A Book for Kids — Reading Notes

And had a long, long way to go. Each boot was broken at the toe, And he'd a swag upon his back. His billy-can, as black as black, Was just the thing for making tea At picnics, so it seemed to me.

'Twas hard to earn a bite of bread, He told me. Then he shook his head, And all the little corks that hung Around his hat-brim danced and swung And bobbed about his face; and when I laughed he made them dance again. He said they were for keeping flies-- "The pesky varmints"--from his eyes. He called me "Codger". . . "Now you see The best days of your life," said he. "But days will come to bend your back, And, when they come, keep off the track. Keep off, young codger, if you can." He seemed a funny sort of man.

He told me that he wanted work, But jobs were scarce this side of Bourke, And he supposed he'd have to go Another fifty mile or so. "Nigh all my life the track I've walked," He said. I liked the way he talked. And oh, the places he had seen! I don't know where he had not been-- On every road, in every town, All through the country, up and down. "Young codger, shun the track," he said. And put his hand upon my head. I noticed, then, that his old eyes Were very blue and very wise. "Ay, once I was a little lad," He said, and seemed to grow quite sad.

I sometimes think: When I'm a man, I'll get a good black billy-can And hang some corks around my hat, And lead a jolly life like that.

Once a little sugar ant made up his mind to roam-- To fare away far away, far away from home. He had eaten all his breakfast, and he had his ma's consent To see what he should chance to see and here's the way he went-- Up and down a fern frond, round and round a stone, Down a gloomy gully where he loathed to be alone, Up a mighty mountain range, seven inches high, Through the fearful forest grass that nearly hid the sky, Out along a bracken bridge, bending in the moss, Till he reached a dreadful desert that was feet and feet across. 'Twas a dry, deserted desert, and a trackless land to tread, He wished that he was home again and tucked-up tight in bed. His little legs were wobbly, his strength was nearly spent, And so he turned around again and here's the way he went-- Back away from desert lands feet and feet across, Back along the bracken bridge bending in the moss, Through the fearful forest grass shutting out the sky, Up a mighty mountain range seven inches high, Down a gloomy gully, where he loathed to be alone, Up and down a fern frond and round and round a stone. A dreary ant, a weary ant, resolved no more to roam, He staggered up the garden path and popped back home.

Flippity-flop! Flippity-flop! Here comes the butcher to bring us a chop Cantering, cantering down the wide street On his little bay mare with the funny white feet; Cantering, cantering out to the farm, Stripes on his apron and basket on arm. Run to the window and tell him to stop-- Flippity-flop! Flippity-flop!

Harry was a funny man, Harry was a hatter; He ate his lunch at breakfast time and said it didn't matter. He made a pot of melon jam and put it on a shelf, For he was fond of sugar things and living by himself. He built a fire of bracken and a blue-gum log, And he sat all night beside it with his big--black--dog.

I'd like to be a postman, and walk along the street, Calling out, "Good Morning, Sir," to gentlemen I meet, Ringing every door-bell all along my beat, In my cap and uniform so very nice and neat. Perhaps I'd have a parasol in case of rain or heat; But I wouldn't be a postman if . . . The walking hurt my feet. Would you?

As I rode in to Burrumbeet, I met a man with funny feet; And, when I paused to ask him why His feet were strange, he rolled his eye And said the rain would spoil the wheat; So I rode on to Burrumbeet.

As I rode in to Beetaloo, I met a man whose nose was blue; And when I asked him how he got A nose like that, he answered, "What Do bullocks mean when they say 'Moo'?" So I rode on to Beetaloo.