Now
the squatters and the “cockies,”
Shearers,
trainers and their jockeys
Had gathered them together for a meeting on
the
flat;
They
had mustered all their forces,
Owners
brought their fastest horses,
Monaro-bred - I couldn't give them greater praise
than
that.
"Twas
a lovely day in Summer -
What
the blacksmith called “a hummer,”
The swelling ears of wheat and oats had lost
their
tender green,
And
breezes made them shiver,
Trending
westward to the river -
The river of the golden sands, the moaning
Eucumbene.
If
you cared to take the trouble
You
could watch the misty double,
The shadow of the flying clouds that skimmed the
Boogong's
brow,
Throwing
light and shade incessant
On
the Bull Peak's ragged crescent,
Upon whose gloomy forehead lay a patch of
winter's
snow.
Idly
watching for the starting
Of
the race that he had part in,
Old Gaylad stood and champed his bit, his
weight
about nine stone;
His
owner stood beside him,
Who
was also going to ride him,
A shearer from Gegederick, whose name was
Ned
Malone.
But
Gaylad felt disgusted,
For
his joints were fairly rusted,
He longed to feel the pressure of the jockey on his
back,
And
he felt that for a pin he'd
Join
his mates, who loudly whinnied
For him to go and meet them at the post upon
the
track.
From
among the waiting cattle
Came
the sound of childish prattle,
And the wife brought up their babe to kiss his
father
for good luck;
Said
Malone: "When I am seated
On
old Gaylad, and am treated
With fairish play, I'll bet we never finish in the
ruck."
But
the babe was not contented,
Though
his pinafore was scented
With oranges, and sticky from his lollies, for he
cried,
This
gallant little laddie,
As
he toddled to his daddy,
And raised his arms imploringly - "Please, dad,
div
Babs a wide."
The
father, how he chuckled
For
the pride of it, and buckled
The surcingle, and placed the babe astride the
racing
pad;
He
did it, though he oughtn't,
And
by pure good luck he shortened
The stirrups, and adjusted them to suit the
tiny
lad,
Who
was seemingly delighted,
Not
a little bit affrighted,
He sat and twined a chubby hand among the
horse's
mane:
His
whip was in the other;
But
all suddenly the mother
Shrieked, "Take him off!" and then “the field” came
thund'ring
down the plain.
'Twas
the Handicap was coming,
And
the music of their drumming
Beat dull upon the turf that in its summer coat was
dressed,
The
racehorse reared and started,
Then
the flimsy bridle parted,
And Gaylad, bearing featherweight, was striding
with
the rest.
That
scene cannot be painted
How
the poor young mother fainted,
How the father drove his spurs into the nearest
saddle-horse,
What
to do? he had no notion,
For
you'd easier turn the ocean
Than stop the Handicap that then was half-way
round
the course.
On
the “bookies” at their yelling,
On
the cheap-jacks at their selling,
On the crowd there fell a silence as the squadron
passed
the stand;
Gayest
colours flashing brightly,
And
the baby clinging tightly,
A wisp of Gaylad's mane still twisted in his
little
hand.
Not
a thought had he of falling,
Though
his little legs were galling,
And the wind blew out his curls behind him in a
golden
stream;
Though
the motion made him dizzy,
Yet
his baby brain was busy,
For hadn't he at length attained the substance
of
his dream!
He
was now a jockey really,
And
he saw his duty clearly
To do his best to win and justify his father's
pride;
So
he clicked his tongue to Gaylad,
Whispering
softly, "Get away lad;"
The old horse cocked an ear, and put six inches
on
his stride.
Then,
the jockeys who were tailing
Saw
the big bay horse come sailing
Through the midst of them with nothing but a baby
on
his back,
And
this startling apparition
Coolly
took up its position
With a view of making running on the inside
of
the track.
Oh,
Gaylad was a beauty,
For
he knew and did his duty;
Though his reins were flying loosely, strange to
say
he never fell,
But
held himself together,
For
his weight was but a feather;
Bob Murphy, when he saw him, murmured
something
like "Oh, hell!"
But
Gaylad passed the filly;
Passed
Jack Costigan on “Chilli,”
Cut down the coward “Watakip” and challenged
“Guelder
Rose;”
Here
it was he showed his cunning,
Let
the mare make all the running,
They turned into the straight stride for
stride
and nose for nose.
But
Babs was just beginning
To
have fears about his winning,
In fact, to tell the truth, my hero felt inclined
to
cry,
For
the “Rose” was still in blossom,
And
two lengths behind her “Possum,”
And gallant little “Sterling,” slow but sure,
were
drawing nigh.
Yes! Babsie's heart was failing,
For
he felt old Gaylad ailing,
Another fifty yards to go, he felt
his chance
was
gone.
Could
he do it? much he doubted,
Then
the crowd, oh, how they shouted,
For Babs had never dropped his whip, and now he
laid
it on!
Down
the straight the leaders thundered
While
people cheered and wondered,
For ne'er before had any seen the equal of that
sight
And
never will they, maybe,
See
a flaxen-haired baby
Flog racehorse to the winning post with all his
tiny
might.
But
Gaylad's strength is waning,
Gone
in fact, beyond regaining,
Poor Babs is flogging helplessly, as pale as any
ghost,
But
he looks so brave and pretty
That
the “Rose's” jockey takes pity,
And, pulling back a trifle, lets the baby pass the post.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
What
cheering and tin-kettling
Had
they after at the “settling,”
And how they fought to see who'd hold the baby on
his
lap;
As
President Montgom’ry,
With
a brimming glass of “Pomm’ry,”
Proposed the health of Babs Malone, who'd
won
the Handicap.
