Jim of the Hills | Page 4

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 and will go and booze it:
Throw it clean into the gutter with the other cash he's shied.
I been told to-day he's saying' 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.
III. 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 having 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 a 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,