He made a pot of melon jam and put it on a shelf,
For he was fond of sugar things and living by himself.
He built a fire of bracken and a blue-gum log,
And he sat all night beside it with his big--black--dog.



THE POSTMAN

I'd like to be a postman, and walk along the street,
Calling out, "Good Morning, Sir," to gentlemen I meet,
Ringing every door-bell all along my beat,
In my cap and uniform so very nice and neat.
Perhaps I'd have a parasol in case of rain or heat;
But I wouldn't be a postman if . . .
The walking hurt my feet.
Would you?



THE TRAVELLER

As I rode in to Burrumbeet,
I met a man with funny feet;
And, when I paused to ask him why
His feet were strange, he rolled his eye
And said the rain would spoil the wheat;
So I rode on to Burrumbeet.

As I rode in to Beetaloo,