Still the knocker rings out, and the engine shrieks and strains like a creature in pain As the cage rushes up to the surface and drops back into darkness again. By the capstan a woman is crouching. In her eyes neither hope nor despair; But a yearning that glowers like frenzy bids those who'd speak pity forbear. Like a figure in stone she is seated till the labour of rescue be done. For the father was killed in the Phoenix, and the son--Lord of pity! the son? "Hello! there on top!" they are calling. "They are through! He is seen in the drive!" "They have got him--thank Heaven! they've got him, and oh, blessed be God, he's alive!" "Man on! heave away!" "Step aside, lads; let his mother be first when he lands." She was silent and strong in her anguish; now she babbles and weeps where she stands, And the stern men, grown gentle, support her at the mouth of the shaft, till at last With a rush the cage springs to the landing, and her son's arms encircle her fast. _She has cursed the old mine for its murders, for the victims its drives have ensnared, Now she cries a great blessing upon it for the one precious life it has spared._ _SALTBUSH BILL._ BY A. B. PATERSON. (_By permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._) Now this is the law of the Overland, that all in the West obey, A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day; But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood. They travel their stage where the grass is bad, but they camp where the grass is good; They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains, Then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of the saltbush plains. From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand, For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland. For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, 'tis written in white and black-- The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track; And the drovers keep to a half-mile track on the runs where the grass is dead, But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till they go with a two-mile spread. So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night, And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight; Yet the squatters' men, though they hunt the mob, are willing the peace to keep, For the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go with the travelling sheep; But this is a tale of a Jackeroo that came from a foreign strand, And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland.