A Station Hand.

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, Volume 1, Issue 12, 1 September 1900, Page 960

A Station Hand.

The plain is wrapped in slumber, aud there's one less to our number As we breast the tussock slope of Gebbie's Hill, With the first red sun-rays o'er us aud the long day's work before us, And the madd'ning canine chorus rising shrill. That's where he lies, among the bushy silences, Yellow with the mintage of the kowhai and the gorse, And his trodden pathways beat to the tread of other feet, And another man is master of his horse. When the footsore dogs are whining for the silver river shining Through the flax below our naked mountain crest, Does he know our hearts are aching with a longing lo be slaking Our thirst some Lethe lake in — and to rest? Does he forget ? The heavy days he shared with us, Tramping where the tussock blurrs to heat along the range ; Where the hill sheep break and run, and our work is never done — Has he found the better side of his exchange ? When the lonely Gorge is sleeping and the south wind downward sweeping, With a menace on its frozen pinions borne, The toliare fire burns brightly, and we raise the old songs nightly, Remembering but slightly him that's gone. Where is he then ? Unseen among his friends of old, Learning that his very name will swiftly pass away ? For a man the less or more mattei's not in many score, Aud the present is sufficient for the day.

Can he tell us if the learning we amassed with eyelids burning, The many wrongs we laboured to put right, The seed we sowed with weeping through the long years forward creeping — Shall we ever gain the reaping — ere the night ? What does he know ? The secret of our life and love, Endings that would sweep away our petty pomp and pride ? And the meaning of our pain ; is it loss or is it gain ? Is there understanding on the further side? Does he haunt us at the shearing, in the " Spells " our party nearing, With man's longing for the creatures of his caste ? He was " ringer " on the station, but I'll stake my reputation Oxford gave him education — in the past. What did he do? The ways of life are perilous, Grolden glamour blinds the fool who cannot see the dross ; Was it confidence betrayed, was it substance left for shade, Brought him fugitive beneath the Southern Cross P Drops the curtain Fancy lifted, one more mystery unsifted, For we know not whence he came to us, nor why ; Are there still some loving folk on far-off shores who wait some token — By whom his name is spoken — with a sigh? That's where he lies ! The hot night brings the raging wind, Bush and plain are crying out with thresh of tattered leaves, He has sown and reaped his field, be it corn or tares it yield, He hasbinded,he has garnered in his sheaves. Keron Hale.