December 1943 School Magazine

December, 1943:

Brisbane Girls' Grammar School Magazine

December, 1943

:Brisbane · Girls' ·Grammar School Magazine

Martha had been married nigh on sixty years now. Sixty years of sweat and labour and now at long last he reaped the benefits of h is hard toil- the privilege of a quiet pipe in the· evening and memories. He looked lovingly down the avenue which led from the- main road to the rambling old ' station homestead. The old track was fringed on both sides by tall and stately gums-the monarchs of the Australian bush. To Ned Haylock each tree· held a memory. All through the weary years he had built that road with his own hands proudly calling it "The Road to My Home". It was in the way of a diary to him. His life could be read from beginning to end on the little brass plates which hung on each tree. The day that he and Martha had been married and they had walked into the little three roomed shack as if it were the Crystal Palace, he had planted the first tree with his own hands. At first they had started off on twenty thousand acres-all that his savings would permit him to purchase. Now Wellshot consisted of two hundred and fifty thousand acres of fine pas- ture land. Yes, indeed the thrill had been great as they watched the wool cheque grow. Two years after they had been married, David was born. Ned thought of that as one of the happiest days of his life. To mark the occasion another gum was planted beside the track leading to the homestead. Ah, and then was the time that he was beginning to stand on his feet and the drought overtook them. Martha had cried a little then; it was the first time he had seen her cry in a ll their married life, and the sight of the tears running down her care- worn face had been like a dagger turning in his heart. Those were the days when a man began to wonder if there was an Almighty Being. But then he had drunk from the cup of joy a lso. Great thirst quenching gulps as the cheque grew and his acres in· creased and his sheep multiplied. And always the queer kind of pride he took in his road-"The Road to My Home" as he called it. Now there was a stately procession of tall trees lining the road . Why, it was only a week since he had mad& the latest addition. That was when his twenty years old grand-daughter had had her first baby. That made him a great-grandfather-"made a man feel old too". Yes, all his children had married young. He always knew the exact date when they had married-his trees told him so. Then there had been the time when he had deemed it neces- 42

sary to build a bigger a nd better home as their family increas- ed. In his heart he felt a traitor as he pulled the old home- ~tead down, for he loved it. It seemed to him rather like dis- missing an old friend who had served him well but for whom he had no further use. The years had flitted by, filled with sorrow and joy, and always another tree had taken root to tell its romantic tale of ihe struggle a man had to live and love in a cruel country under a "pitless blue sky" with the cries of the dying sheep Jorever ringing in his heart. God only knows how he hated ·and l oved this country. Suddenly the pipe dropped from his fingers and his head dropped on to his chest. 'Roo, an old station-hand, saw the old man fall asleep. . "Strange" he said to himself, "the boss never goes to sleep when 'e's 'avin' a smoke, and the noise o' that old pipe fallin' 's' enough t' wake the dead". Startled at what he had said, in an instant he was beside the old squatter. "My God," he whispered through dry lips, "the old man's 'ad it! " Reverently he pufled his battered old hat off, and muttered, "' I 'ope the road yer travellin', ol' timer, 'll take yer to as 'appy .a 'orne as yer own did, and," he paused awkwardly, "I 'ope yer can still smell them ol' gums yer loved so well." Jill Lidgard, III.B.

LOST RHAPSODY.

Once I thought to take up my pen and write A poem, such as men have never known, A soft harmony of blue skies, a nd sunny woodlands Borrowed from another world; A musical cascade of witty words and wild thoughts, Full of carolling fai ry cadences, and the mellow tang Of wattle blossoms in a summer eve. Alas! my dream, on waking, vanished, Wafted by elfin winds of the Land of Moonlight. Will it never return? I sit, pen in hand, ruling neat red borders down the page, But my e lusive thoughts cannot thus b e snared, Never again can I catch one fl itting, millionth part Of the magical sweetness Of that mad, beautiful, Lost Rhapsody.

MARGARET BRYAN, IILB.

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