are quite as old
As yonder plains, but not so flat."
So I rode on to Ballarat.

As I rode in to Gundagai,
I met a man and passed him by
Without a nod, without a word.
He turned, and said he'd never heard
Or seen a man so wise as I.
But I rode on to Gundagai.

As I rode homeward, full of doubt,
I met a stranger riding out:
A foolish man he seemed to me;
But, "Nay, I am yourself," said he,
"Just as you were when you rode out."
So I rode homeward, free of doubt.

OUR STREET

In our street, the main street
Running thro' the town,
You see a lot of busy folk
Going up and down:

Bag men and basket men,
Men with loads of hay,
Buying things and selling things
And carting things away.

The butcher is a funny man,
He calls me Dandy Dick;
The baker is a cross man,
I think he's often sick;

The fruiterer's a nice man,
He gives me apples, too;
The grocer says, "Good morning, boy,
What can I do for you?"

Of all the men in our street
I like the cobbler best,
Tapping, tapping at his last
Without a minute's rest;

Talking all the time he taps,
Driving in the nails,
Smiling with his old grey eyes--
(Hush) . . . telling fairy tales.

THE LITTLE RED HOUSE

Very few grown-up people understand houses. Only children understand
them properly, and, if I understand them just a little, it is because
I knew Sym. Sym and his wife, Emily Ann, lived in the Little Red
House. It was built on a rather big mountain, and there were no other
houses near it. At one time, long ago, the mountain had been covered
all over with a great forest; but men had cut the trees down, all but
one big Blue-gum, which grew near the Little Red House. The Blue-gum
and the Little Red House were great friends, and often had long talks
together. The Blue-gum was a very old tree--over a hundred years
old--and he was proud of it, and often used to tell of the time, long
ago, when blackfellows hunted 'possums in his branches. That was
before the white men came to the mountain, and before there were any
houses near it.

Once upon a time I put a verse about the mountain and the Little Red
House into a book of rhymes which I wrote for grown ups. I don't
think they thought much about it. Very likely they said, "0h, it's
just a house on a hill," and then forgot it, because they were too
busy about other things.

This is the rhyme:

A great mother mountain, and kindly is she,
Who nurses young rivers and