Ah! the bird was very wary, and of eloquence quite chary, No clear answer did it make him as it dodged about the floor, Never thanked him for his kindness, but with worse than colour blindness, It refused to see the goodness of the digger o’er and o’er, Really flew from his advances, as esteeming him a bore, And desiring such no more. Spare my muse a dire narration, take the simple intimation That by fell decapitation, Cocky weltered in his gore. His shrill clarion brought to silence by a digger’s ruthless violence, Never more at dawn of morning, or at close of day might pour Its clear notes upon the air; might no matin solo pour; Silenced quite for evermore. Quite soon a mouth-moistening aroma, such as a famous cook’s diploma Might certify that famed cook’s skill could draw from viands in his store, Filled the hut. The pot was bubbling, Cochin China’s toil and troubling Were at an end, and he was yielding grateful broth from every pore, Yielding broth fit for a warden, that should our digger’s strength restore, And make him a good feed once more. ’Twas no ardour scientific of immense results prolific, Nor a questioning of his fortunes by the ancient heathen lore, Still our much depressed hero, whose luck surely was at zero, Was examining quite closely Cocky’s crop upon the floor, Was inspecting it minutely on his knees upon the floor, Close and closer, more and more. Then he rose in great elation, no swell owner of a station Could wear a more triumphant air than now our miner wore, For while he had been dissecting he’d been curiously prospecting, And Cocky’s crop had yielded yellow grains of golden ore. “No bad prospect,” quoth our miner, “a good show of golden ore, And around there must be more.” When the morrow’s sun had lighted up the heavens, our miner dighted In his clay-stained looking raiment sought the ground the fowls pecked o’er, And with them he went a picking, and by dint of closely sticking To his feathered mates he picked up quite a lot of golden ore―― Picked up nuggets large as brickbats, glorious lumps of golden ore, Made a pile, and nothing more. _Newcastle Paper_, April, 1880. ―――――――― QUART POT CREEK. (_Australasian._) On an evening ramble lately, as I wandered on sedately, Linking curious fancies, modern, mediæval, and antique,―― Suddenly the sun descended, and a radiance ruby-splendid, With the gleam of water blended, thrilled my sensitive physique,―― Thrilled me, filled me with emotion to the tips of my physique, Fired my eye, and flushed my cheek.