THE BOOKFELLOW.

Evening Post, Volume LXXX, Issue 62, 10 September 1910, Page 13

THE BOOKFELLOW.

Written for The Post, by A. G. Stephens. (Copyright.— All Rights Reserved.) VERSE BY C. H. SOUTER. DONOVAN'S NIECE. The parson says, Sundays, as Heaven's a place Where all them that gets there'll meet, face to face, An' never fall out nor feel "gallied" nor that, jrfut pal up harmonious, like peas in a hat. Well, parson, he ougflter know how it'll be, But say it's like this : Suppose Billy an' me An' Steve- o' the mill, an' big Donovan's niece Pre-emptied in Heaven upon the same piece ! Now you know as Billy stuck up to that gel Since how long ago it is, I couldn't tell. An' 'er, well she seemed not to hate it too bad: For Bill was about the first bloke as she had. Then mo. Well, It wasn't as I went about With other uovea' heifers a-outtin' them out, But Em' knocked me endways, first innin's ! God's truth 1 To think she was Bill's was like losin' a tooth ! So me an' Bill quarrelled, an' me an* Bill fought; Got drunk, and 3ono lots of things coves didn't ought; And Em' would love William, for maybe a week, I Then give me a fortnight while ho chewed the leek. That's how things went on for a twelvemonth or more, Till each of our feelings wore racked to the oore. She said "Yes" to me, and she said "Yes" to Bill; An' then took an' hooked it with Steve o' tho mill ! It's all very well for the parson to say There's no rowa in Heaven ! But I want to lay That we'll make it willin 1 up there on our lease When Steve comes to giory with Donovan's niece ! "MUMMER'S SICK." "Have yer fed them horses, Percy? Martha ! Just go into 'Mum.' Now, then, Stan'; don't cry, my sonuie; Pupper's goin' to give you some. Perco ! You go an' put the saddle On tho yaller mare. Be quick ! Ride across to Andy Hogan's; Tell yer Auntio Mummer's sick. Leave the panel down. Here, Stanley ! Let the dog alone, my son. Come along an' play with Pupper An 1 he'll let yer see his gun ! Is the kettlo boiling, Martha? Take yer Mummer in some tea, Then yer go an' git yer supper. No, yer needn't wait for me. Pupper put his boy to by-bye? Daddy come and undress Stan?, See if we can got this boot off, That's 'is daddy's little man. _ Lay down, Patch ! (I'm comin', Mummer 1) Martha, fetch a bit more wood. (All right, Mummer !) Good-night Stanley! Go to bye-bye, and be good ! Here's a bite o* somethjn', Mummer. There now ! Let mv raise yer head. What was that the doctor told mo? Why — , he said — , he said — , ho said — Oh, my God ! He couldn't mean it ! Bess ! You ain't agoin' to dio ! Bess ! My darling 1 All right, Stanley! ' Puppnr's comin', don't you cry !'' REAPING. There's a week in the year when your troubles never trouble, When you're up with tho sUn and aworking at tho double, And there isn't time to grumble when you slip along the stubble On your old twine-binder in the morning ! Then it's turn out, boys, to the cleaner and the heap, For tho stack's a-growing bigger and there's plenty more to reap ! Oh, the World seems bigger when you're in waist-deep On the old twine-binder in the morning ! You may talk of the times when the concertina's playing,ti When the boys give a spree at the shanty where you're staying, And Matilda Mdud'fl u-blushing at tho things 08 you're a-sayiug, Like a rose that never had>a thorn in! But there's whips more fun at the cleaner by the heap, Whe"n the birds begin to warble and the day begins to peep ! Oh, your life's not long enough, and joy seems cheap, On tho old twino-binder in the morning ! There's a day in the week when you've finished all but carting, When the last bushePs bagged and the teams is all a-startihg, And you seem to lose a friend when the minute comes for parting From your old twine-btnder in tho morning ! Then it's good-bye, ohaps, to the cleaner and the heap, For we've got to leave the paddocks to tho milkers ahd the Bheep, And the rooster's crowing and the dust lies deep, On the old twine-binder in the J morning ! IRISH LORDS. Thß clover-btirr was two feet high, ahd the billabongs w£re full, The brolgas danced a- mihuetj and the world seemed mad& of woo] J The nighte were never wearisome, and tha I day*, were never 6low, When first we came to Irish Lords, on tho road to Ivarihoo 1 The rimo was on the barley-grass as we passed the homestead raile. A Darling jackass piped us in, with his trills and turns and scales, And youth and health and carelessness sat on the saddle bow, And Mary lived at Irish Lords, on tho road to Ivanhoe. On every hand -was loveliness, and the Fates were fair and kind ; We drank the very wine of life, and we never looked behind ; And Mary, Mary everywhere, wont flitting to and fro When first we came to Irish Lords on tho road to Ivanhoe. The window of her dainty bower Where the golden banksia grew Stared like a dead man's glazing eye, j and the rough had fallen through, No violets in her garden bed, and her voice ! Hushed, long ago. When laflfc we camped at Irish Lords, on tho road to Ivanhoe. A SOUTH AUSTRALIAN RHYMER "Rhymer" is Di'. C. 11. Souter's own modest description ; but he is more and better than a rhymer. 11l "Irish Ldrtjs" he has written a lyric of regret whicn ranks in the bett score of lyfice written in Australia. ■ His "Capstan Chantey" is the jolliest sailor's song written in Australia. And his verses in the South Australian vernacular — German and English — verses from the Whoatlands^compare well with others' of the kind that have been made here. Dr. Souter, now of Adelaide, "happened" to be born in Aberdeen nearly lorty-six years ago ; and despite his Scotch name his father, also a medical man, was of English stock for several generations. But his mother was Scottish, and Scotland gave him his medical degree, Hie seafaring know.-

ledge represents a boy's memory of a clipper voyage to Australia in 1879 — one hundred days out. His taste for music often gives his rhymes an attractive lilt, and he can illustrate them, as an amateur of the brush, with real vigour. 'The only illustration of A. Vincent's that I ever really liked was of some Souteii verses, and owed its piquancy to the author's suggestions. The citations here given, by kind permission of Mr. Souter, fairly represent his talent. Several pieces were published in The Bulletin, ot Sydney ; others in Quiz, of Adelaide ; others are till now unpublished. Humour, pathos, sympathy, a good power of observation, sincerely expressed ; with sometimes a skilful use of dialect and a captivating rhythm — these are Dr. Souter's merits as a versifier, and their combination is nob common. "Irish Lords" I never tire of. It has verbal flaws, but it has verbal charm. Its trailing cadence of old grief never fails to give me the thrill that accompanies real poetry, and brings the tears very close to eyes well worn in the world of a thousand poets. NOTES. A Sydney montypete (to follow Austral pronunciation — already we've seen the advt. "Monte Piet" : A worker's current advt. gets near with "Monte Piete" — the more correct pronunciation by the way, is supposed to be monghd-pee-eh-tay) eomewhile ago received this letter : dear sirs, — i see by one of the daily newspapers that you advance money to whosoever calls on your assistance i want money i am an author i want to publish my first book but have not the menes to print as i am not acquainted with none of the literary stars so i cannot expect help from them i also hear they are very jelons of new authors i am at) present on tramp beggings to keep meself alive as work cannot be got i have got the book ready it is finished to publish it would place me above want for a time if i could gitfe it to the reding world i want twenty pounds to publish the book will you lend it the only security i can give is the book and me word of honour wich i regard as sacred write and give me your view of the case my address is . N.B. — please remember i have no friends i am orphan since i was fourteen years so you can see i have to kick out for meself. Thab correspondent should have lived hereafter, he should have lived to-day, when the George Bobertson Proprietary is advertising that it recommences business on the grand scale as Australian publisher, and desires to read MSS. in any quantity. And from New Zealand too ! (Mem. — It will get 'em.) J. F. Fraser's solf-corrected "Adelaide for what's-its-name, Melbourne for so-and-so, and Sydney for etc.," recalls the better founded mot which circulated after the Duke of Edinburgh's Australian tour in '67. In Adelaide his luggage was robbed ; in, Melbourne Capt. Standish, Commissioner of Police, showed him round town; and in Sydney O'Farrell tried to kill him. So it was said with some approximation to the truth that in Adelaide the prince lost his jewels, in Melbourne his morals, and in Sydney his life. G. E. Evans's "Jiggity Jane" seems to survive as an occasional appellative for a certain species of perfect lady. Evans wrote : Jiggity Jane ! you can't keep stillMend your morals you nover will— Kound the corner and down the street Oft you strut on your nightly beat— Hair re-gilded and boots of tan— Vulture-eyed for a kind young man— .Looking into each window-pane, Jigglty— jiggity— jiggity J allo I George Essex fielded high, but he caught poetry usually on the rebound; and it would suit the irony of things if his legacy to the language should be in the end not the serious "Magdalene Despar, but her flippant comrade "Jicgity Jane." ° SYDNEY PAINTERS. All Gaul was divided into three parts • so is the bydney painting fraternity. <i , c 1S fche Art Society, under ■Koyal patronage, respectable, nearly a generation old, aping the R.A. with solemn functions, swallow tail coats, tall nata, and a general air of dignity in face of the public. New South Wales Government gives it £400 a year- the protagonist is AY. L. Lister, an ex-en^i-neer of fifty, who stumbles conscien tiously and laboriously after the Gleam, and paints laudscapes pretty well or pretty badly according to the standard you set up for judgment. With him aro associated the prudent painters who tind that the best ihcome ior mediocrity is gained' by conformity to convention and by sticking closer than a brother to the £400 subsidy and the Art Gallery trustees, those adored dispensers of money and fame. (The Art Gallery also is on the side of convention, conformity, the conservative Powers That Be.) Some names : Norman Carter, a student from the Melbourne School, persevering with portraits, drawing 'well, and painting well and better, gifted with an industrious talent. Joe Salvana, whose landscapes in oils, so far plodding, may yet be fine. Watkina, an earnest teacher with ideas and ideals, who attacks composition year after year with increasing success, not yet with full success. Dattilo Ptubbo, from Italy, with a taste for old rrien's and old women's heads, full of character, with much technical virtue, but in the end wanting what? Just the spark of rapture that we are always looking for. Others in water-colour, often with merit, yot never enough merit to make you say "By ■wattJoJ that's the stutt!" And Jackson, the figure-mail in oils who hag captured this year's £50 reward from the Gallery with A charming rather than powerful picture of a girl prettily posed. But the Souiety of Artists! that nest of rebels who were in the Art Society, were out of the Art Society ; were driven into tlio Art Society by a dictatorial Minister doling the £400, and are now out of the Art Society again, living on independent pottage, clamouring for a share of that £400— lovely, ineffable £400— to p&y gallery rent. The archrebel is J. Ashton, now grown old, who has "battled for Art" (and Ashton) for a quarter-century, and is still battling. Even the Art Society admits the battle ; but in the conjunction of objects the Art Society thinks Ashton comes first. Ashton's trouble, like that of so many more in Australia, ia that he seems not to have been thoroughly trained to his job ; he paints hard landscapes, ill-drawn figures, and sometimes by striving nearly half-succeeds. His force of character has made him a local leader without a leader's full equipment; his prejudideß are obvious, his judgments do not appear founded on a sure basis of knowledge. He paints aB well as he can, and a few of his landscapes have virtue. With Ashton, who has an individuality that stands out for something if not for everything, and so attracts youth, aro a band of women, and Jesse Hilder, whoso little landscapes exhibit an original setiße of colour ; S. Long, ohce a promising youngster, whose promise is fleeing or has fled in an environment of bad taste ; the Lindsays, whose work is clever, not always sincere, never quite achieved ; and half-a-dozen budding talents that are apt to perish before they blossonl. Numbers, weight, £400 subsidy, and a permanent habitation aro on the aide of the Art Society, which leaves a general impi'esßidfl of Honest effort. The society..

of artists is little more than a name to label a show of work hard put to it to defeat the impression of a desert with a gleam or two of living water. The Art Society's current exhibition hangs three hundred frames, of which two hundred are merely pupils' work ; for in the dearth of patrons the local painter must usually teach to live. The one-eyed lead the blind, and the exhibitions fall into the ditch. The remaining hundred frames are interesting, promising, patchily performed — good to look and wonder at ; .but the best things, in a .vorldaspect, are third-rate. The painters want fullness of knowledge, certainty of execution, and these things are not to be obtained without a European visit, often not then. New Zealand accomplishes about as much. A New Zealander, J. F. Scott, exhibits ; and from European experience has painted the best light and air in the show. But his landscape is only half-good, and the half-goods will have to go before the goods arrive.