POETR,Y.

THE TEAM BULLOCK.

Tax sunrays scorched like furnace fires;

The sagging wool-bales dipped and swung; The sand poured off the four-inch tyres; The dust upon the float-rails clung.

With lowered head and lolling tongue The lead-ox leaned against the bow, With yoke that creaked and chain that rung To every hoof that lifted slow.

Grim Drought had bound the Western land.

The swamps were dry. The creek was low. The team that dragged across the sand Laid wasted necks against the bow ; And as they staggered to and fro, Mere skeletons of bone and hide.

The ribs that you might count a-raw Made red the chain on either side.

Three flaring dawns had seen them yoked, Three scorching noons had watched them pass, With slaver on their lips—half-choked- Since they had drunk or tasted grass.

The sun bit like a burning-glass.

The near-side leader tripped and fell.

"They're done !" said Bunt. "The thing's a farce; An' drivin' steers is worse than hell!"

He threw his team whip on the sand, And, turning to the blood-red west, He called on God with lifted hand To witness he had done his best; 'Ilan cursed the sandhills, base and crest, The stranded wagon and the wool, And raving like a man possessed Thrice cursed himself for Fortune's fool.

So, blasphemous, he sought the spot Where lay the leader; loosed his bow,

And muttered "He's the best I've got And, blast him, he's the first to go !" He kicked its ribs with steel-shod toe,

Then freed its mate and swung the rest, A staggering line with beads bent low, Along the highway of the West.

Their hope was dead; their strength was spent; The leader lost who held them straight.

Dispirited and dull they went Beneath the pitiless yokes of Fate.

No whip could mend their lifeless gait, No curse could steer them out or in; Death on the sandhill seemed to wait, To claim those victims gaunt and thin.

Old Warrior watched the dust go by, And heard the bellowing and the blows, The drone of wheels in distance die, The prescient clamour of the crows.

Then with an effort he uprose, And reeling like a beast in dream, With drooping loins and dragging toes Went stumbling on behind the team. The weary bullocks beard his tread And stopped beside the slackened chain, While Warrior gauntly stalked ahead And backed into his place again.

Touched by a faith beyond his ken, Bunt murmured with the reverent fear That comes at times to brutish men, "My God! But that's the gamest steer I" He let the threatening whip-thong fall Along the sand, a fangless snake; Though each ignored the starting-call, He could not flog—for Warrior's sake.

With heart it seemed must burst or break He threw himself on suppliant knees- " My God, upon me pity take, For I have taken none on these!" WILL H. OGILVIE,