...there was a young man, who thought he was NEVER going to grow up. ... As all around him reached higher, ran faster and weighed heavier... he felt like he just stayed the same. He looked for signs that one day, he would be big and strong just like his Daddy. ... And (sometimes impatiently) this young boy waited. And waited. And waited. Then one day... it happened. The very first sign of maturity.
Oh how he rejoiced. He could hardly keep his long fingers away from his mouth...
From wriggling and wiggling and jiggling. Even his mother, with her notoriously strong stomach, felt a little queasy with some of his 'fang manoeuvres. And then... One morning... It happened.
And now he thpeakth like thith...
And his mother cannot stop giggling,
and asking him to thay lotth of wordth with eth in them...
And the little man wrote a special letter to a certain Tooth Fairy,
in the hope something magical might happen overnight.
He even scrubbed the perfect tiny tooth.
In case she is a picky kinda Tooth Fairy.
And he drifted off into a contented sleep, knowing full well that today, he was on his way to Being Big.
...
(ALMOST) THE END
...
Oh... and Pam? If you are still reading, here's one just for you!
I have been inspired to post this famous Australian verse here today, for a couple of reasons.
Firstly, this great Canadian blogger posted on the Australian Stock Horse and mentioned the Movie of the same name (*sigh*), secondly, I know that quite a few of you love this movie, and thirdly, my Dad is away at the moment and I miss him.
.
When were were young, he would to recite this verse to us as we rode along behind a mob of cattle, his baritone voice rising over the mustering noise and dust, and the excitement of this particular well-known Aussie tale rising with the increasing rhythm and pace of the magic of Banjo Paterson's lyrics.
.
The poem tells the tale of a herd of wild brumbies who have a valuable racehorse with them, and the group of men who gather to try to get the horses back from some almost-impenatrable terrain in the Australian Snowy Mountain. It's about never underestimating those who may not look impressive at first glance, its about some imposing countryside and it's about underdogs. It pretty much brings tears to my eyes every time I attempt to recite it... but then I am a complete sap!
.
It needs to be read aloud. Take your time. It's long. But so worth it.
So I give you:
...
The Man From Snowy River
By Andrew Barton (AB or 'Banjo') Paterson
...
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses -- he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up --
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least --
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
.
He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die --
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, `That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop -- lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.'
.
So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend --
`I think we ought to let him come,' he said;
'I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
.
`He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.
.
'So he went -- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump --
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders,
`Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.
.
'So Clancy rode to wheel them -- he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely,
`We may bid the mob good day, NO man can hold them down the other side.
.
'When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat --
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
.
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
...
And here is the telling of this verse from the movie itself - I reckon Dad's is better, but this'll do til I corner my Old Man and pin him down with a recording device! He is on a well-earned holiday at the moment but I promise to one day post up an audio clip of his version of this poem. There is also a song by Dad's favourite country singer of all-time, the late great Slim Dusty, which I shall try to find also.
I wanted to post something dreamy and nice after my last vile effort. ...
Sorting through my photo archives I chanced upon these photos, taken a couple of months ago.
And I decided to go a bit Dreamtime instead...
They show a place in this district known to locals as The Bunyip Hole.
Bunyips are a bit like the Loch Ness Monster or the Irish Kelpie... mysterious, mythical creatures.
...
The fact that they are AUSSIE mythical creatures means that we seem to parody it more than revere it. (Think: Norman Lindsay's amazing and funny children's book, The Magic Pudding). We cannot help it.
Descriptions of bunyips vary wildly. It is usually given as a sort of lake monster. Common features in Aboriginal drawings include a horse-like tail, flippers, and walrus-like tusks or horns. According to legend they are said to lurk in swamps, billabongs, creeks, riverbeds and waterholes. At night their blood-curdling cries can be heard as they devour any animal that ventures near their abodes.
Charming!
Wikipedia goes on to say that Aboriginal folklore may have passed down the memories of an ancient 'Australian megafauna' from some 50 000 years ago! Enough to keep you setting up camp a fair distance from the billabong in those days, that's for sure. They hint at the night sounds made by possums or koalas could have been mistaken for the bunyips mighty roar...
...
To my knowledge, no-one has ever actually sighted or recorded evidence of a bunyip at OUR Bunyip Hole.
But I'm certain enough teenagers have had campfires and beers (and whatever) near the rattly old timber bridge beside this waterhole, for any kind of apparition to have gained 'local legend' status.
I (being the boring realist that I am) am more interested in the trees here. They are Blue Gums - a eucalypt which is found along watercourses and grows enormous and ponderously elegant.
When the sun is strong, they cast deep heavy shadows across the creek flats and when the clouds descend, their white and grey scribbled trunks glisten and reflect any moisture in the air or at their base.
To me, these marvellous trees lend more of a mysterious air and age-old beauty to the place than any non-existent monster.
Of course, that doesn't mean I'm ever, ever gonna camp near at the Bunyip Hole.
...there was a young man, who thought he was NEVER going to grow up.
Oh how he rejoiced.
From wriggling and wiggling and jiggling. 
Even his mother, with her notoriously strong stomach, felt a little queasy with some of his 'fang manoeuvres. 
And then...
And now he thpeakth like thith...
I am pure evil!
