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Musings in Maoriland
The Old Log Hut. — An Australian bushman's tale
The Old Log Hut.
An Australian bushman's tale.
The skeleton of the Old Log Hut
Is standing yonder beside the creek
That purls along with its ceaseless chant,
Through reeds and rushes and tangled roots,
Running away, till its mellow song
Sinks in the depths of its mother's voice;
Though it had birth on the mountain tops,
Far, far away from the giant flood,
Yet still it is Ocean's lisping child,
And ever she calls it to her breast.
The skeleton of the Old Log Hut
Is standing there in its solitude,
And thistles and mallows thick and rank,
Are spreading over the camping ground,
And weeds grow strong in the garden plot;
The flowers are dead and the fence is down,
And the rosebush hedge, with straggling stems
In wildness grows, like an untrained child
Who nurses the wasting thorns of vice
That choke the blossoms of hope and truth.
The skeleton of the Old Log Hut
Remains a relic of other times;
And still do the stately gum trees stretch
Their shadows athwart the dark lagoon,
Upon whose edges the carpet snakes
Bask in the heat of the noon-day sun,
And iguanos come down to drink,
And flaunt their scales in the golden blaze;
Whilst laughing birds on the lofty boughs
Are mocking the merriment of man.
"Let's hobble the nags, old mate of mine,
We'll wait for the team whilst they've a spell;
This hut to me is a sacred shrine,
We've all some little romance to tell.
'Tis years since last I have viewed this vale,
But sit ye down, and I'll tell my tale.
"Her father was a simple man,
Her mother was a kind old dame,
And I was their adopted son,
A playmate of the only one
Who bore their honoured, stainless name.
Our lives in peace and comfort ran,
Until a dark-soul'd villain came
To cast a blight on all around,
And steal my bud from them and me.
Old mate I still can hear the sound
Of that sweet voice so full of glee;
Her eyes were of the darkest blue,
Bright ripplets from the spring of love;
The gold which gave her hair its hue,
Came from the sun's own mint above;
No classic artist ever gave
The impress of a goddess fair
To stone or canvas, with such skill
As God placed His image there;
But still she sank, misfortune's slave—
I should not murmur, 'twas His will,
And now she's in His holy care.
I was a rash, romantic boy,
That nurtured rich ideal themes,—
Oh, how I pictured scenes of joy,
And built up palaces in dreams
When she was seated by my side,
Beneath the ferns' umbrageous shade,
Or strolling by the brooklet's side,
That still meanders down the glade,
Or wandering where the wattles shook
Their golden ringlets on the breeze,
And paroquets through dell and nook,
Sang forest lays and melodies.
One evening when December's sun,
Was passing through the crimson gate
That opens when his work is done,
To let him steal away in state,
On to relieve the morning star,—
His outpost on the distant dome
That canopies the climes afar,—
Her father brought a stranger home,
A trav'ller who had lost his way,
And claimed a lodging for the night;
We welcomed him and bade him stay,
And from that night and from that day,
Upon our home there came a blight.
There are some men to whom we feel
A strange repugnance from the first
Acquaintance, but why this should be,
Remains a mystery to me;
And there are other men we see,
For whom the flowers of friendship burst,
Ere we have scanned the outside seal
Which indicates the soul within;
To whom we ope our bosoms free,
And feel our thoughts to theirs akin.
This stranger's face was fair, and yet
The moment that our glances met,
A feeling which I can't explain,
Rushed madly through my every vein,
Half hate, half fear, half doubt, half dread;
I fancied that I could espy
That grave where honour's soul lay dead
Within his cold deceitful eye.
His was a free and ready tongue,
And when the evening meal was o'er,
Upon his words the old man hung,
And wondered much how one so young
Could have a brain so stocked with lore.
He told us of his roving life,
His travels on the parched-up tracks
Of Northern Austral, and of strife
With savages, where war was rife
'Tween ventur'us whites and cunning blacks.
He'd wandered far, where Wills and Burke
Unlocked the bosom of our land;
But more he did not care to roam,
And he would lend a willing hand
To earn his bread by manly work,
If he could find a quiet home.
The boon was granted, then was made
A compact, and with us he stayed
To watch the cattle on the plain,
And gather in the ripened grain.
Old mate of mine, say hast thou seen
The sprouting corn change in a day
From freshest, fairest, purest green,
To sapless, dried, and withered hay;
Say, hast thou seen the flowers at morn,
In strength and beauty sweetly blow,
And in the evening, like the corn,
Bend o'er their stems and cease to grow?
Then, canst thou understand the change
That swept across my inmost soul,
And darkened all the glittering goal
That woo'd me to the future!—Strange
That Fate should claim such bitter toll,
Oft when we climb Ambition's range:
Then thou canst understand how swift
The buddings of affection fell—
These flowerets I had nursed so well—
When nipped by Sorrow's wintry drift;
And Hope again shall never lift
Their leaflets with her magic spell.
Days gathered into weeks, and they
Ran into months—still he remained;
And when the moon of Autumn waned
In wintry depths of sombre grey,
He still sat at our board, and she
Would gloat upon his every glance
Like one in a mesmeric trance,
And soon she scarcely noticed me;
Whene'er he smiled her face was bright,
And when he frowned her brow was sad;
Ah, mate! I then was nearly mad,
Despair had dimmed Love's holy light
Within my breast, and in its stead
Came jealousy to foster hate,
And rule supreme where hope lay dead.
Oh, why came he to blast my fate,
And rob me of my lovely mate,
The maid to whom my soul was wed?
Why linger on the record drear,
Of bootless love and wounded pride?
Within the circle of the year,
Her parents and my guardians died,
And scarcely were the tear-drops dried
Upon the mound above their bier,
When she became Black Harold's bride;
And then I fled, with spirit crushed,
Far, far across the forests wild;
And many a night when I've been bush'd
Where all save Nature's voice was hushed,
I've wept like some forsaken child;
But when grief's floodgates were unpent,
A ray of hope would sometimes dart
Across my path, to light my heart,
And banish grief and discontent.
Well, soon I found a new abode,
Engaged to till the fertile soil,
I fought my way along life's road,
And earned my bread by honest toil.
And then I said, 'I will forget
That Alice and myself ere met;
I will forget that witching face,
So full of soul, and love, and grace;
I will forget the time when she
Was guardian angel unto me,
When to my ear her tender words
Mock'd all the music of the birds;
I will forget those eyes I praised,
I will forget those towers I raised;
I will forget—' Ah! vain resolve,
Go, ask the earth to stay its course,
And round the sun no more resolve;
Go quell the angry tempest's force,
Command the breakers not to move—
The problem of creation solve;
Explore the highest heaven above,
And quench the most refulgent star:
These tasks are easier by far,
Than striving to forget the form
We worshipped when affection warm,
Wove fairy dreams round early love.
Old Winter walked in Autumn's track
Three circuits, in his train came Spring,
With roseate smiles, three times to bring
Her blessings in profusion back
To earth; and when she'd taken wing,
Warm Summer, like a blushing maid,
Took up her bright-eyed sister's place,
And three times at her station stayed,
And three times in the circling race,
She saw her sister's flowerets fade.
And all that time I did not hear
From Alice, save in dreamings vain;
And then to me she would appear
With heart as light and eye as clear
As when she was my playmate dear:
And fond old times rolled back again.
Well mate, to make my story short,
Some business called me into town;
And passing by the City Court,
Some mornings after I'd been down,
I mingled with the idling throng
That gathered in the civic hall,
Where sin and grief and shame and wrong,
Were borne in one dark stream along,
To show how men and women fall.
The drunkard's gang came first, and then
A wretched-looking woman stood
Before the Bench, and by her side
A ragged little starvling cried;
Intense emotion fired my blood—
Old mate, I knew that form again.
'Twas Alice, withered, sad, and pale;
Oh! what a change had taken place
In that once sweet, expressive face.
A charge of vagrancy was brought;
The case was clear the Justic thought;
At midnight she was seen to roam,
Without a friend, without a home,
Without a cheerful word to light
The darkness of misfortune's night.
Oh! as she told her mournful tale,
Old mate, I cursed the human race;
Betrayed, deserted, scorned, reviled,
By him, the villain, who beguiled
Her pure affections with his art,
Then left her with a broken heart,
And spirit crushed, to nurse his child.
Our glances met—a piercing shriek
Rang through the building, and she fell
Upon the floor; her pallid cheek
Told all the grief she could not speak.
Old friend, I really cannot tell
What happened next. My reeling brain
Wrapt all my senses in a cloud;
And when to me they came again,
I stood amidst a motley crowd
Upon the street, and some one said
That she was dying or was dead
Within the hospital. I ran,
A sorrowful distracted man,
Into the ward where she was laid;
And, kneeling down beside her bed,
I kissed her cold, pale lips, and prayed.
And then a bright smile rested on
Her tranquil features, thin and wan,
A radiant gleam that flashed once more
Across the gates of Mem'ry's store,
Unlocking all the wealth of yore
Within my bosom's inmost core.
And then in accents soft and low,
She said to me, 'Before I go
To rest in peace, oh, promise me
You'll guard my child when I am free!'
'By all the love I once bore thee,
I swear to guard it,' I replied;
And then the veil was drawn aside,
The gates of heav'n were opened wide,
God's lamp of immortality
Across her tranquil features shone;
Her soul escaped, her body died,
And all her earthly woes were gone.
Black Harold has not crossed my path,
For both of us, 'tis just as well;
Old mate, I could not bind my wrath
Were we to meet! You know sweet Nell,
The blue-eyed little fairy lass
That keeps my home beyond the dell,
And twines her image round my heart?
Well, she is Aley's child! You seem
Astonished!—Why, here comes the team,
And we must reach the mountain pass
To-night. Then let us up and start."