Speaker 1: The fire at Ross's farm by Henry Lawson, the squatter
saw his pastures wide decrease, as one by one the
farmers moving to the west selected on his run. Selectors
took the water up and all the black soil round.
The best grass land the squatter had was spoilt by
Ross's ground. Now many schemes to shift old Ross had
rack'd the squatter's brains, But Sandy had the stubborn blood
of Scotland in his veins. He held the land and
fenced it in. He clear'd and plow'd the soil, and
year by year a richer crop repaid him for his
toil between the homes. For many years the devil left
his tracks. The squatter pounded Ross's stock, and Sandy pounded blacks.
A well upon the lower run was filled with earth
and logs, and Black laid bates about the farm to
poison Ross's dogs. It was indeed a deadly feud of
class and creed and race. But yet there was a
Romeo and a Juliet in the case, and more than
once across the flats beneath the Southern Cross, young Robert
Black was seen to ride with pretty Jenny Ross. One
Christmas time, when months of drought had parched the western creeks.
The bush fires started in the north and traveled south
for weeks. At night along the riverside, the scene was
grand and strange. The hill fires looked like lighted streets
of cities in the range. The cattle tracks between the
trees were like long, dusky aisles, and on a sudden breeze,
the fire would sweep along for miles, like sounds of
distant musket tree. It crackled through the breaks and over
the flat of silver grass. It hissed like angry snakes.
It leapt across the flowing streams and raced over pastures
broad It climbed the trees and lit the boughs, and
through the scrubs it roared. The bees felt stifled in
the smoke or perished in their hives, and with the stock,
the kangaroos went flying for their lives. The sun had
set on Christmas Eve when through the scrub lands wide,
young Robert Black came riding home as only natives ride.
He galloped to the homestead door and gave the first alarm.
The fire is past the granite spur and close to
Ross's farm. Now father, Send the men at once. They
won't be wanted here. Poor Ross's wheat is all he
has to pull him through the year. Then let it burn,
the squatter said, I'd like to see it done. I'd
bless the fire if it would clear selectors from the run.
Go if you will, the squatter said, you shall not
take the men. Go out and join your precious friends,
and don't come here again. I won't come back. Young
Robert cried, and reckless in his ere. He sharply turned
his horse's head and galloped towards the fire. And there
for three long, weary owls, half blind with smoke and heat,
Old Ross and Robert fought the flames that neared the
ripened wheat. The farmer's hand was nerved by fears of
danger and of loss, and Robert fought the stubborn foe
for the love of Jenny Ross. But serpent, like the
curves and lions, slipped past them and between until they
reached the boundary where the old coach road had been.
The track is now our only hope. There we must stand,
cried Ross, for nought on earth can stop the fire
if once it gets across. Then came a cruel gust
of wind, and with a fiendish rush, the flames leapt
over the narrow path and lit the fence of brush.
The crop must burn, the farmer cried, we cannot save
it now, And down upon the blackened ground he dashed
the ragged bough, but wildly, in a rush of hope,
his heart began to beat, for over the crackling fire
he heard the sound of horses feet his help. At last,
Young Robert cried, and even as he spoke, the squatter,
with a dozen men, came racing through the smoke. Down
on the ground, the stockmen jumped and bared each brawny arm.
They tore green branches from the trees and fought for
Ross's farm. And when before the gallant band the beaten
flames gave way, two grimy hands in friendship joined, and
it was Christmas Day. End of the Fire at Ross's
Farm by Henry Lawson