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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408372" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Our Jack</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Twelve years ago our Jack was lost. All night,<br>Twelve years ago, the Spirit of the Storm<br>Sobbed round our camp. A wind of northern hills<br>That hold a cold companionship with clouds<br>Came down, and wrestled like a giant with<br>The iron-featured woods; and fall and ford,<br>The night our Jack was lost, sent forth a cry<br>Of baffled waters, where the Murray sucked<br>The rain-replenished torrents at his source,<br>And gathered strength, and started for the sea.<br>We took our Jack from Melbourne just two weeks<br>Before this day twelve years ago. He left<br>A home where Love upon the threshold paused,<br>And wept across the shoulder of the lad,<br>And blest us when we said we’d take good care<br>To keep the idol of the house from harm.<br>We were a band of three. We started thence<br>To look for watered lands and pastures new,<br>With faces set towards the down beyond<br>Where cool Monaro’s topmost mountain breaks<br>The wings of many a seaward-going storm,<br>And shapes them into wreaths of subtle fire.<br>We were, I say, a band of three in all,<br>With brother Tom for leader. Bright-eyed Jack,<br>Who thought himself as big a man as Tom,<br>Was self-elected second in command,<br>And I was cook and groom. A week slipt by,<br>Brimful of life — of health, and happiness;<br>For though our progress northward had been slow,<br>Because the country on the track was rough,<br>No one amongst us let his spirits flag;<br>Moreover, being young, and at the stage<br>When all things novel wear a fine romance,<br>We found in ridge and glen, and wood and rock<br>And waterfall, and everything that dwells<br>Outside with nature, pleasure of that kind<br>Which only lives for those whose hearts are tired<br>Of noisy cities, and are fain to feel<br>The peace and power of the mighty hills.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The second week we crossed the upper fork<br>Where Murray meets a river from the east;<br>And there one evening dark with coming storm,<br>We camped a furlong from the bank. Our Jack,<br>The little man that used to sing and shout<br>And start the merry echoes of the cliffs,<br>And gravely help me to put up the tent,<br>And try a thousand tricks and offices,<br>That made me scold and laugh by turns — the pet<br>Of sisters, and the youngest hope of one<br>Who grew years older in a single night —<br>Our Jack, I say, strayed off into the dusk,<br>Lured by the noises of a waterfall;<br>And though we hunted, shouting right and left,<br>The whole night long, through wind and rain, and searched<br>For five days afterwards, we never saw<br>The lad again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I turned to Tom and said,<br>That wild fifth evening, “Which of us has heart<br>Enough to put the saddle on our swiftest horse,<br>And post away to Melbourne, there to meet<br>And tell his mother we have lost her son?<br>Or which of us can bear to stand and see<br>The white affliction of a faded face,<br>Made old by you and me? O, Tom, my boy,<br>Her heart will break!” Tom moaned, but did not speak<br>A word. He saddled horse, and galloped off.<br>O, Jack! Jack! Jack! When bright-haired Benjamin<br>Was sent to Egypt with his father’s sons,<br>Those rough half-brothers took more care of him<br>Than we of you! But shall we never see<br>Your happy face, my brave lad, any more?<br>Nor hear you whistling in the fields at eve?<br>Nor catch you up to mischief with your knife<br>Amongst the apple trees? Nor find you out<br>A truant playing on the road to school?<br>Nor meet you, boy, in any other guise<br>You used to take? Is this worn cap I hold<br>The only thing you’ve left us of yourself?<br>Are we to sit from night to night deceived<br>Through rainy seasons by presentiments<br>That make us start at shadows on the pane,<br>And fancy that we hear you in the dark,<br>And wonder that your step has grown so slow,<br>And listen for your hand upon the door?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Kendall">Henry Kendall</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408372" data-title="Our Jack de Henry Kendall" data-description="Twelve years ago our Jack was lost. All night,
Twelve years ago, the Spirit of the Storm
Sobbed round our camp. A wind of northern hills
That hold a cold companionship with clouds
Came down, and wrestled like a giant with
The iron-featured woods; ..."></div>
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