Mary Hannay Foott

Where the Pelican Builds

The horses were ready, the rails were down,
 But the riders lingered still —
  One had a parting word to say,
 And one had his pipe to fill.
Then they mounted, one with a granted prayer,
 And one with a grief unguessed.
  "We are going," they said, as they rode away —
 "Where the pelican builds her nest!"

They had told us of pastures wide and green,
 To be sought past the sunset's glow;
  Of rifts in the ranges by opal lit;
 And gold 'neath the river's flow.
And thirst and hunger were banished words
 When they spoke of that unknown West;
  No drought they dreaded, no flood they feared,
 Where the pelican builds her nest!

The creek at the ford was but fetlock deep
 When we watched them crossing there;
  The rains have replenished it thrice since then,
 And thrice has the rock lain bare.
But the waters of Hope have flowed and fled,
 And never from blue hill's breast
  Come back — by the sun and the sands devoured —
 Where the pelican builds her nest.

New Country

Conde had come with us all the way —
 Eight hundred miles — but the fortnight's rest
Made him fresh as a youngster, the sturdy bay!
 And Lurline was looking her very best.

Weary and footsore, the cattle strayed
 'Mid the silvery saltbush well content;
Where the creeks lay cool 'neath the gidya's shade
 The stock-horses clustered, travel-spent.

In the bright spring morning we left them all —
 Camp, and cattle, and white, and black —
And rode for the Range's westward fall,
 Where the dingo's trail was the only track.

Slow through the clay-pans, wet to the knee,
 With the cane-grass rustling overhead;
Swift o'er the plains with never a tree;
 Up the cliffs by a torrent's bed.

Bridle on arm for a mile or more
 We toiled, ere we reached Bindanna's verge
And saw — as one sees a far-off shore —
 The blue hills bounding the forest surge.

An ocean of trees, by the west wind stirred,
 Rolled, ever rolled, to the great cliff's base;
And its sound like the noise of waves was heard
 'Mid the rocks and the caves of that lonely place.

. . . . .

We recked not of wealth in stream or soil
 As we heard on the heights the breezes sing;
We felt no longer our travel-toil;
 We feared no more what the years might bring.

No Message

She heard the story of the end,
 Each message, too, she heard;
And there was one for every friend;
 For her alone — no word.

And shall she bear a heavier heart,
 And deem his love was fled;
Because his soul from earth could part
 Leaving her name unsaid?

No — No! — Though neither sign nor sound
 A parting thought expressed —
Not heedless passed the Homeward-Bound
 Of her he loved the best.

Of voyage-perils, bravely borne,
 He would not tell the tale;
Of shattered planks and canvas torn,
 And war with wind and gale.

He waited till the light-house star
 Should rise against the sky;
And from the mainland, looming far,
 The forest scents blow by.

He hoped to tell — assurance sweet! —
 That pain and grief were o'er —
What blessings haste the soul to meet,
 Ere yet within the door.

Then one farewell he thought to speak
 When all the rest were past —
As in the parting-hour we seek
 The dearest hand the last.

And while for this delaying but
 To see Heaven's opening Gate —
Lo, it received him — and was shut —
 Ere he could say "I wait."

Happy Days

A fringe of rushes — one green line
 Upon a faded plain;
A silver streak of water-shine —
 Above, tree-watchers twain.
It was our resting-place awhile,
 And still, with backward gaze,
We say: "'Tis many a weary mile —
 But there were happy days."

And shall no ripple break the sand
 Upon our farther way?
Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand?
 Or leafy tree-tops sway?
The gold of dawn is surely met
 In sunset's lavish blaze;
And — in horizons hidden yet —
 There shall be happy days.