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- Колин Маккалоу
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- Стр. 108/535
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For
the
drover
's
life
has
pleasures
that
the
townsfolk
never
know
.
And
the
bush
has
friends
to
meet
him
,
and
their
kindly
voices
greet
him
In
the
murmur
of
the
breezes
and
the
river
on
its
bars
,
And
he
sees
the
vision
splendid
of
the
sunlit
plains
extended
,
And
at
night
the
wondrous
glory
of
the
everlasting
stars
.
"
Clancy
of
the
Overflow
"
was
everyone
's
favorite
,
"
the
Banjo
"
their
favorite
poet
.
Hoppity-go-kick
doggerel
,
perhaps
,
but
the
poems
had
never
been
intended
for
the
eyes
of
sophisticated
savants
;
they
were
for
the
people
,
of
the
people
,
and
more
Australians
of
that
day
could
recite
them
off
by
heart
than
knew
the
standard
schoolroom
pieces
by
Tennyson
and
Wordsworth
,
for
their
brand
of
hoppity-go-kick
doggerel
was
written
with
England
as
inspiration
.
Crowds
of
daffodils
and
fields
of
asphodel
meant
nothing
to
the
Clearys
,
living
in
a
climate
where
neither
could
exist
.
The
Clearys
understood
the
bush
poets
better
than
most
,
for
the
Overflow
was
their
backyard
,
the
traveling
sheep
a
reality
on
the
TSRs
.
There
was
an
official
Traveling
Stock
Route
or
TSR
winding
its
way
near
the
Barwon
River
,
free
crown
land
for
the
transference
of
living
merchandise
from
one
end
of
the
eastern
half
of
the
continent
to
the
other
.
In
the
old
days
drovers
and
their
hungry
,
grass-ruining
mobs
of
stock
had
not
been
welcome
,
and
the
bullockies
a
hated
breed
as
they
inched
their
mammoth
teams
of
from
twenty
to
eighty
oxen
through
the
middle
of
the
squatters
'
best
grazing
.
Now
,
with
official
stock
routes
for
the
drovers
and
the
bullockies
vanished
into
legend
,
things
were
more
amicable
between
vagabonds
and
stay-puts
.
The
occasional
drovers
were
welcomed
as
they
rode
in
for
a
beer
and
a
talk
,
a
home-cooked
meal
.
Sometimes
they
brought
women
with
them
,
driving
battered
old
sulkies
with
galled
ex-stock
horses
between
the
shafts
,
pots
and
billies
and
bottles
banging
and
clanking
in
a
fringe
all
around
.
These
were
the
most
cheerful
or
the
most
morose
women
in
the
Outback
,
drifting
from
Kynuna
to
the
Paroo
,
from
Goondiwindi
to
Gundagai
,
from
the
Katherine
to
the
Curry
.
Strange
women
;
they
never
knew
a
roof
over
their
heads
or
the
feel
of
a
kapok
mattress
beneath
their
iron-hard
spines
.
No
man
had
bested
them
;
they
were
as
tough
and
enduring
as
the
country
which
flowed
under
their
restless
feet
.
Wild
as
the
birds
in
the
sun-drenched
trees
,
their
children
skulked
shyly
behind
the
sulky
wheels
or
scuttled
for
the
protection
of
the
woodheap
while
their
parents
yarned
over
cups
of
tea
,
swapped
tall
stories
and
books
,
promised
to
pass
on
vague
messages
to
Hoopiron
Collins
or
Brumby
Waters
,
and
told
the
fantastic
tale
of
the
Pommy
jackaroo
on
Gnarlunga
.
And
somehow
you
could
be
sure
these
rootless
wanderers
had
dug
a
grave
,
buried
a
child
or
a
wife
,
a
husband
or
a
mate
,
under
some
never-to-be-forgotten
coolibah
on
a
stretch
of
the
TSR
which
only
looked
the
same
to
those
who
did
n't
know
how
hearts
could
mark
out
as
singular
and
special
one
tree
in
a
wilderness
of
trees
.
