary friend.

Brown was sitting sad and lonely with his head bowed in despair, While a single tallow candle threw a flicker on his hair, And the gusty wind that whistled through the crannies of the door Stirred the scattered files of paper that were lying on the floor.

Charlie took my hand in silence -- and by-and-by he said: 'Tom, old mate, we did our d.a.m.nedest, but the brave old STAR is dead.'

Then he stood up on a sudden, with a face as pale as death, And he gripped my hand a moment, while he seemed to fight for breath: 'Tom, old friend,' he said, 'I'm going, and I'm ready to -- to start, For I know that there is something -- something crooked with my heart.

Tom, my first child died. I loved her even better than the pen -- Tom -- and while the STAR was dying, why, I felt like I did THEN.

Listen! Like the distant thunder of the rollers on the bar -- Listen, Tom! I hear the -- diggers -- shouting: 'Bully for the STAR!"

After All

The brooding ghosts of Australian night have gone from the bush and town; My spirit revives in the morning breeze, though it died when the sun went down; The river is high and the stream is strong, and the gra.s.s is green and tall, And I fain would think that this world of ours is a good world after all.

The light of pa.s.sion in dreamy eyes, and a page of truth well read, The glorious thrill in a heart grown cold of the spirit I thought was dead, A song that goes to a comrade's heart, and a tear of pride let fall -- And my soul is strong! and the world to me is a grand world after all!

Let our enemies go by their old dull tracks, and theirs be the fault or shame (The man is bitter against the world who has only himself to blame); Let the darkest side of the past be dark, and only the good recall; For I must believe that the world, my dear, is a kind world after all.

It well may be that I saw too plain, and it may be I was blind; But I'll keep my face to the dawning light, though the devil may stand behind!

Though the devil may stand behind my back, I'll not see his shadow fall, But read the signs in the morning stars of a good world after all.

Rest, for your eyes are weary, girl -- you have driven the worst away -- The ghost of the man that I might have been is gone from my heart to-day; We'll live for life and the best it brings till our twilight shadows fall; My heart grows brave, and the world, my girl, is a good world after all.

Marshall's Mate

You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn -- You could have watched the gra.s.s scorch brown had there been gra.s.s to burn.

In such a drought the strongest heart might well grow faint and weak -- 'Twould frighten Satan to his home -- not far from Dingo Creek.

The tanks went dry on Ninety Mile, as tanks go dry out back, The Half-Way Spring had failed at last when Marshall missed the track; Beneath a dead tree on the plain we saw a pack-horse reel -- Too blind to see there was no shade, and too done-up to feel.

And charcoaled on the canvas bag ('twas written pretty clear) We read the message Marshall wrote. It said: 'I'm taken queer -- I'm somewhere off of Deadman's Track, half-blind and nearly dead; Find Crowbar, get him sobered up, and follow back,' it said.

'Let Mitch.e.l.l go to Bandicoot. You'll find him there,' said Mack.

'I'll start the chaps from Starving Steers, and take the dry-holes back.'

We tramped till dark, and tried to track the pack-horse on the sands, And just at daylight Crowbar came with Milroy's station hands.

His cheeks were drawn, his face was white, but he was sober then -- In times of trouble, fire, and flood, 'twas Crowbar led the men.

'Spread out as widely as you can each side the track,' said he; 'The first to find him make a smoke that all the rest can see.'

We took the track and followed back where Crowbar followed fate, We found a dead man in the scrub -- but 'twas not Crowbar's mate.

The station hands from Starving Steers were searching all the week -- But never news of Marshall's fate came back to Dingo Creek.

And no one, save the spirit of the sand-waste, fierce and lone, Knew where Jack Marshall crawled to die -- but Crowbar might have known.

He'd scarcely closed his quiet eyes or drawn a sleeping breath -- They say that Crowbar slept no more until he slept in death.

A careless, roving scamp, that loved to laugh and drink and joke, But no man saw him smile again (and no one saw him smoke), And, when we spelled at night, he'd lie with eyes still open wide, And watch the stars as if they'd point the place where Marshall died.

The search was made as searches are (and often made in vain), And on the seventh day we saw a smoke across the plain; We left the track and followed back -- 'twas Crowbar still that led, And when his horse gave out at last he walked and ran ahead.

We reached the place and turned again -- dragged back and no man spoke -- It was a bush-fire in the scrubs that made the cursed smoke.

And when we gave it best at last, he said, 'I'LL see it through,'

Although he knew we'd done as much as mortal men could do.

'I'll not -- I won't give up!' he said, his hand pressed to his brow; 'My G.o.d! the cursed flies and ants, they might be at him now.

I'll see it so in twenty years, 'twill haunt me all my life -- I could not face his sister, and I could not face his wife.