You, with your winding, creeping course, What of the men of our Southern Horse? Valley of night, with your wingèd pest, What of our heroes now at rest, Down by your Dead, salt Sea? What of the ones we have left behind? What of these men of our kith and kind, Nigh where your blood streams hiss? Better the true and unerring shot! Better the Death when their blood runs hot— Than this, Malaria! Malaria! You, with your agèd river’s flow, What of our Riders laid below? Valley of Death, with your torpid heat, Look where your swirling hill streams meet, Down by your Dead, salt Sea! Look to the ones on your mounded knoll! Look to the ones of your chosen toll! Those of your fevered kiss! Better the blast of the rending shell! Better the toll of the War God’s knell, Than this, Malaria! Malaria! “KOOLAWARRA.” Fall Out the 1914 Men After four years’ service, the remnants of the First and Second Contingents were assembled preparatory to return to Australia. Such a prolonged absence from their homes might have led one to expect a wild emotional outburst; but they received the tidings casually. [Illustration] As they fell into line to be farewelled by the Brigadier, they presented an inspiring sight; shoulder to shoulder, each man a history in himself; true mates, every one of them: their fellowship cemented by the blood of fallen comrades. Alert they stood, hardened by the privations and hardships of long years of campaigning, but—true test of manhood—ready to face it all over again if their principles were involved. As they waited for the “Old Man,” as the Brig. is affectionately termed, visions of the past began to take form before their eyes. Mine saw the silent, winding streams of human life, being hurried through the streets of sleeping cities on their way to grim, silent transports. No gay farewells, no playing of bands, no gathering of gaily-dressed crowds to wave them farewell on their way to foreign shores. As they strained their eyes for a last glimpse of their native land, many must have tried to visualize their return. None realized how or when, and many of the stout hearts on those sea-sprayed ships who gazed with loving eyes on their sunny land were saying the last farewell. Their graves are in strange lands, their deeds imperishable memories.