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Speaker 1: The fire at Ross's farm by Henry Lawson, the squatter

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saw his pastures wide decrease, as one by one the

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farmers moving to the west selected on his run. Selectors

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took the water up and all the black soil round.

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The best grass land the squatter had was spoilt by

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Ross's ground. Now many schemes to shift old Ross had

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rack'd the squatter's brains, But Sandy had the stubborn blood

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of Scotland in his veins. He held the land and

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fenced it in. He clear'd and plow'd the soil, and

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year by year a richer crop repaid him for his

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toil between the homes. For many years the devil left

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his tracks. The squatter pounded Ross's stock, and Sandy pounded blacks.

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A well upon the lower run was filled with earth

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and logs, and Black laid bates about the farm to

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poison Ross's dogs. It was indeed a deadly feud of

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class and creed and race. But yet there was a

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Romeo and a Juliet in the case, and more than

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once across the flats beneath the Southern Cross, young Robert

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Black was seen to ride with pretty Jenny Ross. One

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Christmas time, when months of drought had parched the western creeks.

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The bush fires started in the north and traveled south

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for weeks. At night along the riverside, the scene was

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grand and strange. The hill fires looked like lighted streets

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of cities in the range. The cattle tracks between the

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trees were like long, dusky aisles, and on a sudden breeze,

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the fire would sweep along for miles, like sounds of

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distant musket tree. It crackled through the breaks and over

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the flat of silver grass. It hissed like angry snakes.

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It leapt across the flowing streams and raced over pastures

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broad It climbed the trees and lit the boughs, and

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through the scrubs it roared. The bees felt stifled in

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the smoke or perished in their hives, and with the stock,

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the kangaroos went flying for their lives. The sun had

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set on Christmas Eve when through the scrub lands wide,

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young Robert Black came riding home as only natives ride.

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He galloped to the homestead door and gave the first alarm.

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The fire is past the granite spur and close to

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Ross's farm. Now father, Send the men at once. They

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won't be wanted here. Poor Ross's wheat is all he

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has to pull him through the year. Then let it burn,

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the squatter said, I'd like to see it done. I'd

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bless the fire if it would clear selectors from the run.

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Go if you will, the squatter said, you shall not

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take the men. Go out and join your precious friends,

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and don't come here again. I won't come back. Young

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Robert cried, and reckless in his ere. He sharply turned

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his horse's head and galloped towards the fire. And there

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for three long, weary owls, half blind with smoke and heat,

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Old Ross and Robert fought the flames that neared the

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ripened wheat. The farmer's hand was nerved by fears of

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danger and of loss, and Robert fought the stubborn foe

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for the love of Jenny Ross. But serpent, like the

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curves and lions, slipped past them and between until they

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reached the boundary where the old coach road had been.

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The track is now our only hope. There we must stand,

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cried Ross, for nought on earth can stop the fire

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if once it gets across. Then came a cruel gust

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of wind, and with a fiendish rush, the flames leapt

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over the narrow path and lit the fence of brush.

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The crop must burn, the farmer cried, we cannot save

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it now, And down upon the blackened ground he dashed

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the ragged bough, but wildly, in a rush of hope,

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his heart began to beat, for over the crackling fire

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he heard the sound of horses feet his help. At last,

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Young Robert cried, and even as he spoke, the squatter,

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with a dozen men, came racing through the smoke. Down

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on the ground, the stockmen jumped and bared each brawny arm.

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They tore green branches from the trees and fought for

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Ross's farm. And when before the gallant band the beaten

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flames gave way, two grimy hands in friendship joined, and

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it was Christmas Day. End of the Fire at Ross's

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Farm by Henry Lawson