Southerly Busters

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Gibson George Herbert. Southerly Busters

NOTES

AUTHOR'S PREFACE

LINES BY A (PAWN)BROKEN-HEARTED YOUTH

THE ANCIENT SHEPHERD

WHERE IS FREEDOM?

THE CATTLE MUSTER

THE NIGHT CAMP

THE MUSTER

THE RUN HOME

II

ECHO VERSES

WHAT AN ECHO TOLD THE AUTHOR

THE SHEPHERD'S VENGEANCE,

Fytte the First

Fytte the Second

SOCIAL EVILS

MORAL PHILOSOPHY FOR LITTLE FOLKS

AN AMBITIOUS DREAM

SUPERNATURAL REVELATIONS OF A FANCY-GOODS MAN,

CHRISTMAS

"THE CATARACT."5

THE STOCKMAN'S GRAVE

EPITAPH ON A CONVIVIAL SHEARER

A CANDIDATE FOR AN EARLY GRAVE

A PEELER'S APPEAL

THE OLD HAND

THE BUTCHER'S PIC-NIC

THE OYSTERMEN'S AND FISHMONGERS' PIC-NIC

THE WHEELWRIGHTS' PIC-NIC

THE UNDERTAKER'S PIC-NIC

THE HAIRDRESSERS' PIC-NIC

THE GREAT CRICKET MATCH

Отрывок из книги

I AM assured that something in the way of an apologetic preface is always expected from a "new-chum" author who has had the hardihood to jump his Pegasus over the paddock fence (so to speak), and drop, uninvited, into the field of letters; and so, having induced a publisher, in a moment of weakness, to bring me before the public, it behoves me to conciliate that long-suffering body by conforming to all established rules. I am aware that my excuse for inflicting this work on mankind is somewhat "thin" but, such as it is, I will proceed to state it, as a "plea in bar" against all active and offensive expressions of indignation on the part of outraged humanity.

Having "got me some ideas," as Mr Emmett says in the character of "Fritz," and feeling the necessity for inflicting them on somebody imminent, I tried their effect on my own immediate circle of friends. It was not satisfactory. They listened, indeed, for a while, thinking that I was suffering from a slight mental derangement which would be best treated by judicious humouring. Some even affected to be entertained, and laughed (what a hollow mockery of merriment it was!) at atrocious puns; but I could see the look of hate steal over countenances which had hitherto beamed on me with interest and affection, and was not deceived.

.....

During my hunt for that all essential auxiliary, a publisher, without whom the first step on the road to literary distinction (or extinction) cannot be taken, I learnt a few plain truths about my hydra-headed friend; amongst others that he was not to be hoodwinked, and would neither laugh, weep, nor sympathise unless he saw good and sufficient cause. I am in consequence not quite so sanguine as I was. However, I have gone too far to recede, and have concluded to throw myself on the bosom or bosoms of that animal and take my chances of annihilation.

One of my unsympathising friends assured me the other day that my book would certainly send anyone to sleep who should attempt its perusal. I gave him a ballad to read, and watched him anxiously while he skimmed a page or two. He did not sleep – not he, but a raging thirst overcame him at the fourteenth verse, and he begged me to send for a jug of "half-and-half" with such earnestness that a new and dreadful apprehension filled my breast. If this was to be the effect of my work on the Public at large, I should empty the Temperance Hall, and fill the Inebriate Asylum in six months! As I had hitherto prided myself that my work was entirely free from any immoral tendency, I earnestly hoped that his organization was a peculiar one, and that its effect on him was exceptional, and not; likely to happen again.

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