The Book Of The Bush, George Dunderdale [thriller novels to read .txt] 📗

Land Or Cattle,  Wood,

Wine,  Or Wheat.  Every Bank,  And Brewery,  And Building Society In The

World Might Go Into Liquidation At Once For Aught He Cared.  He Had

Retired From The Government Service,  Had Superannuated Himself On A

Pension Of Nothing Per Annum,  And To Draw It He Required No Voucher.

 

And Yet,  Notwithstanding All These Advantages,  I Don't Think There

Are Many Men Who Would Voluntarily Choose His Lot.  I Watched Him

From The End Of The Verandah,  And Began Speculating About Him.  What

Was He Thinking About During His Solitary Watches In The Night Or

While He Tramped Alone Through The Bush Year After Year In Heat And

Cold,  Wind And Rain?  Did He Ever Think Of Anything--Of His Past

Life,  Or Of His Future Lot?  Did He Believe In Or Hope For A Heaven?

Or Had He Any Fear Of Hell And Eternal Punishment?  Surely He Had

Been Punished Enough; In This Life He Had Endured Evil Things In

Plenty,  And Might At Least Hope For Eternal Rest In The Next.

 

He Was Sitting With His Back Against A Gum Tree,  And His Feet Towards

The Fire. From Time To Time He Threw A Few More Sticks On The Embers,

And A Fitful Blaze Lit Up His Dark Weatherbeaten Face.

 

Then To My Surprise He Began To Sing,  And To Sing Well.  His Voice

Was Strong,  Clear,  And Mellow,  And Its Tones Rose And Fell In The

Silent Night Air With A Pathetic And Wonderful Sweetness.  The Burden

Of His Song Was "We May Be Happy Yet."

 

"Oh,  Smile As Thou Wert Wont To Smile,

Before A Weight Of Care

Story 16 "And There Was Gathering In Hot Haste.".) Pg 237

Had Crushed Thine Heart,  And Yet Awhile

Left Only Sorrow There;

We May Be Happy Yet."

 

He Sang Three Stanzas,  And Was Silent.  Then Someone Said:  "Poor Old

Fellow; I Hope He May Be Happy Yet."

 

Next Morning He Was Sitting With His Back Against The Gum Tree.  His

Fire Had Gone Out,  And He Seemed To Be Late In Awaking,  And In No

Hurry To Resume His Journey.  But His Travels Were Finished; He Never

Awoke.  His Body Was Quite Cold,  And He Must Have Died Soon After He

Had Sung The Last Note Of His Song.  He Had Only Sixpence In His

Pocket--The Sixpence I Had Given Him For His Biography.  The Police

Took Him In Charge Once More And Put Him In His Last Prison,  Where He

Will Remain Until We Shall All Be Called Together By The Dread Blast

Of The Archangel's Trumpet On The Judgment Day.

 

Imprint

Publication Date: 05-31-2014

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