Bushfires. By CLIFF BRUCE (WILSTON).
THE summer heat had strengthened,
And the grass was dying fast,
Not a leaf or stem seemed lengthened
Since the early rains had past;
And out among the sun-dried bark,
Where the ground was rough and
hilly.
A fire was started by a spark
From ‘neath a bushman’s billy.
Far along the sun-baked plain
The awful flame had spread,
The grass took up for want of rain,
And so the fire was fed.
The shrubs and grass were blackened,
The trees fell down with crashes,
Yet the “terror” never slackened
In its path of red-hot ashes.
Six long days and nights went by
Since the spark its fury spread,
Before there came a joyful cry,
“Rain ! Rain ! On the hills ahead.”
All that night the rain fell down,
By morning the fires had died,
And in’ a month a new, green gown
Had covered the countryside.