Melbourne Observer. 130227B. February 27, 2013. Part B. Pages 17-28, 61-72

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 27, 2013 - 7www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK

Passing Of A Pal

Gentle-natured, faithful, loving,kind,Can I believe behind those speak-ing eyesNow glazed in death,No soul existed;Or that somewhere, in the vastspaces of the BeyondOne friend awaits me, patient,expectant eyed,As in life he watched my everystep -Quick with joy at kindly word orthoughtSpoken or expressed -The dumb that could not speakBy word of mouth,Yet whose brown eyes heldspeechThat I, poor dolt, could notIn my puny mind translate.Just a dog -my pal.Yet could I know that "over there"In that Valhalla to which this lifeIs but short journey -When my spirit feet have trod theportals,One stood within, four-footed, rap-turousTo welcome me, as in these daysjust passed,I'd easier go at my appointed time,To meet just punishment or rewardFor ill or good committedIn this vale of tears;Did I but know that inThe untrod regions of that un-known spaceAwaiting me-to guide my infantspirit stepsWould be - Just a dog - My Pal.

- Monty Blandford

(On the death of his be-

loved

bulldog ‘Wog’)

Cigarettes

It couldn’t be done ... so he did itSomebody said that it couldn't be done,But he, with a chuckle, repliedThat "Maybe it couldn't," but he wouldbe oneWho wouldn't say so -till he tried.So he buckled right in, with a trace ofa grinOn his face. If he worried he hid it.He started to sing as he tackled thethingThat couldn't be done - and he did it.Somebody scoffed, "Oh, you'll neverdo that;At least, no one ever has done it,"But he took off his coat, and he tookoff his hat,And the first thing we knew - he'dbegun it.

With the lift of his chin, and a bit of agrin,Without any doubting or quitting,He started to sing as he tackled thethingThat couldn't be done - and he did it.There are thousands to tell you it can-not be done,There are thousands to prophesy fail-ure,There are thousands to point to youone by one,The dangers that wait to assail you.But just buckle in with a grin,Then take off your coat and go to it,Just start in to sing as you tackle thethingThat "cannot be done"- and you'll doit.

You may talk about our enemies,But I have never met,Such a soul-and-body killer.As the noxious cigarette.For it hardens up your arteries,And it makes your bloodstream badAnd it finally has you scuttled,If you don't give it up, my lad.You like to have a good timeTo play and sing and dance,But if a sickness comes to you,It does reduce your chance.To be smart, you have to do it,In this world so big and wide,But the live fish swim 'gainst cur-rents,It's the dead go with the tide.Once the bulwark of a nation,Always practical and keen,Now the hand that rocks the cradleIs besmudged with nicotine.Once a breath as sweet as morn-ing,Like the early roses wet,Now she kisses baby's gold curls,Through the smoke of a cigarette.You say I'm too old-fashioned,But it would be good indeed,If our women led in victoryO'er this soul-destroying weed.And now the war is ended,Did I gamble, I'd make betsThat the world would be much bet-terIf it gave up cigarettes.

- Pearl C Ellison

Monday, it’s Washing DayI'm an inoffensive householder, I don'tphilosophise,I rent a flat in Camberwell, I'm neitherrich nor wise,My outlook's quite suburban but youmust give me my dueI know how many beans make five,I've learned a thing or two.And that power of observation, whichundoubtedly is mineHas lately been attracted to the wash-ing on the line.I note each Monday morning as mytrain goes rattling on,The back yards that we pass evincethe same phenomenonThere's no woman at her washing, youcan see the evidence,And it's often most intriguing,stretched across from fence to fence.There are sheets and shirts a-shiningin a spotless, snowy state,And camisoles - and other things Ishan't enumerate.Though differing in detail every pros-pect is the same,That that's at all remarkable of courseI do not claim.No, my point (which very likely you

thorough doing out,Put our notions through the wringer,take the starch out of our brains,Wash the dirt from our conceptions,and then drop it down the drains,And by Wednesday at latest have anice clean point of view,And our funny old ideas all washedwhite and good as new?

- Allan Dawes

will all regard as bosh)Is that everybody's linen every Mon-day gets a wash,And by Wednesday at latest, it looksjust as good as new.Now, wouldn't it be wonderful if wewere like that, too?I say, wouldn't it be wonderful if youand I, old scout,Could every Monday morning get a

Have you ever been broke? Just broke to the wide? Withwhat you stand up in, and nothing beside? Living on scrapsthe best part of the week, when you can get 'em, and withnowhere to sleep.

I've been like that on a cold winter's night - when thestreets were deserted, and nothing in sight but a slow-moving ‘bobby’ whose job is to see that the public is pro-tected from people like me, who. get put inside to answerin court why they're wandering about without means ofsupport.

It always strikes me as a queer sort of joke, to pick ona man just because he is broke.

Life isn't worth much when you get to that state of justwaiting to die with nowhere to wait.

I remember the time, it's a long while ago, when I stoodon a bridge with the river below. The last food I'd had wastwo days before, and I never expected I'd need any more.

The night was the worst that ever I'd known, with adirty wet fog, that chilled to the bone. I set my teeth hard,and I set down my heel on the rail that my hands were tooperished to feel when a snivelling pup came out of thefog and whimpered to me (just a scrap of a dog, bedraggledand dirty like me) - just a wreck, with Oh, such a sad littleface on his poor scraggy neck.

A few seconds more and I would have died, but helicked my hand, and I sat down and cried. And I coveredthe poor little mite in my coat, and carried him off with alump in my throat. I took him along to the one place I knewwhere they'd give him a bed and a biscuit or two.

They didn't seem keen on taking him in, but the ser-geant in charge, gave a bit of a grin when I told him thedog could do with a meal.

He said, "I'll fix him up, but how do you feel ?"It may be perhaps the sergeant had seen the state I was

in - I wasn't too clean.

The hunger and cold that I'd suffered all day, exhaustedmy limits, and I fainted away.

Well, they fed me and slept me, and gave me two bob,and the following day they gave me a job. I've workedever since, and I've put a bit by. I'm comfortable now, andI don't want to die.

I've a nice little house in a quiet little street, with adecent-sized garden, that's kept nice and neat. I've workedthere a lot when I've had time to spare, and I'm so proud ofone little corner that's there, with the pick of my flowersround a little old stone, that stands on the corner, all on itsown.

It bears an inscription not very grand - the letters arecrooked, but you'll understand that I wasn't too steady - Icouldn't quite see at the time I carved it, quite, quite, re-cently.

And these are words that I carved on the stone:"Here lies my friend, when I was alone,Hopeless and friendless, just lost in a fog

- God saved my life, with the help of a dog.- NosMo King

Providence saved my life

Important Job

I may fail to be as clever as myneighbour down the street,I may fail to be as wealthy as someother men I meet,I may never win the glory which alot of men have had,But I've got to be successful as alittle fellow's dad.There are certain dreams I cherishwhich I'd like to see come true,There are things I would accom-plish ere my time of life is through;But the task my heart is set on is toguide a little ladAnd to make myself successful asthat little fellow's dad.I may never come to glory, I maynever gather gold.Men may list me with the failureswhen my business life is told;But if he who follows after shall bemanly, I'll be gladFor I'll know I've been successfulas that little fellow's dad.It's the one job that I dream of, it'sthe task I think of most,If I failed that growing youngster,I'd have nothing else to boastFor though wealth and fame I'dgather all my fortune would be sadIf I'd failed to be successful as thatlittle fellow's dad. - E.A.G.

Her Heaven:

An Epitaph

"Here lies a poor woman who al-ways was tired,She lived in a house where helpwas not hired,Her last words on earth were"Dear friends, I am goingWhere washing ain't done, norsweeping. nor sewing,But everything there is exact tomy wishesFor where they don't eat, there'sno washing of dishes,I'll be where loud anthems will al-ways be ringing,But, having no voice, I'll be clearof the singing,Don't mourn for me now; don'tmourn for me never -I'm going to do nothing for everand ever "

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 27, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au


The Wasp

And the Bee

A wasp met a bee that was buzz-ing by,And he said, "Little cousin, can youtell me whyYou are loved so much better bypeople than I?My back shines as bright and yel-low as gold,And my shape is most elegant, too,to behold,Yet nobody likes me, for that I amtold,""Ah, cousin," the bee said, "'tis allvery true,But if I had half as much mischiefto do,Indeed they would love me no bet-ter than you.You have a fine shape and a deli-cate wing,They own you are handsome, butthen there's one thing,They cannot put up with, and thatis your sting.My coat is quite homely and plain,as you see,Yet nobody ever is angry with me,Because I'm a humble and inno-cent bee,"From this little story let people be-ware,Because, like the wasp, if ill-na-tured they areThey will never be loved if they'reever so fair.

Life

Man comes into the world withouthis consent, and leaves it againsthis will.On earth he is misjudged andmisunder stood. In infancy he is anangel, in boyhood a little devil, inmanhood he is a fool.If he has a wife and family he is achump, if a bachelor he is inhu-man.If he enters a public house, he is adrunkard, if he stays out be is amiser. If he is a poor man he hasno brains, if he is rich he has all theluck in the world.If he has brains he is consideredsmart, but dishonest. If he goes tochurch he is a hypocrite, if he staysaway he is a sinful man.If he gives to charity, it is advertisement, if he does not he is stingyand mean.When he comes into the world ev-erybody wants to kiss him, beforehe goes out everyone wants to kickhim.If he dies a young man there was agreat future before him, if he livesto a ripe old age everybody hopeshe has made a will.

LIFE IS A FUNNYPROPOSITION !

Wanted! a spot to live inWhere there is peace and joy,A place full of contentment,That nothing can destroy.

Where all the folk I meet each dayAre friends, in the truest sense.

Where my mistakes and failingsMake no gossip o'er the fence,

Where I am loved-in spite of faults,(Which I have by the score)

Where every house in every street,Has "Welcome" on the door,And everyone-in every house

Is kindly, loving, trueReady to serve with pleasure

Whatever they can do.A place where there's no greed for power

No frantic fight for gainNo jealousy or hatred

Which leave their blackened stainOf war, on hearts and lives of men

Who wanted not to fight,But live in peace with those they love

Each living soul's birthright.If I could find that perfect spot,

A place all sweet and fair,Where there's no hate or selfishness

Could I make my home there?Would my house be ha order

For all the world to seeOr would there be a room or two

Not fit for company?It's just as well I've stopped to think

Before I advertise,That "stop-look-listen" sign I've seen

Is very, very wiseBut all the same-I'll not destroy

That "ad"- I'll get to workTo make that dream of mine come true,

No longer can I shirkThat much delayed spring-cleaning

Into those cupboards, whereI've hid my beastly skeletonsHoping to keep them there

While all the time they worried me,Lest, when my friends should call,

The faulty lock that held themWould give way, and out they'd fall.

So out I'll drag them-every onePride, hate and love of self,And criticism-worst of all,

Come off that topmost shelf !My! What a space you've cluttered up

Each beastly, bony thing,And oh ! what joy to see you go

I'm truly glad it's spring.Now that I've brought these skeletons

Into the light of dayI'll watch that in this house of mine

They come no more to stay.So when that glad New Day shall come,

And our dreams we realize,If I am worthy of a placeWhy ! then I'll advertise.

M. DANGERFIELD

Gone fishin’

A fellow isn't thinking mean - outfishin'His thoughts are mostly good andclean out fishin'He doesn't knock his fellow-menOr harbour any grudges then,A feller's at his finest when-out fish-ing'The rich are comrades to the poor -out fishin',All brothers of the common lure - outfishin',The urchin with the pin and stringCan chum with millionaire or kingVain pride is a forgotten thing -outfishin'.A feller gets a chance to dream - outfishin',He learns the beauty of the stream -out fishin',And he can wash his soul in airThat isn't foul with selfish care,

And relish plain and simple fare -outfishin'.A feller has no time for hate-out fishin',He isn't eager to be great - out fishin',He isn't thinking thoughts of self,Or goods piled high upon the shelf,But is always just himself -out fishin'.A feller's glad to be a friend - outfishin'.A helping hand he'll lend - out fishin',The brotherhood of rod and line,And sky and stream is always fine,Men come close to God's design - outfishin'.A feller isn't plotting schemes - outfishin',He's only busy with his dreams - outfishin',His livery is a coat of tan,His creed to do the best he can,A feller's always mostly man - outfishin'.

Give your heart to a dog

Buy a pup and your money will bringLove unflinching that cannot liePerfect passion and worship fedBy a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.Nevertheless it is hardly fair,To risk your heart for a dog to tear.When the fourteen years which nature permits,Are closing in -asthma or tumor or fits,And the vet's unspoken prescriptionTo lethal chambers or loaded guns,Then you will find it's your own affair,But-you've given your heart for a dog to tear.When the body that lived at your single will,When the whimper of welcome is stilled - how still.When the spirit that answered your every word,Is gone- wherever it goes -for good,You will discover how much you care,And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

A Woman’s ‘If’If we can sit among a crowd of gos-sips,And not repeat the scandal that we'veheard;If we can know aught of another'sbusiness,And not betray it by a single word;If we can smile and still, inside, feelkindlyWhen other women hint our hats arefrights,If we can sit upon a church commit-tee,And not involve ourselves in anyfights;If we can go to a bargain sale counter,And neither shove nor elbow our wayin;

If we can keep our hearts from pride,or triumph,Should any of our neighbours chanceto sin;If we can loyal be to one who's ab-sentAt gatherings when we hear folks runher down;If we can keep our tempers at themomentThe clothes line breaks, or kiddiesact the clown;If we can go through life with kindlytolerance,And keep our faith in God until it ends,Then when there comes to us the greattransition We rank as WOMEN andnot cats, my friends.

Les Misérables by Victor Hugo

Observer Classic Books

BONUS

SECTION

Observer

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 27, 2013 - Page 19

“There, they are going now,” thought he. “I amalone.”All at once, he heard over his head a soundwhich seemed to him to be a clap of thunder.It was a shovelful of earth falling on the coffin.A second shovelful fell.One of the holes through which he breathed hadjust been stopped up.A third shovelful of earth fell.Then a fourth.There are things which are too strong for thestrongest man. Jean Valjean lost consciousness.

Who was in the coffin? The reader knows. JeanValjean.Jean Valjean had arranged things so that hecould exist there, and he could almost breathe.It is a strange thing to what a degree security ofconscience confers security of the rest. Everycombination thought out by Jean Valjean hadbeen progressing, and progressing favorably,since the preceding day. He, like Fauchelevent,counted on Father Mestienne. He had no doubtas to the end. Never was there a more criticalsituation, never more complete composure.The four planks of the coffin breathe out a kindof terrible peace. It seemed as though some-thing of the repose of the dead entered into JeanValjean’s tranquillity.From the depths of that coffin he had been ableto follow, and he had followed, all the phases ofthe terrible drama which he was playing withdeath.Shortly after Fauchelevent had finished nailing

Mestienne’s reversion. One gets to be a phi-losopher when one has nearly completed hisclasses. To the labor of the hand I join the laborof the arm. I have my scrivener’s stall in themarket of the Rue de Sevres. You know? theUmbrella Market. All the cooks of the Red Crossapply to me. I scribble their declarations of loveto the raw soldiers. In the morning I write loveletters; in the evening I dig graves. Such is life,rustic.”The hearse was still advancing. Fauchelevent,uneasy to the last degree, was gazing about himon all sides. Great drops of perspiration trickleddown from his brow.“But,” continued the grave-digger, “a man can-not serve two mistresses. I must choose betweenthe pen and the mattock. The mattock is ruiningmy hand.”The hearse halted.The choir boy alighted from the mourning-coach, then the priest.One of the small front wheels of the hearse hadrun up a little on a pile of earth, beyond which anopen grave was visible.“What a farce this is!” repeated Faucheleventin consternation.

Continued on Page 20

●●●●● Victor Hugo

Fauchelevent had slackened his pace. Helimped more out of anxiety than from infirmity.The grave-digger walked on in front of him.Fauchelevent passed the unexpected Gribieronce more in review.He was one of those men who, though veryyoung, have the air of age, and who, thoughslender, are extremely strong.“Comrade!” cried Fauchelevent.The man turned round.“I am the convent grave-digger.”“My colleague,” said the man.Fauchelevent, who was illiterate but very sharp,understood that he had to deal with a formidablespecies of man, with a fine talker. He muttered:“So Father Mestienne is dead.”The man replied:—“Completely. The good God consulted his note-book which shows when the time is up. It wasFather Mestienne’s turn. Father Mestiennedied.”Fauchelevent repeated mechanically: “Thegood God —”“The good God,” said the man authoritatively.“According to the philosophers, the Eternal Fa-ther; according to the Jacobins, the SupremeBeing.”“Shall we not make each other’s acquain-tance?” stammered Fauchelevent.“It is made. You are a peasant, I am a Pari-sian.”“People do not know each other until they havedrunk together. He who empties his glass emp-ties his heart. You must come and have a drinkwith me. Such a thing cannot be refused.”“Business first.”Fauchelevent thought: “I am lost.”They were only a few turns of the wheel distantfrom the small alley leading to the nuns’ corner.The grave-digger resumed:—“Peasant, I have seven small children who mustbe fed. As they must eat, I cannot drink.”And he added, with the satisfaction of a seriousman who is turning a phrase well:—“Their hunger is the enemy of my thirst.”The hearse skirted a clump of cypress-trees,quitted the grand alley, turned into a narrow one,entered the waste land, and plunged into athicket. This indicated the immediate proximityof the place of sepulture. Fauchelevent slack-ened his pace, but he could not detain the hearse.Fortunately, the soil, which was light and wetwith the winter rains, clogged the wheels andretarded its speed.He approached the grave-digger.“They have such a nice little Argenteuil wine,”murmured Fauchelevent.“Villager,” retorted the man, “I ought not be agrave-digger. My father was a porter at thePrytaneum [Town–Hall]. He destined me forliterature. But he had reverses. He had losseson ‘change. I was obliged to renounce the pro-fession of author. But I am still a public writer.”“So you are not a grave-digger, then?” returnedFauchelevent, clutching at this branch, feebleas it was.“The one does not hinder the other. I cumu-late.”Fauchelevent did not understand this last word.“Come have a drink,” said he.Here a remark becomes necessary.Fauchelevent, whatever his anguish, offered adrink, but he did not explain himself on one point;who was to pay? Generally, Fauchelevent of-fered and Father Mestienne paid. An offer of adrink was the evident result of the novel situa-tion created by the new grave-digger, and it wasnecessary to make this offer, but the old gar-dener left the proverbial quarter of an hour namedafter Rabelais in the dark, and that not uninten-tionally. As for himself, Fauchelevent did notwish to pay, troubled as he was.The grave-digger went on with a superiorsmile:—“One must eat I have accepted Father

BOOK EIGHTH - CEMETERIES TAKE

WHICH IS COMMITTED THEM

CHAPTER V

IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO

BE DRUNK TO BE IMMORTAL

Continued from last week

CHAPTER VI

BETWEEN FOUR PLANKS

on the upper plank, Jean Valjean had felt him-self carried out, then driven off. He knew, fromthe diminution in the jolting, when they left thepavements and reached the earth road. He haddivined, from a dull noise, that they were cross-ing the bridge of Austerlitz. At the first halt, hehad understood that they were entering the cem-etery; at the second halt, he said to himself:—“Here is the grave.”Suddenly, he felt hands seize the coffin, then aharsh grating against the planks; he explained itto himself as the rope which was being fastenedround the casket in order to lower it into thecavity.Then he experienced a giddiness.The undertaker’s man and the grave-digger hadprobably allowed the coffin to lose its balance,and had lowered the head before the foot. Herecovered himself fully when he felt himselfhorizontal and motionless. He had just touchedthe bottom.He had a certain sensation of cold.A voice rose above him, glacial and solemn. Heheard Latin words, which he did not understand,pass over him, so slowly that he was able tocatch them one by one:—“Qui dormiunt in terrae pulvere, evigilabunt; aliiin vitam aeternam, et alii in approbrium, utvideant semper.”A child’s voice said:—“De profundis.”The grave voice began again:—“Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine.”The child’s voice responded:—“Et lux perpetua luceat ei.”He heard something like the gentle patter of sev-eral drops of rain on the plank which coveredhim. It was probably the holy water.He thought: “This will be over soon now. Pa-tience for a little while longer. The priest willtake his departure. Fauchelevent will takeMestienne off to drink. I shall be left. ThenFauchelevent will return alone, and I shall getout. That will be the work of a good hour.”The grave voice resumed“Requiescat in pace.”And the child’s voice said:—“Amen.”Jean Valjean strained his ears, and heard some-thing like retreating footsteps.

CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH WILL BE FOUND

THE ORIGIN OF THE SAYING:

DON’T LOSE THE CARD

This is what had taken place above the coffin inwhich lay Jean Valjean.When the hearse had driven off, when the priestand the choir boy had entered the carriage againand taken their departure, Fauchelevent, whohad not taken his eyes from the grave-digger,saw the latter bend over and grasp his shovel,which was sticking upright in the heap of dirt.Then Fauchelevent took a supreme resolve.He placed himself between the grave and thegrave-digger, crossed his arms and said:—“I am the one to pay!”The grave-digger stared at him in amazement,and replied:—“What’s that, peasant?”Fauchelevent repeated:—“I am the one who pays!”“What?”“For the wine.”“What wine?”“That Argenteuil wine.”“Where is the Argenteuil?”“At the Bon Coing.”“Go to the devil!” said the grave-digger.And he flung a shovelful of earth on the coffin.The coffin gave back a hollow sound.Fauchelevent felt himself stagger and on thepoint of falling headlong into the grave himself.He shouted in a voice in which the stranglingsound of the death rattle began to mingle:—“Comrade! Before the Bon Coing is shut!”The grave-digger took some more earth on hisshovel. Fauchelevent continued.“I will pay.”And he seized the man’s arm.“Listen to me, comrade. I am the convent grave-digger, I have come to help you. It is a businesswhich can be performed at night. Let us begin,then, by going for a drink.”And as he spoke, and clung to this desperateinsistence, this melancholy reflection occurredto him: “And if he drinks, will he get drunk?”“Provincial,” said the man, “if you positivelyinsist upon it, I consent. We will drink. Afterwork, never before.”And he flourished his shovel briskly.Fauchelevent held him back.“It is Argenteuil wine, at six.”“Oh, come,” said the grave-digger, “you are abell-ringer. Ding dong, ding dong, that’s all youknow how to say. Go hang yourself.”And he threw in a second shovelful.Fauchelevent had reached a point where he nolonger knew what he was saying.“Come along and drink,” he cried, “since it is Iwho pays the bill.”“When we have put the child to bed,” said thegrave-digger.He flung in a third shovelful.Then he thrust his shovel into the earth andadded:—“It’s cold to-night, you see, and the corpse wouldshriek out after us if we were to plant her therewithout a coverlet.”At that moment, as he loaded his shovel, thegrave-digger bent over, and the pocket of hiswaistcoat gaped. Fauchelevent’s wild gaze fellmechanically into that pocket, and there itstopped.The sun was not yet hidden behind the horizon;there was still light enough to enable him to dis-tinguish something white at the bottom of thatyawning pocket.


From Page 19

The sum total of lightning that the eye of a Picardpeasant can contain, traversed Fauchelevent’spupils. An idea had just occurred to him.He thrust his hand into the pocket from behind,without the grave-digger, who was wholly ab-sorbed in his shovelful of earth, observing it,and pulled out the white object which lay at thebottom of it.The man sent a fourth shovelful tumbling intothe grave.Just as he turned round to get the fifth,Fauchelevent looked calmly at him and said:—“By the way, you new man, have you yourcard?”The grave-digger paused.“What card?”“The sun is on the point of setting.”“That’s good, it is going to put on its nightcap.”“The gate of the cemetery will close immedi-ately.”“Well, what then?”“Have you your card?”“Ah! my card?” said the grave-digger.And he fumbled in his pocket.Having searched one pocket, he proceeded tosearch the other. He passed on to his fobs, ex-plored the first, returned to the second.“Why, no,” said he, “I have not my card. I musthave forgotten it.”“Fifteen francs fine,” said Fauchelevent.The grave-digger turned green. Green is thepallor of livid people.“Ah! Jesus-mon-Dieu-bancroche-a-bas-la-lune!”17 he exclaimed. “Fifteen francs fine!”17 Jesus-my-God-bandy-leg — down with themoon!“Three pieces of a hundred sous,” saidFauchelevent.The grave-digger dropped his shovel.Fauchelevent’s turn had come.“Ah, come now, conscript,” said Fauchelevent,“none of this despair. There is no question ofcommitting suicide and benefiting the grave.Fifteen francs is fifteen francs, and besides, youmay not be able to pay it. I am an old hand, youare a new one. I know all the ropes and thedevices. I will give you some friendly advice.One thing is clear, the sun is on the point ofsetting, it is touching the dome now, the cem-etery will be closed in five minutes more.”“That is true,” replied the man.“Five minutes more and you will not have timeto fill the grave, it is as hollow as the devil, thisgrave, and to reach the gate in season to pass itbefore it is shut.”“That is true.”“In that case, a fine of fifteen francs.”“Fifteen francs.”“But you have time. Where do you live?”“A couple of steps from the barrier, a quarter ofan hour from here. No. 87 Rue de Vaugirard.”“You have just time to get out by taking to yourheels at your best speed.”“That is exactly so.”“Once outside the gate, you gallop home, youget your card, you return, the cemetery porteradmits you. As you have your card, there will benothing to pay. And you will bury your corpse.I’ll watch it for you in the meantime, so that itshall not run away.”“I am indebted to you for my life, peasant.”“Decamp!” said Fauchelevent.The grave-digger, overwhelmed with gratitude,shook his hand and set off on a run.When the man had disappeared in the thicket,Fauchelevent listened until he heard his foot-steps die away in the distance, then he leanedover the grave, and said in a low tone:—“Father Madeleine!”There was no reply.Fauchelevent was seized with a shudder. Hetumbled rather than climbed into the grave, flunghimself on the head of the coffin and cried:—“Are you there?”Silence in the coffin.Fauchelevent, hardly able to draw his breath fortrembling, seized his cold chisel and his ham-mer, and pried up the coffin lid.Jean Valjean’s face appeared in the twilight; itwas pale and his eyes were closed.Fauchelevent’s hair rose upright on his head, hesprang to his feet, then fell back against the sideof the grave, ready to swoon on the coffin. Hestared at Jean Valjean.Jean Valjean lay there pallid and motionless.Fauchelevent murmured in a voice as faint as asigh:—“He is dead!”

And, drawing himself up, and folding his armswith such violence that his clenched fists camein contact with his shoulders, he cried:—“And this is the way I save his life!”Then the poor man fell to sobbing. He solilo-quized the while, for it is an error to suppose thatthe soliloquy is unnatural. Powerful emotion of-ten talks aloud.“It is Father Mestienne’s fault. Why did that fooldie? What need was there for him to give up theghost at the very moment when no one was ex-pecting it? It is he who has killed M. Madeleine.Father Madeleine! He is in the coffin. It is quitehandy. All is over. Now, is there any sense inthese things? Ah! my God! he is dead! Well!and his little girl, what am I to do with her? Whatwill the fruit-seller say? The idea of its beingpossible for a man like that to die like this! WhenI think how he put himself under that cart! Fa-ther Madeleine! Father Madeleine! Pardine! Hewas suffocated, I said so. He wouldn’t believeme. Well! Here’s a pretty trick to play! He isdead, that good man, the very best man out ofall the good God’s good folks! And his little girl!Ah! In the first place, I won’t go back theremyself. I shall stay here. After having done sucha thing as that! What’s the use of being two oldmen, if we are two old fools! But, in the firstplace, how did he manage to enter the convent?That was the beginning of it all. One should notdo such things. Father Madeleine! FatherMadeleine! Father Madeleine! Madeleine!Monsieur Madeleine! Monsieur le Maire! Hedoes not hear me. Now get out of this scrape ifyou can!”And he tore his hair.A grating sound became audible through thetrees in the distance. It was the cemetery gateclosing.Fauchelevent bent over Jean Valjean, and all atonce he bounded back and recoiled so far as thelimits of a grave permit.Jean Valjean’s eyes were open and gazing athim.To see a corpse is alarming, to behold a resur-rection is almost as much so. Fauchelevent be-came like stone, pale, haggard, overwhelmedby all these excesses of emotion, not knowingwhether he had to do with a living man or a deadone, and staring at Jean Valjean, who was gaz-ing at him.“I fell asleep,” said Jean Valjean.And he raised himself to a sitting posture.Fauchelevent fell on his knees.“Just, good Virgin! How you frightened me!”Then he sprang to his feet and cried:—“Thanks, Father Madeleine!”Jean Valjean had merely fainted. The fresh airhad revived him.Joy is the ebb of terror. Fauchelevent found al-most as much difficulty in recovering himselfas Jean Valjean had.“So you are not dead! Oh! How wise you are! Icalled you so much that you came back. WhenI saw your eyes shut, I said: ‘Good! there he is,stifled,’ I should have gone raving mad, madenough for a strait jacket. They would have putme in Bicetre. What do you suppose I shouldhave done if you had been dead? And your littlegirl? There’s that fruit-seller,— she would neverhave understood it! The child is thrust into yourarms, and then — the grandfather is dead! Whata story! good saints of paradise, what a tale! Ah!you are alive, that’s the best of it!”“I am cold,” said Jean Valjean.This remark recalled Fauchelevent thoroughlyto reality, and there was pressing need of it. Thesouls of these two men were troubled even whenthey had recovered themselves, although theydid not realize it, and there was about them some-thing uncanny, which was the sinister bewilder-ment inspired by the place.“Let us get out of here quickly,” exclaimedFauchelevent.He fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out a gourdwith which he had provided himself.“But first, take a drop,” said he.The flask finished what the fresh air had begun,Jean Valjean swallowed a mouthful of brandy,and regained full possession of his faculties.He got out of the coffin, and helped Faucheleventto nail on the lid again.Three minutes later they were out of the grave.Moreover, Fauchelevent was perfectly com-posed. He took his time. The cemetery wasclosed. The arrival of the grave-digger Gribierwas not to be apprehended. That “conscript”was at home busily engaged in looking for hiscard, and at some difficulty in finding it in his lodgings, since it was in Fauchelevent’s pocket

Without a card, he could not get back into thecemetery.Fauchelevent took the shovel, and Jean Valjeanthe pick-axe, and together they buried the emptycoffin.When the grave was full, Fauchelevent said toJean Valjean:—“Let us go. I will keep the shovel; do you carryoff the mattock.”Night was falling.Jean Valjean experienced rome difficulty inmoving and in walking. He had stiffened him-self in that coffin, and had become a little like acorpse. The rigidity of death had seized uponhim between those four planks. He had, in amanner, to thaw out, from the tomb.“You are benumbed,” said Fauchelevent. “It isa pity that I have a game leg, for otherwise wemight step out briskly.”“Bah!” replied Jean Valjean, “four paces willput life into my legs once more.”They set off by the alleys through which thehearse had passed. On arriving before the closedgate and the porter’s pavilion Fauchelevent, whoheld the grave-digger’s card in his hand, droppedit into the box, the porter pulled the rope, thegate opened, and they went out.“How well everything is going!” saidFauchelevent; “what a capital idea that was ofyours, Father Madeleine!”They passed the Vaugirard barrier in the sim-plest manner in the world. In the neighborhoodof the cemetery, a shovel and pick are equal totwo passports.The Rue Vaugirard was deserted.“Father Madeleine,” said Fauchelevent as theywent along, and raising his eyes to the houses,“Your eyes are better than mine. Show me No.87.”“Here it is,” said Jean Valjean.“There is no one in the street,” saidFauchelevent. “Give me your mattock and waita couple of minutes for me.”Fauchelevent entered No. 87, ascended to thevery top, guided by the instinct which alwaysleads the poor man to the garret, and knocked inthe dark, at the door of an attic.A voice replied: “Come in.”It was Gribier’s voice.Fauchelevent opened the door. The grave-digger’s dwelling was, like all such wretchedhabitations, an unfurnished and encumberedgarret. A packing-case — a coffin, perhaps —took the place of a commode, a butter-pot servedfor a drinking-fountain, a straw mattress servedfor a bed, the floor served instead of tables andchairs. In a corner, on a tattered fragment whichhad been a piece of an old carpet, a thin womanand a number of children were piled in a heap.The whole of this poverty-stricken interior boretraces of having been overturned. One wouldhave said that there had been an earthquake“for one.” The covers were displaced, the ragsscattered about, the jug broken, the mother hadbeen crying, the children had probably beenbeaten; traces of a vigorous and ill-temperedsearch. It was plain that the grave-digger hadmade a desperate search for his card, and hadmade everybody in the garret, from the jug tohis wife, responsible for its loss. He wore an airof desperation.But Fauchelevent was in too great a hurry toterminate this adventure to take any notice ofthis sad side of his success.He entered and said:—“I have brought you back your shovel and pick.”Gribier gazed at him in stupefaction.“Is it you, peasant?”“And tomorrow morning you will find your cardwith the porter of the cemetery.”And he laid the shovel and mattock on the floor.“What is the meaning of this?” demandedGribier.“The meaning of it is, that you dropped yourcard out of your pocket, that I found it on theground after you were gone, that I have buriedthe corpse, that I have filled the grave, that Ihave done your work, that the porter will returnyour card to you, and that you will not have topay fifteen francs. There you have it, conscript.”“Thanks, villager!” exclaimed Gribier, radiant.“The next time I will pay for the drinks.”

- Continued on Page 69

Page 20 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 27, 2013

They were Fauchelevent, Jean Valjean, andCosette.The two old men had gone to fetch Cosette fromthe fruiterer’s in the Rue du Chemin–Vert, whereFauchelevent had deposited her on the preced-ing day. Cosette had passed these twenty-fourhours trembling silently and understanding noth-ing. She trembled to such a degree that she wept.She had neither eaten nor slept. The worthy fruit-seller had plied her with a hundred questions,without obtaining any other reply than a melan-choly and unvarying gaze. Cosette had betrayednothing of what she had seen and heard duringthe last two days. She divined that they werepassing through a crisis. She was deeply con-scious that it was necessary to “be good.” Whohas not experienced the sovereign power ofthose two words, pronounced with a certain ac-cent in the ear of a terrified little being: Saynothing! Fear is mute. Moreover, no one guardsa secret like a child.But when, at the expiration of these lugubrioustwenty-four hours, she beheld Jean Valjeanagain, she gave vent to such a cry of joy, thatany thoughtful person who had chanced to hearthat cry, would have guessed that it issued froman abyss.Fauchelevent belonged to the convent and knewthe pass-words. All the doors opened.Thus was solved the double and alarming prob-lem of how to get out and how to get in.The porter, who had received his instructions,opened the little servant’s door which connectedthe courtyard with the garden, and which couldstill be seen from the street twenty years ago, inthe wall at the bottom of the court, which facedthe carriage entrance.The porter admitted all three of them throughthis door, and from that point they reached theinner, reserved parlor where Fauchelevent, onthe preceding day, had received his orders fromthe prioress.The prioress, rosary in hand, was waiting forthem. A vocal mother, with her veil lowered,stood beside her.A discreet candle lighted, one might almost say,made a show of lighting the parlor.The prioress passed Jean Valjean in review.There is nothing which examines like a down-cast eye.Then she questioned him:—“You are the brother?”“Yes, reverend Mother,” replied Fauchelevent.“What is your name?”Fauchelevent replied:—“Ultime Fauchelevent.”He really had had a brother named Ultime, whowas dead.“Where do you come from?”Fauchelevent replied:—“From Picquigny, near Amiens.”“What is your age?”Fauchelevent replied:—“Fifty.”“What is your profession?”Fauchelevent replied:—“Gardener.”“Are you a good Christian?”Fauchelevent replied:—“Every one is in the family.”“Is this your little girl?”Fauchelevent replied:—“Yes, reverend Mother.”“You are her father?”Fauchelevent replied:—“Her grandfather.”The vocal mother said to the prioress in a lowvoice“He answers well.”Jean Valjean had not uttered a single word.The prioress looked attentively at Cosette, andsaid half aloud to the vocal mother:—“She will grow up ugly.”The two mothers consulted for a few momentsin very low tones in the corner of the parlor, thenthe prioress turned round and said:—“Father Fauvent, you will get another knee-capwith a bell. Two will be required now.”On the following day, therefore, two bells wereaudible in the garden, and the nuns could notresist the temptation to raise the corner of theirveils. At the extreme end of the garden, underthe trees, two men, Fauvent and another man,were visible as they dug side by side. An enor-mous event. Their silence was broken to theextent of saying to each other: “He is an assis-tant gardener.”The vocal mothers added: “He is a brother ofFather Fauvent.”

CHAPTER VIII

A SUCCESSFUL INTEROGATORY

An hour later, in the darkness of night, two menand a child presented themselves at No. 62 RuePetit–Picpus. The elder of the men lifted theknocker and rapped.

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 27, 2013 - Page 21www.MelbourneObserver.com.au


Open Tuesday to Saturday 10.30am-5.30pm

OLIVE OIL SOAPGenuinely natural ● Handcrafted in Australia ● Therapeutically designed

Pure Essential Oils ● Goats Milk and Vegan ● Mineral Clays

Perfect for allergy skin ● Perfect for ageing skin

Perfect for baby skin ● Just Perfect!

A further 10% off

our already low prices when you show this ad

Direct Factory Outlet

2/17 Malvern St,Bayswater 31530430 619 660

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 27, 2013 - Page 23www.MelbourneObserver.com.auPage 12 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 27, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

■ What creature does Jana Pittman have tat-tooed on her body?

Observer Readers’ Club

Birthdays/Celebrations

Cheerios

The Way We Were Melbourne Photo Flashback Join in our chat

IN PRINT:Read the MelbourneObserver every week.Buy at your newsagent,or by mail subscription.

FACEBOOK:Follow our updates, andpost your own coments atwww.facebook.com/MelbourneObserver

TWITTER:Follow our updates, andpost your own Tweets atwww.twitter.com/MelbourneObs

BY POST:Mail contributions toObserver Readers’ ClubPO Box 1278, Research,Vic 3095

FAX: 1-800 231 312E-MAIL: editor@

melbourneobserver.com.au

●●●●● Giant Hot Cross Bun(The Easter season starts with

Good Friday on March 29Thanks to taste.com.au

Reader Recipes

Word Of The Week

Life’s Lessons

●●●●● Punt Road in flood, just north of Brunton Ave. 1891

Trivia ChallengeAnswer: Bee

100 Years AgoMorwell Advertiser

Friday, February 28, 1913

■ “We must not say every mistake is a foolishone”. - Cicero

■ Turducken — a turkey stuffed with a duck,stuffed with a chicken

Ingredients7g sachet dry yeast2 teaspoons caster sugar1 cup warm water3 cups bread and pizza plain flour1 teaspoon sea salt1 tablespoon olive oil1 teaspoon ground cinnamon1/2 teaspoon mixed spice3/4 cup sultanas1/4 cup mixed peel1 tablespoon smooth apricot jam, warmed but-ter, to serveFlour paste2 tablespoons plain flour1 teaspoon caster sugarStep 1. Place yeast, sugar and warm water in ajug. Whisk with a fork until yeast has dissolved.Stand in a warm place for 10 minutes or untilfrothy.Step 2: Sift flour into a large bowl. Make a well.Add salt, yeast mixture and oil. Mix to form asoft dough. Turn out onto a lightly floured sur-face. Knead dough for 10 to 15 minutes or untilsmooth and elastic. Place in a large, lightlygreased bowl. Cover with lightly greased plas-tic wrap. Set aside in a warm place for 1 hour oruntil doubled in size. Using your fist, punchdough down. Turn onto a lightly floured sur-face. Knead until smooth.Step 3: Gradually knead in cinnamon, mixedspice, sultanas and mixed peel. Shape doughinto a 15cm round. Place on a greased bakingtray. Cover with lightly greased plastic wrap.Setaside in a warm place for 30 minutes or untildough has almost doubled in size. Meanwhile,preheat oven to 200°C/180°C.Step 4: Make Flour paste: Place flour, sugarand 11/2 tablespoons cold water in a small bowl.Stir until smooth. Spoon into a snap-lock bag.Snip off 1 corner from bag. Remove plastic wrap.Pipe a cross onto loaf.Step 5: Bake for 35 to 40 minutes or until breadis golden and sounds hollow when tapped. Standon tray for 5 minutes. Transfer to a wire rack tocool. Brush top of warm loaf with jam. Servewarm or cold with butter.

■ Wedenesday, February 27. We rememberthe late Bill Hunter who died aged 71 in2011.Melbourne actor George Kapiniaris, cur-rently starring in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, is 52.Long distance runner Robert De Castella is 56.Singer Peter Andre (Peter Andrea) is 40.■ Thursday, February 28. Happy birthday toObserver reader Gordon Mulholland. 3AW’sMike Brady is 65.■ Friday, March 1. 3AW’s Gerard Healy is52. The late Jimmy Little, country singer, wasborn in 1937; he died at the age of 75.■ Saturday, March 2. Former Victorian Pre-mier Jeff Kennett is 65.■ Sunday, March 3. Observer subscriber PRogers of Keilor is 62. Mebourne-born actressCarla Bonner is 40.■ Monday, March 4. Happy birthday to Ob-server reader Patrick Tan. Observer subscriberJanice Atkinson of Essendon is 56. The Rev.Tim Costello is 58.■ Tuesday, March 5. Many happy returns toRohan Connolly of The Age. Cricketer RodneyHogg, born in Richmond, is 62. TV host MikeWalsh, proprietor of Her Majesty’s Theatre, is75. TV presenter Jennifer Byrne aws born inMelbourne, 58 years ago.

■ Cheerio to Kath McMillan of Box Hill Southwho made a cheery phone call to the Observeroffice this week. Kath has fond memories ofYvonne Lawrence’s celebrity lunches at ‘Glen-coe’, Month Albert.■ Melbourne radio man Kevin Hillier is cel-ebrating 40 years in radio. Media manager forthe Werribee Football Club, Kevin is doing ra-dio work on WYN-FM and 1116 SEN. He is alsopublishing a work later this year.■ Cheerfio to the Observer’s own local theatrecolumnist Cheryl Threadgold, resting after afoot operation. Cheryl will be back tap-dancingin no time!

A

Your Stars with Christina La Cross

ARIES (MAR 21 - APR 20)You get the option to give a friend's new partner a second chance. Don't turn it down.Aspects suggest you have far more in common then you thought, which is why youclashed to begin with.TAURUS (APR 21 - MAY 21)I'm wondering as much as you are why you let certain people manipulate you. Butthen if we look at your star sign it becomes obvious that you're a people pleaser. Timeto please yourself today.GEMINI (MAY 22 - JUNE 21)You can't seem to keep your money in your pocket today and if there is something youcan spend it on, then you will. You could of course always trying making that call anddealing with the real issue.CANCER (JUNE 22 - JULY 23)Trips away are in the stars for you and it would be a good idea for you to tie up anyloose ends which may interfere with the new avenue your personal life is going down.LEO (JULY 24 - AUG 23)Make sure you only say nice things to the people around you today. Any catty remarkswill only cast you as a bad influence to new faces who can and should be a part of yourlife.VIRGO (AUG 24 - SEPT 23)Don't abuse the power which the stars are giving you. It's important that you showyou're a team player as offers coming your way will require those around to know youare a cooperative.LIBRA (SEPT 24 - OCT 23)New friends can be found through new hobbies you take up. You've been stuck in a rutfor months now, but today marks the turning point and a happier and more contentedLibran.SCORPIO (OCT 24 - NOV 22)Don't repeat any gossip you hear at this time or you could be accused of starting it,which could be tricky when it's revealed to be false. Texts bring a new friendship intoyour life.SAGITTARIUS (NOV 23 - DEC 21)Play ball with someone you don't usually have the time of day for in order to please aloved one. Don't worry Sagittarius, it won't be as bad as you think. In fact you mighthave fun.CAPRICORN (DEC 22 - JAN 20)If you've made a promise then you need to try to stick to it. Not only is the person yougave the promise to counting on you, but so are several other faces now. Good finan-cial news comes with a meeting.AQUARIUS (JAN 21 - FEB 19)I know you've been feeling off balance lately but I also know it's time for a change andit's one you are resisting. Relying on others to decide for you is a mistake you cannotafford to make.PISCES (FEB 20 - MARCH 20)Don't abuse the power the stars are handing you but instead use this strength of mindto work as a team and to get to where you want to be. Arrogance doesn't suit you.Haven't you learnt that yet?

A NEW LEASE OF ‘LIFE’The publisher of that most enterprising Austra-lian magazine, ‘Life’, has made the one changethat was necessiury to make it acceptable inevery home. It has enlarged the type, and theMarch number comes to us very readable inboth senses of the word.

"Life" is. essentially a useful magazine, andits editor nuiaiges to keep its usefulness and itsentertainment well balanced.

In the March issue, for example, appears thefirst of a new series of stories for business people,a rattling good story, and a splendid lesson inbusiness practice.

It is submitted as the forerunner of a set ofbusiness stories that will rival in interest thefamous"Self-Made Mer chant" series.

Side by side with it begins another group ofscientific detective stories, also exciting and in-structive.

Then, Mr. Carlyle Smythe contributes an-other of his racy articles comtainingreminisceices of Mark Twain with whom hetoured tile world.

A. W. Casserly describes avisit to a snakefarm in New South Wales; Dr Fitchett, the edi-tor, deals iii his customary picturesque mannerwith tlie history of the world, and W. A. Somersetcontributes a sprightly review of the adventuresof the world's champion.

And these are but the special features of amagazine that covers in its reguliar departmentsthe varying interests that go to make up life inthe present day.

In a word, “Life" thoroughly merits itsnanme, and maintains in this issue its high repu-tation.

●●●●● Dan Webb was guest speaker at theGolden Days Radio general meeting forlisteners last week. He spoke about hisearly days in radio at 3DB.

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 27, 2013- Page 25www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

MASSIVEOUTLETSTOCKCLEARANCE

✹Up to

70%off RRP

STARTS Feb 27

ENDS March 31

DISCONTINUED LINES AND EXCESS STOCK ALL MARKED TO CLEAR. WHILE STOCKS LAST

SOUTH YARRA 7 Claremont St South Yarra, VIC (03)9827 0124.

ESSENDON 20 Napier St, Essendon VIC (03) 9370 6201 DEEPDENE 108Whitehorse Rd Deepdene VIC (03) 9817 2309 CHELTENHAM 228 Bay Rd,Sandringham VIC (03) 9597 0462 WATERFRONT CITY 13/14 Southern CentralHarbourtown Docklands VIC (03) 9640 0767

MOORABBIN DFO Shop 63, Moorabbin Airport, Centre Dandenong Rd & GrangeRd Cheltenham VIC (03) 9585 0849 ESSENDON DFO Shop 86, 100 Bulla RdEssendon VIC (03) 9379 9320 BUNDOORA UNI HILL Shop 59, Plenty RdBundoora VIC (03) 9467 5673 SOUTH WHARF DFO Shop 101, 20 ConventionCenter Place South Wharf VIC (03) 9686 1041

BONUS OFFER: Mention this ad to receive a further 10% off in store Hurry while stocks last

Not in conjunction with any other offer.

Visa, Mastercard, EFT facilities available.


Victoria Pictorial Historic Photo Collection

●●●●● Patrons outside Gunn’s Braybrook Hotel. 1927●●●●● Rose, Shamrock and Thistle Hotel. East Preston. 1927.

●●●●● Braybrook Hotel. 1854.

●●●●● Lawson’s Hotel, Inverleigh. ●●●●● Mountain View Hotel, Wandiligong. 1956

●●●●● Rainbow township, Victoria. 1930. Features ‘Middle Pub’ ●●●●● McCrae’s Crown Hotel, Buninyong, after 1924

●●●●● Ivanhoe Hotel


For more information about these homes or for location of your closest Display Home,please call Ken Wahlstrom on 98783 9166 or email, [email protected]

or visit our website: www.highviewhomes.com.au


Complete Renovations

including all Electrical,

Plumbing, Tiling,

Carpentry and Painting

● Fully Insured

● All Work Guaranteed

● References Available


Delving into charms of Hoi Am

Cool, crisp from Snowy foothills

ObserverMelbourne

Travellers’ Good Buys

ObserverMelbourne Wines & Liqueurs

withDavidEllis

withDavidEllis

■ There are just two Westernersamong 40 or so locals on the ferry, intruth just an open barge, crossing theriver from Hoi An’s bustling Old Quar-ter to Cam Kim, a rural communewhere village life still dominates hereon Vietnam’s South Central Coast.

Those Westerners are my travel-writing colleague, John Rozentals andhis partner Sandra, who are headingwith their tour guide to the home ofthe guide’s father-in-law.

John takes up the story: Most ofthe locals are returning home fromwork, with just about all having amotorbike or a cycle they somehowjam onto the ferry with them.

The chat to us seems pretty ordi-nary, but an elderly woman remon-strates vociferously with a public-ser-vice type about the evils of govern-ment corruption. Her candidness ispotentially dangerous, our guide tellsus, for despite new-found economicfreedom, Vietnam is still a totalitariancountry, and even small commuterferries can have ears.

We cycle among market gardens,past recently harvested paddy fieldswith water buffalo grazing on thestubble, until we reach the father-in-law’s home. His face was badly dis-figured when he stumbled on alandmine while harvesting thefamily’s sweet potatoes during whatthe Vietnamese call “the AmericanWar.”

Yet he’s quite happy to sit with us

■ Even though its heartland is theHunter Valley, boutique family-owned Hungerford Hill draws oncool-climate fruit from the foothillsof the NSW Snowy Mountains fortheir Classic range TumbarumbaChardonnay.

The latest release, the 2010 is onefor those who truly enjoy theirChardonnays, with the Tumbarumbaregion providing high elevation cool,crisp fruit for a rewarding wine that’sgot everything going for it.

Pale straw in colour with greenhighlights, this is a wine with nice ripestone fruit, ruby red grapefruit, cherryoak and nutty-bready elements on thepalate, all nicely rich and mouth fill-ing. Add some tight acid structure andoak tannins and you’ve a wine that’sfor buying now and drinking now.

And interestingly the company’sgone back to its roots, creating a labelfor this 2010 wine that was inspiredby the first Hungerford HillChardonnay label back in 1971. Pay$30 and you’ll find it will sit reallywell with poultry, pork or seafooddishes accompanied by cream- orbutter-based sauces.

■ WPerfect with creamy-saucedpoultry, pork or seafood dishes.

■ WSemi-sweet and ideal servedwell chilled with spicy foods.

One to note■ Shaw Vineyard Estate atMurrumbateman, around 25-min-utes drive north of Canberra, hasan interesting lower-alcohol wineit labels as Riscato, and which isvery much in the mould of Italy’sMoscato as it is sweetish, yet notoverly so, and just 9 per cent alco-hol – around two-thirds of the norm.

A predominantly Riesling/Semillon blend with a touch ofShiraz that give it its rose-pink hue,this non-vintage release is very re-freshing on the palate, and makesan ideal partner when served well-chilled with spicy main coursedishes, or with a good cheese andfruit platter. Pay an easy $15 and appreci-ate why it’s a favourite with visitorsto Shaw’s Murrumbateman cellardoor.

We’re archived onhttp://vintnews.com

on his veranda, sharing a pot of teaand memories. Perhaps it’s a Buddhistthing, but the Vietnamese seem muchmore forgiving than we towards pastenemies.

It’s a moving and intimate chat, abonus reward for booking an indepen-dent tour with a personal guide anddriver, and which we’d done in Aus-tralia through Footsteps in Style, a re-cent upscale off-shoot of budget traveloperator Footsteps in Asia. They pro-vide airport pick-up and drop-off,organise accommodation and guidedactivities, and probably best of all, pre-tailored itineraries can generally bechanged on the spot if something moreappealing crops up.

We go just up the road to KimBong, a village whose craftsmenhelped fashion many of the magnifi-cent historic buildings in the nearbyancient capital of Hue, and which isre-emerging as a significant wood-working centre.

Huynh Ri, a 15th-generation mas-ter craftsman, has used his studio totrain hundreds of artisans, whoseprojects have included the restorationand maintenance of Hoi An’s OldQuarter, a UNESCO World Heritagesite that reflects the port’s status as amajor trading centre from the 16th to18th centuries.

The Old Quarter is compact andbest covered on foot. You could eas-ily spend several days here exploringthe narrow streets and alleys and dis-covering fine old structures — theJapanese Covered Bridge, whichdates from 1593 and incorporates aVietnamese temple; the CantoneseAssembly Hall, with its many fineChinese artworks; the Museum ofTrading Ceramics; the extravagantPhuc Kien Assembly Hall with itselaborate facade and temple to ThienHau, goddess of the sea and protectorof sailors.

There are also several familyhomes and chapels open for inspec-tion. My favourite was the House ofQuan Thang, a single-storey shop-house built by a Chinese trader in the1700s and still occupied by fourth gen-eration ancestors.

The current great-grandmothermust be well into her 90s yet wandersaround as spritely as ever, sharingjokes with other family members,many of them sitting at the largekitchen table making banh bao vac, alocal specialty shrimp dumpling alsoknown as white rose.

The 30-kilometre stretch of roadto here from Da Nang Airport includesChina Beach — named by Americansoldiers on R&R — and offers plentyof resort-style tourist accommodation.

But our interest in culture ratherthan beach culture drew us to the HoiAn Historic Hotel which in a previouslife served as headquarters for French,American and Vietnamese adminis-trators.

This charming, rambling propertyis literally a couple of minutes fromthe Old Quarter, has a reasonable res-taurant and offers most of the crea-ture comforts, though as in many olderVietnamese hotels, the plumbing canbe a bit temperamental.

Hoi An’s waterfront contains aplethora of dining opportunities at ri-diculously cheap prices by Australianstandards. Spend up, and you’ll quicklyappreciate the rewards of parting withthose extra few dollars.

DETAILS: Footsteps in Style:www.footstepsinstyle.com ; Hoi AnHotel

www.hoianhotel.com.vn

●●●●● Vietnam Hoi An Hotel


Victorian Rural News


ObserverMelbourne

Victorian Sport

Racing

BriefsHarness Racing

with Len Baker

[email protected]

ObserverMelbourne

PAIR’S TREBLE OF WINNERSBaker’s Delight

Success at Echuca■ At Echuca's Thursday meeting, Merrigumtrainer/driver Brett Bunfield was successful withModern Art/Jemalong Lady gelding YerringtonBob in the Dinki Di Houseboats 3-Y-0 Pace over2160 metres, leading throughout from gate two inaccounting for Shez A Spy (three back the markers)and Kamwood Dawn (one/three - three wide lastlap) in a rate of 2-03.7.

Racing in peak form■ Undera trainer/driver Paul (Bluey) Dunn has 6-Y-0 Jet Laag/Tibur Fleur mare Iamnotabindi rac-ing in peak form at present and landed the LeighKent Memorial Pace for C3 & C4 class over 2160metres at Echuca with her.

Trapped wide from gate five, Iamnotabindi wastaken back at the start to be near last on settling,before moving forward when the pace slowed topark outside the heavily backed leader All AboutArt.

Surging past the pacemaker in the last lap,Iamnotabindi outstayed her rivals to register a 1.4metre victory over Giveusagrin which followed herhome after death-seating from gate two before gain-ing cover at the bell. Sly Fantasy finished third aftertrailing the weakening leader.

The mile rate 2-01.9.

Two wins in succession■ Echuca trainer Faye McEwan brought up twowins in succession with 7-Y-0 E Dees Cam/AdioAnnie gelding Pieces Of A Dream in the AlabarEchuca Pacing Cup 22 March Pacers Handicapfor C1 or better class over 2130 metres.

Taking a concession for Zac Phillips, Pieces OfA Dream possied three back in the running line afterstarting from the 10 metre mark.

Set alight three wide in the final circuit, PiecesOf A Dream ran home strongly to defeat a death-seating Laughing Holme by 4 metres in 2-03.2,with Satisfied Grin (one/one) third.

Delight for Tim Mannix■ Kangaroo Flat trainer Tim Mannix would havebeen delighted when Kiwi bred 4-Y-0 Bettors De-light/Lena Dillon gelding Stormy Tara greeted thejudge in the Christies Welding Services Pace for C0class over 2160 metres at Echuca.

Driven by Leigh Sutton, Stormy Tara from gatefour on the second line spent most of the race mid-field in the moving line, before trailing Sudden Smilehome three wide from the bell.

Taken four wide in the last lap, Stormy Taraproved to be too strong at the finish for a death-seating Magic Ace and Shanira which led in a rateof 2-05.4.

It was Stormy Tara's first victory since crossingthe Tasman late last year.

Eased three wide■ Kyneton trainer Joe Attard's most reliable 6-Y-0 Extrovert/Kellybrooke gelding Imagunna-dogood chalked up his 12th success (3 this season)by taking the Alabar Trotters Handicap for T1 orbetter class over 2575 metres at Cranbourne onWednesday February 20 in a rate of 2-09.4.

Taking a concession for Bolinda's Josh Duggan,Imagunnadogood began safely from the 30 metremark, spending most of the race one/one trailingthe favourite Slancio (20 metres) which raced out-side the last start winner Cookeyslass from the pole.

Easing three wide on the final bend,Imagunnadogood gained the upper hand in the shad-ows of the post to score by a half neck over Slancio,with Im Demimondaine (three back the markers)third.

■ Great Western trainerPeter Manning andreinswoman daughterKerryn have long been thedominant force in thewestern part of the stateand it was no different atthe Stawell program heldon Monday February 18,with the pair chalking upa treble of winners.

First to arrive wasArmbro Invasion/Hoopsgelding Hackashaq in theBarham Insurance Agen-cies 3-Y-0 Trotters Handi-cap over 2175 metres.

Having his second out-ing since August,Hackashaq steppedsafely from barrier two,settling on the back ofShips Shui which ledfrom barrier five.

Relegated to three backthe markers whenMichael Stanley made alightning move from mid-field to assume controlwith the former KiwiRussell Galleon first up inOz, Hackashaq enjoyed acosy passage, especiallyafter the hot favouriteSteal A Sixpence off a 20metre backmark gallopedwildly on the first turn put-ting himself completelyout of business.

Moving outside RussellGalleon in the final cir-cuit, Hackashaq was toostrong at the finish forJaden Gil (four back themarkers - one/one last lap)and Russell Galleon in arate of 2-07.9.

Resumed■ Four year old Real De-sire/Calories gelding In-dulgent which ran somenice races during theBreeders Crown Series,resumed with a win in the1st Heat of the VicbredPlatinum Country SeriesK for C0 class over 1780metres.

Settling at the tail of thefield from gate two on thesecond line, Kerryn com-menced a forward movethree wide uncovered rac-ing for the bell to join theleaders Ima Lucky Guyand Dutton Way.

Joining Ima LuckyGuy approaching thehome turn, Indulgent'squality told over the con-cluding stages as he woredown the leader to scoreby 2.4 metres in a rate of2-00.3.

Bred and raced byDorro Nominees, Indul-gent will now take hisplace in the $10,000 Finalto be held at Tabcorp ParkMelton on March 1.

Fifth win■ Smart three year oldgelding Ben Cartwrightbred and raced byAdelaide's Cormack fam-ily, chalked up his fifth vic-tory in 18 race appear-

ances when successful inthe Kaye Matthews Trib-ute for C1 class over 2175metres restricted to fe-male drivers.

Despite starting fromthe extreme draw, the sonof Metropolitan andAnnettes Fetish was soonoff and running to circlethe field and cross thepacemaker Tara Tom.

Allowed to bowl at hisleisure, Ben Cartwrightscored by a 19.1 metremargin in a rate of 2-00.6from Flaxton Filly (one/one - three wide hometurn) and a death-seatingPanorama Wealth.

Unperturbed■ Heats three and four ofthe Tontine Series for C2to C4 class over 2175metres highlighted theStawell meeting - heatthree going to odds-onfavourite Ballochbuie forAnakie's Tim Bolitho andGavin Lang.

Slowly away from gatesix, Gavin Lang wasn'tperturbed and sentBallochbuie forward inthe straight on the first oc-casion to be handed thelead on a platter by ChrisAlford aboard Sir JaybeHall which had retainedthe front running from thepole.

Not setting any speedrecords, Ballochbuie aKiwi bred 5-Y-0 gelding byChristian Cullen fromLanoch looked momen-tarily in trouble on the fi-nal bend when Eljuliooutside him made a seri-ous challenge, howeverLang was only kidding andBallochbuie found whatwas necessary in the runto the wire to score by 2metres in a rate of 2-03.4,with Sir Jaybe Hall third.

Victorious■ Heat four saw theMount Gambier owned4-Y-0 Washington Vc/Laura Lace mare SteamWashed victorious in arate of 2-00.6.

Trained at Wallan byRuth Shinn and driven byhusband Noel rarely seen

in the cart these days,Steam Washed from gatetwo on the second linesettled a long way off theleader and favouriteWhata Punt (gate four).

Giving chase threewide solo in the last lap,Steam Washed ran homestrongly to blouse WhataPunt by 2.3 metres in theshadows of the post, withG K Galleon (one/one) ahalf head away in thirdplace.

A bonny mare who al-ways gives her best, SteamWashed has recorded 11wins from 24 outings.

Birchip meet■ Former classy juvenileAlmost El Eagle openedhis three year old seasonwith a 6.3 metre victory inthe O'Connors & CaseIH 3-Y-0 Pace over 2100metres at the BirchipHRC meeting held atCharlton on ThursdayFebruary 21.

Trained at Orrvale(Goulburn Valley) bySteven Duffy and drivenby Chris Alford, AlmostEl Eagle possied four backin the moving line fromthe extreme draw, beforemaking a lightning moveracing for the bell to crossthe pacemaker Flower-onthewall.

With the result never indoubt, Almost El Eaglecruised to the wire un-touched in accounting forFloweronthewall whobattled on gamely whenmaking her race debut.Rocky Carrington (threeback the markers at bell)finished third. The milerate 1-59.9.

At Charlton■ The feature event ofthe day at Charlton - the$3000 Doyle's IGA &Sharps Bakery MalleeBull Pacing Cup saw vic-tory go the way of Kiwibred 5-Y-0 Bettors De-light/Kurahaupo Dreamgelding Kurahaupo Quinin a rate of 1-57.6.

It was KurahaupoQuin's sixth victory in 39race appearances.

Sunset Tour’s fifth win■ Very honest 4-Y-0 Last Sunset/Springfield Paulagelding Sunset Tour chalked up his fifth victory in28 outings when successful in the Gregs DiggingTrotters Handicap for TR0 or better class over 2100metres at Charlton.

Driven by Nathan Jack for Elmore trainer JennyJohnson, Sunset Tour stepped cleanly from the 10metre mark to possie three back in the running line,with the roughie Spiros The Greek leading from bar-rier three.

Setting sail after the leaders in the final circuit,Sunset Tour proved a little too strong on reachingthe wire to nail Spiros The Greek by a head in a milerate of 2-07.8. Mister Pepe finished third after fol-lowing Sunset Tour throughout.

Churning out winners■ Strathfieldsaye trainer/driver Glenn Douglas con-tinues to churn out the winners and landed a stabledouble at Geelong on Tuesday February 19 with ex-Kiwi 5-Y-0 Live Or Die/Kuias Lass geldingItsnewstome first up in Australia landing the Com-fort Inn Eastern Sands Pace for C2 class over 2100metres and another former Kiwi 6-Y-0 gelding OurFlash Of Fire the Geelong Pacing Cup 23rd FebPace for C3 & C4 class over the same distance.

Itsnewstome starting from inside the second linewas send forward three wide solo from last at thebell, before outstaying his rivals to record a mostimpressive victory over Bout Time which followedhim home and Johnny Armbros (one/three). Themile rate 2-00.2.

Our Flash Of Fire (Courage Under Fire/Chi-nook) enjoyed an easy time one/one from gate four,easing three wide on the home turn and finished bestto tip out the hot favourite Tyler Bromac (three widefrom the bell) by a nose in 1-59.6, with IllawongSister Styx (one/three - five wide home turn) third.

Took concession■ Rochester's Mark Thompson snared The Com-mercial Hotel Pace for C1 class over 2100 metres atCharlton with consistent 4-Y-0 Real Desire/ZoraParee gelding Drunken Desire.

Taking a concession for Ellen Tormey, DrunkenDesire led virtually throughout from gate two, justlasting by a head to hold off Dinant along the sprintlane after trailing, with The Joadstar third after rac-ing in the open from the bell. The mile rate 1-59.3.

Settled three back■ Kyabram trainer Tom O'Shea's 8-Y-0 KeystoneSalute/Miss Cue gelding Macuenroad first up sinceSeptember 2011, resumed with a victory in the DorrieSchmedje Trotters Handicap for T0 or better classover 2530 metres at Echuca.

Driven by Nathan Jack, Macuenroad settledthree back in the moving line after starting from the30 metre mark, moving to be outside the leader MaoriVacation also from 30 metres in the final lap.

With the pair going head and head on turning,Macuenroad prevailed by a nose in 2-06.9, withRobbie Zuve third after trailing the runner up.

This Week’s Meetings■ Wednesday - Yarra Valley/Shepparton,■ Thursday - Maryborough/Kilmore,■ Friday - Melton,■ Saturday - Geelong,■ Sunday - Charlton (Cup)/Inter Dominion GrandFinal @ Menangle,■ Monday - Cobram,■ Tuesday - Cranbourne.

Horses To Follow■ Dinant, Braeview Bomber, Doomed, SmokinFields, Bout Time, Russell Galleon, Fon Design,Jack Castleton.

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 27, 2013- Page 67www.MelbourneObserver.com.au


It’s TimeToday I am 55 ... where has time gone? In real terms I am past the half way mark, so I ask myself

what have I done with this gift - caled time - I have been given?

What I haven’t used properly is gone forever. What I have used wisely will last forever. So I

have to admit I am mainly of the former ... maybe it’s time to wake up!

How much time I have left, only God knows, but as sure as the nose on my face, it’s time to

wake up to the fact that time stops for no-one ... so think real carefully now, maybe it’s time I

stop for a brief moment for time and ponder, and seriously consider that time is the only thing

in this life that is not negotiable.

I run many businesses and in many cases, sometimes I may lose a 100 or even a 1000 dollars

in a day, but fortunately on the next day i make a 100 or 1000 [ i hope!]

It may even be like last week where I have my shop flooded and I lose thousands of dollars

of stock and cry deeply for my loss. But then I wake up to the fact that it’s NOT worth crying

tears for the mere loss of a few dollars.

But I should be crying oceans of tears for the time I lost which I will never, never be able to

replace ... nor will you for that matter ... come to think of it, nor can anyone, even with an

ocean full of dollar coins, be able to buy one minute of time ... so why, why, why on earth do I

strive for that which will not last?

For the bigger house, for the better car, for the longer holiday, for those extra savings in the

bank, that when I come to the end of my time, will amount to a huge big fat zero of good to me.

Why, why indeed?

Well it’s time for a wake-up call indeed and decide to value this small window of opportu-

nity that God has given me called time. Above all else, whether you are of one religious persua-

sion or other matters little, but most people with any sense, realise that this life is not all there

is, and realise that there must be something else.something else over and above our simple

understanding of this little speck in the whole universe called earth that we tiny little beings

called humans live in, and some of us think stupidly that we know it all.

Well, I for one sure know stuff all, but let me tell you I am happy to know the one that knows

all stuff!

So in the whole scheme of things I will endeavour to use the little fraction of time He grants

me to invest it in endeavours that will have an eternal significance ... so for me anyhow I have

to say that TIME to me is nothing more than TEMPORARILY INTERUPTING MY ETER-

NITY.

I trust for you to as you come to realise that this short window of opportunity, called time,

God has given you as well is all you will ever have to work out your eternal destiny!

So happy birthday William!

A message from William Monos


Jean Valjean was, in fact, regularly installed; hehad his belled knee-cap; henceforth he was of-ficial. His name was Ultime Fauchelevent.The most powerful determining cause of hisadmission had been the prioress’s observationupon Cosette: “She will grow up ugly.”The prioress, that pronounced prognosticator,immediately took a fancy to Cosette and gaveher a place in the school as a charity pupil.There is nothing that is not strictly logical aboutthis.It is in vain that mirrors are banished from theconvent, women are conscious of their faces;now, girls who are conscious of their beauty donot easily become nuns; the vocation being vol-untary in inverse proportion to their good looks,more is to be hoped from the ugly than from thepretty. Hence a lively taste for plain girls.The whole of this adventure increased the im-portance of good, old Fauchelevent; he won atriple success; in the eyes of Jean Valjean, whomhe had saved and sheltered; in those of grave-digger Gribier, who said to himself: “He sparedme that fine”; with the convent, which, beingenabled, thanks to him, to retain the coffin ofMother Crucifixion under the altar, eluded Cae-sar and satisfied God. There was a coffin con-taining a body in the Petit–Picpus, and a coffinwithout a body in the Vaugirard cemetery, pub-lic order had no doubt been deeply disturbedthereby, but no one was aware of it.As for the convent, its gratitude to Faucheleventwas very great. Fauchelevent became the bestof servitors and the most precious of gardeners.Upon the occasion of the archbishop’s next visit,the prioress recounted the affair to his Grace,making something of a confession at the sametime, and yet boasting of her deed. On leavingthe convent, the archbishop mentioned it withapproval, and in a whisper to M. de Latil,Monsieur’s confessor, afterwards Archbishop ofReims and Cardinal. This admiration forFauchelevent became widespread, for it madeits way to Rome. We have seen a note addressedby the then reigning Pope, Leo XII., to one ofhis relatives, a Monsignor in the Nuncio’s estab-lishment in Paris, and bearing, like himself, thename of Della Genga; it contained these lines:“It appears that there is in a convent in Paris anexcellent gardener, who is also a holy man,named Fauvent.” Nothing of this triumphreached Fauchelevent in his hut; he went ongrafting, weeding, and covering up his melonbeds, without in the least suspecting hisexcellences and his sanctity. Neither did he sus-pect his glory, any more than a Durham or Sur-rey bull whose portrait is published in the Lon-don Illustrated News, with this inscription: “Bullwhich carried off the prize at the Cattle Show.”

the beginning of his life, and later on, quite re-cently again, he had beheld another,— a fright-ful place, a terrible place, whose severities hadalways appeared to him the iniquity of justice,and the crime of the law. Now, after the galleys,he saw the cloister; and when he meditated howhe had formed a part of the galleys, and that henow, so to speak, was a spectator of the cloister,he confronted the two in his own mind with anxi-ety.Sometimes he crossed his arms and leaned onhis hoe, and slowly descended the endless spi-rals of revery.He recalled his former companions: howwretched they were; they rose at dawn, andtoiled until night; hardly were they permitted tosleep; they lay on camp beds, where nothingwas tolerated but mattresses two inches thick,in rooms which were heated only in the veryharshest months of the year; they were clothedin frightful red blouses; they were allowed, as agreat favor, linen trousers in the hottest weather,and a woollen carter’s blouse on their backswhen it was very cold; they drank no wine, andate no meat, except when they went on “fatigueduty.” They lived nameless, designated only bynumbers, and converted, after a manner, intociphers themselves, with downcast eyes, withlowered voices, with shorn heads, beneath thecudgel and in disgrace.Then his mind reverted to the beings whom hehad under his eyes.These beings also lived with shorn heads, withdowncast eyes, with lowered voices, not in dis-grace, but amid the scoffs of the world, not withtheir backs bruised with the cudgel, but with theirshoulders lacerated with their discipline. Theirnames, also, had vanished from among men;they no longer existed except under austere ap-pellations. They never ate meat and they neverdrank wine; they often remained until eveningwithout food; they were attired, not in a redblouse, but in a black shroud, of woollen, whichwas heavy in summer and thin in winter, with-out the power to add or subtract anything fromit; without having even, according to the season,the resource of the linen garment or the woollencloak; and for six months in the year they woreserge chemises which gave them fever. Theydwelt, not in rooms warmed only during rigor-ous cold, but in cells where no fire was everlighted; they slept, not on mattresses two inchesthick, but on straw. And finally, they were noteven allowed their sleep; every night, after aday of toil, they were obliged, in the wearinessof their first slumber, at the moment when theywere falling sound asleep and beginning to getwarm, to rouse themselves, to rise and to go andpray in an ice-cold and gloomy chapel, with theirknees on the stones.On certain days each of these beings in turn hadto remain for twelve successive hours in a kneel-ing posture, or prostrate, with face upon the pave-ment, and arms outstretched in the form of across.The others were men; these were women.What had those men done? They had stolen,violated, pillaged, murdered, assassinated.They were bandits, counterfeiters, poisoners,incendiaries, murderers, parricides. What hadthese women done? They had done nothingwhatever.On the one hand, highway robbery, fraud, de-ceit, violence, sensuality, homicide, all sorts ofsacrilege, every variety of crime; on the other,one thing only, innocence.Perfect innocence, almost caught up into heavenin a mysterious assumption, attached to the earthby virtue, already possessing something ofheaven through holiness.On the one hand, confidences over crimes,which are exchanged in whispers; on the other,the confession of faults made aloud. And whatcrimes! And what faults!On the one hand, miasms; on the other, an inef-fable perfume. On the one hand, a moral pest,guarded from sight, penned up under the rangeof cannon, and literally devouring its plague-stricken victims; on the other, the chaste flameof all souls on the same hearth. There, dark-ness; here, the shadow; but a shadow filled withgleams of light, and of gleams full of radiance.Two strongholds of slavery; but in the first, de-liverance possible, a legal limit always in sight,and then, escape. In the second, perpetuity; thesole hope, at the distant extremity of the future,that faint light of liberty which men call death.In the first, men are bound only with chains; inthe other, chained by faith.What flowed from the first? An immense curse,

the gnashing of teeth, hatred, desperate vicious-ness, a cry of rage against human society, asarcasm against heaven.What results flowed from the second? Bless-ings and love.And in these two places, so similar yet so un-like, these two species of beings who were sovery unlike, were undergoing the same work,expiation.Jean Valjean understood thoroughly the expia-tion of the former; that personal expiation, theexpiation for one’s self. But he did not under-stand that of these last, that of creatures withoutreproach and without stain, and he trembled ashe asked himself: The expiation of what? Whatexpiation?A voice within his conscience replied: “Themost divine of human generosities, the expia-tion for others.”Here all personal theory is withheld; we are onlythe narrator; we place ourselves at JeanValjean’s point of view, and we translate hisimpressions.Before his eyes he had the sublime summit ofabnegation, the highest possible pitch of virtue;the innocence which pardons men their faults,and which expiates in their stead; servitude sub-mitted to, torture accepted, punishment claimedby souls which have not sinned, for the sake ofsparing it to souls which have fallen; the love ofhumanity swallowed up in the love of God, buteven there preserving its distinct and mediato-rial character; sweet and feeble beings possess-ing the misery of those who are punished andthe smile of those who are recompensed.And he remembered that he had dared to mur-mur!Often, in the middle of the night, he rose to listento the grateful song of those innocent creaturesweighed down with severities, and the blood rancold in his veins at the thought that those whowere justly chastised raised their voices heav-enward only in blasphemy, and that he, wretchthat he was, had shaken his fist at God.There was one striking thing which caused himto meditate deeply, like a warning whisper fromProvidence itself: the scaling of that wall, thepassing of those barriers, the adventure acceptedeven at the risk of death, the painful and difficultascent, all those efforts even, which he had madeto escape from that other place of expiation, hehad made in order to gain entrance into this one.Was this a symbol of his destiny? This housewas a prison likewise and bore a melancholyresemblance to that other one whence he hadfled, and yet he had never conceived an idea ofanything similar.Again he beheld gratings, bolts, iron bars — toguard whom? Angels.These lofty walls which he had seen aroundtigers, he now beheld once more around lambs.This was a place of expiation, and not of pun-ishment; and yet, it was still more austere, moregloomy, and more pitiless than the other.These virgins were even more heavily burdenedthan the convicts. A cold, harsh wind, that windwhich had chilled his youth, traversed the barredand padlocked grating of the vultures; a stillharsher and more biting breeze blew in the cageof these doves.Why?When he thought on these things, all that waswithin him was lost in amazement before thismystery of sublimity.In these meditations, his pride vanished. He scru-tinized his own heart in all manner of ways; hefelt his pettiness, and many a time he wept. Allthat had entered into his life for the last six monthshad led him back towards the Bishop’s holy in-junctions; Cosette through love, the conventthrough humility.Sometimes at eventide, in the twilight, at an hourwhen the garden was deserted, he could be seenon his knees in the middle of the walk whichskirted the chapel, in front of the window throughwhich he had gazed on the night of his arrival,and turned towards the spot where, as he knew,the sister was making reparation, prostrated inprayer. Thus he prayed as he knelt before thesister.It seemed as though he dared not kneel directlybefore God.Everything that surrounded him, that peacefulgarden, those fragrant flowers, those childrenwho uttered joyous cries, those grave and simplewomen, that silent cloister, slowly permeatedhim, and little by little, his soul became com-pounded of silence like the cloister, of perfumelike the flowers, of simplicity like the women,

- Continued on Page 70


we just mentioned, and of which he knew noth-ing; in the first place it made him happy; next,he had much less work, since it was shared.Lastly, as he was very fond of snuff, he foundthe presence of M. Madeleine an advantage, inthat he used three times as much as he had donepreviously, and that in an infinitely more luxuri-ous manner, seeing that M. Madeleine paid forit.The nuns did not adopt the name of Ultime; theycalled Jean Valjean the other Fauvent.If these holy women had possessed anything ofJavert’s glance, they would eventually have no-ticed that when there was any errand to be doneoutside in the behalf of the garden, it was al-ways the elder Fauchelevent, the old, the in-firm, the lame man, who went, and never theother; but whether it is that eyes constantly fixedon God know not how to spy, or whether theywere, by preference, occupied in keeping watchon each other, they paid no heed to this.Moreover, it was well for Jean Valjean that hekept close and did not stir out. Javert watchedthe quarter for more than a month.This convent was for Jean Valjean like an is-land surrounded by gulfs. Henceforth, those fourwalls constituted his world. He saw enough ofthe sky there to enable him to preserve his se-renity, and Cosette enough to remain happy.A very sweet life began for him.He inhabited the old hut at the end of the garden,in company with Fauchelevent. This hovel, builtof old rubbish, which was still in existence in1845, was composed, as the reader alreadyknows, of three chambers, all of which wereutterly bare and had nothing beyond the walls.The principal one had been given up, by force,for Jean Valjean had opposed it in vain, to M.Madeleine, by Father Fauchelevent. The wallsof this chamber had for ornament, in addition tothe two nails whereon to hang the knee-cap andthe basket, a Royalist bank-note of ‘93, appliedto the wall over the chimney-piece, and of whichthe following is an exact facsimile:—{GRAPHIC HERE}This specimen of Vendean paper money hadbeen nailed to the wall by the preceding gar-dener, an old Chouan, who had died in the con-vent, and whose place Fauchelevent had taken.Jean Valjean worked in the garden every dayand made himself very useful. He had formerlybeen a pruner of trees, and he gladly found him-self a gardener once more. It will be remem-bered that he knew all sorts of secrets and re-ceipts for agriculture. He turned these to advan-tage. Almost all the trees in the orchard wereungrafted, and wild. He budded them and madethem produce excellent fruit.Cosette had permission to pass an hour with himevery day. As the sisters were melancholy andhe was kind, the child made comparisons andadored him. At the appointed hour she flew tothe hut. When she entered the lowly cabin, shefilled it with paradise. Jean Valjean blossomedout and felt his happiness increase with the hap-piness which he afforded Cosette. The joy whichwe inspire has this charming property, that, farfrom growing meagre, like all reflections, it re-turns to us more radiant than ever. At recreationhours, Jean Valjean watched her running andplaying in the distance, and he distinguished herlaugh from that of the rest.For Cosette laughed now.Cosette’s face had even undergone a change, toa certain extent. The gloom had disappearedfrom it. A smile is the same as sunshine; it ban-ishes winter from the human countenance.Recreation over, when Cosette went into thehouse again, Jean Valjean gazed at the win-dows of her class-room, and at night he rose tolook at the windows of her dormitory.God has his own ways, moreover; the conventcontributed, like Cosette, to uphold and com-plete the Bishop’s work in Jean Valjean. It iscertain that virtue adjoins pride on one side. Abridge built by the devil exists there. Jean Valjeanhad been, unconsciously, perhaps, tolerably nearthat side and that bridge, when Providence casthis lot in the convent of the Petit–Picpus; so longas he had compared himself only to the Bishop,he had regarded himself as unworthy and hadremained humble; but for some time past hehad been comparing himself to men in general,and pride was beginning to spring up. Whoknows? He might have ended by returning verygradually to hatred.The convent stopped him on that downwardpath.This was the second place of captivity which hehad seen. In his youth, in what had been for him

From Page 20

CHAPTER IX

CLOISTERED

Cosette continued to hold her tongue in the con-vent.It was quite natural that Cosette should thinkherself Jean Valjean’s daughter. Moreover, asshe knew nothing, she could say nothing, andthen, she would not have said anything in anycase. As we have just observed, nothing trainschildren to silence like unhappiness. Cosette hadsuffered so much, that she feared everything,even to speak or to breathe. A single word hadso often brought down an avalanche upon her.She had hardly begun to regain her confidencesince she had been with Jean Valjean. Shespeedily became accustomed to the convent.Only she regretted Catherine, but she dared notsay so. Once, however, she did say to JeanValjean: “Father, if I had known, I would havebrought her away with me.”Cosette had been obliged, on becoming a scholarin the convent, to don the garb of the pupils ofthe house. Jean Valjean succeeded in gettingthem to restore to him the garments which shelaid aside. This was the same mourning suitwhich he had made her put on when she hadquitted the Thenardiers’ inn. It was not verythreadbare even now. Jean Valjean locked upthese garments, plus the stockings and the shoes,with a quantity of camphor and all the aromat-ics in which convents abound, in a little valisewhich he found means of procuring. He set thisvalise on a chair near his bed, and he alwayscarried the key about his person. “Father,”Cosette asked him one day, “what is there inthat box which smells so good?”Father Fauchelevent received other recompensefor his good action, in addition to the glory which


www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

From Page 69

ObserverMelbourne

Looking for aProfessional

to run the show?

Ted RyanPhone 9876 1652

Mobile: 0412 682 927E-Mail: [email protected]

★ Compere/Host★ Auctioneer★ Promotions

★ A-Grade Journalist★ Voice-OverCommercials

★ Race Caller -All Sports, Race Nights

★ TV, Radio, Press★ Respected Member

of the Media

[email protected]

Page 70 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Observer Crossword Solution No 4

fights, has rags like a baby and tatters like aphilosopher, fishes in the sewer, hunts in thecesspool, extracts mirth from foulness, whipsup the squares with his wit, grins and bites,whistles and sings, shouts, and shrieks, tempersAlleluia with Matantur-lurette, chants everyrhythm from the De Profundis to the Jack-pud-ding, finds without seeking, knows what he isignorant of, is a Spartan to the point of thieving,is mad to wisdom, is lyrical to filth, would crouchdown on Olympus, wallows in the dunghill andemerges from it covered with stars. The gaminof Paris is Rabelais in this youth.He is not content with his trousers unless theyhave a watch-pocket.He is not easily astonished, he is still less easilyterrified, he makes songs on superstitions, hetakes the wind out of exaggerations, he twitsmysteries, he thrusts out his tongue at ghosts, hetakes the poetry out of stilted things, he intro-duces caricature into epic extravaganzas. It isnot that he is prosaic; far from that; but he re-places the solemn vision by the farcical phan-tasmagoria. If Adamastor were to appear to him,the street Arab would say: “Hi there! The buga-boo!”

The gamin — the street Arab — of Paris is thedwarf of the giant.Let us not exaggerate, this cherub of the guttersometimes has a shirt, but, in that case, he ownsbut one; he sometimes has shoes, but then theyhave no soles; he sometimes has a lodging, andhe loves it, for he finds his mother there; but heprefers the street, because there he finds liberty.He has his own games, his own bits of mischief,whose foundation consists of hatred for the bour-geois; his peculiar metaphors: to be dead is toeat dandelions by the root; his own occupations,calling hackney-coaches, letting down carriage-steps, establishing means of transit between thetwo sides of a street in heavy rains, which hecalls making the bridge of arts, crying discoursespronounced by the authorities in favor of theFrench people, cleaning out the cracks in thepavement; he has his own coinage, which iscomposed of all the little morsels of workedcopper which are found on the public streets.This curious money, which receives the nameof loques — rags — has an invariable and well-regulated currency in this little Bohemia of chil-dren.Lastly, he has his own fauna, which he observesattentively in the corners; the lady-bird, thedeath’s-head plant-louse, the daddy-long-legs,“the devil,” a black insect, which menaces bytwisting about its tail armed with two horns. Hehas his fabulous monster, which has scales un-der its belly, but is not a lizard, which has pus-tules on its back, but is not a toad, which inhabitsthe nooks of old lime-kilns and wells that haverun dry, which is black, hairy, sticky, whichcrawls sometimes slowly, sometimes rapidly,which has no cry, but which has a look, and is soterrible that no one has ever beheld it; he callsthis monster “the deaf thing.” The search forthese “deaf things” among the stones is a joy offormidable nature. Another pleasure consists insuddenly prying up a paving-stone, and taking alook at the wood-lice. Each region of Paris iscelebrated for the interesting treasures whichare to be found there. There are ear-wigs in thetimber-yards of the Ursulines, there are

millepeds in the Pantheon, there are tadpoles inthe ditches of the Champs-deMars.As far as sayings are concerned, this child hasas many of them as Talleyrand. He is no lesscynical, but he is more honest. He is endowedwith a certain indescribable, unexpected jovial-ity; he upsets the composure of the shopkeeperwith his wild laughter. He ranges boldly fromhigh comedy to farce.A funeral passes by. Among those who accom-pany the dead there is a doctor. “Hey there!”shouts some street Arab, “how long has it beencustomary for doctors to carry home their ownwork?”Another is in a crowd. A grave man, adornedwith spectacles and trinkets, turns round indig-nantly: “You good-for-nothing, you have seizedmy wife’s waist!”—“I, sir? Search me!”

of joy like the children. And then he reflectedthat these had been two houses of God whichhad received him in succession at two criticalmoments in his life: the first, when all doorswere closed and when human society rejectedhim; the second, at a moment when human so-ciety had again set out in pursuit of him, andwhen the galleys were again yawning; and that,had it not been for the first, he should have re-lapsed into crime, and had it not been for thesecond, into torment.His whole heart melted in gratitude, and heloved more and more.Many years passed in this manner; Cosette wasgrowing up.

●●●●● To Be Continued Next Week

T O P P L I N G P E R T U R B S H E R E D I T Y M O O N B E A MO A E C E O O N R A K E D L N T U B U J IP A S S E S O N P R O V I S O S R I P E N E S S S E E D L E S SU T K S E M I S C W H A R F M R P R E Y G C EP R A I S E V P U T D O W N L I C E D T E A U N E C T A R

A N M O A T S E R I S A A C N I M A M B O H BK N O C K O N U P R I N C E M E N T R A P N R I V A L R Y

I I T U M B L E N E S P O U S E E H O A X E S R IO N A S S I S U N I C E R L N P O L K A R W I Z A R D S

T E O L A U T R A N S I T I N C E D GB O S S A N O V A L A R V A C U U N C U T H E A R T E N E DA P N B R A T S I T A L I A N P O S Y R E I EV A L I D I T Y P Y T H O N T T E N I G M A J M B A R R I EA I S U O E U F E T E D A R L C M V PR A N S O M S S U R E T I E S D I S T R A C T H O S T A G EI T O E X I T O S R L S U D I O T A U N SA R S E N A L L E I G H M A I M S R H I N E I M P L A N T

I N K Y L I E D I C E S O U I N S C A R Y E IA G A S S I A S U S A N N O B E L S I G H T L R E A R E D

I U M O B Y P M E L T O V A T S O O M I T R CA D V E R B O U P T O A S U N D E R R O C K O L A N C E DD O H O C U S E U B L I T A H K N E E L L IM A C H O R P R I N T O U T E P I D E M I C D P L A I DI A N A P P Y M T U R G S L M O P R A H N NT A L K E R A G O B I R E A D O U T I R I S A M A G G O T

N N N A I L S N E S T O N E X T N A S I A A NI N D I G O N S T A G S H I C K S M E T H S T Z A M B I A

I T L A S E R D C H I K W E A E P I E C E M OB E D S I D E I N D I A O M E G A S C A L A E D D Y I N GO A N R E E L R L P T Y T M N A Z I E T HM O R O C C O A V E M A R I A F E R R Y M A N L E A K A G EB K L B N S T A C R I D E A I I D L TA P E R I T I F K I S S E D C L B E A T E N U N S P O I L TR N N C P A N E R E E N T E R E R G O G A C OD I S P E N S E R M E L B A S H A B A S E A R S O N I S T S

M O O E A A P A S T I E S V C T K N UI M P A I R S P T W I C E E L H E A R T M M A H A T M A

E C M A D A M E T R E S T Y L E I L E E W A Y P OE N T H R A L I S H Y E S T U O R A L L Y A L I F T S U P

S E N E E D S A L H I L L Y V O O L D E N L RM E T R E S X M U N D A N E I A W A R D E D R G A Y E S TU A I M O N O D P R E P E L R G D R A B W T OM A L I G N E D G L O S S I E R W I R I N E S S M A R A T H O NP O E N U B F E A I R E S C R F A B S E NS U N D R E S S B E F U D D L E S T R E S S E D S E A H O R S E

VOLUME III

MARIUS.

BOOK FIRST.— PARIS STUDIED IN ITS

ATOM

CHAPTER I - PARVULUS

Paris has a child, and the forest has a bird; thebird is called the sparrow; the child is called thegamin.Couple these two ideas which contain, the oneall the furnace, the other all the dawn; strikethese two sparks together, Paris, childhood; thereleaps out from them a little being. Homuncio,Plautus would say.This little being is joyous. He has not food everyday, and he goes to the play every evening, if hesees good. He has no shirt on his body, no shoeson his feet, no roof over his head; he is like theflies of heaven, who have none of these things.He is from seven to thirteen years of age, helives in bands, roams the streets, lodges in theopen air, wears an old pair of trousers of hisfather’s, which descend below his heels, an oldhat of some other father, which descends belowhis ears, a single suspender of yellow listing; heruns, lies in wait, rummages about, wastes time,blackens pipes, swears like a convict, hauntsthe wine-shop, knows thieves, calls gay womenthou, talks slang, sings obscene songs, and hasno evil in his heart. This is because he has in hisheart a pearl, innocence; and pearls are not tobe dissolved in mud. So long as man is in hischildhood, God wills that he shall be innocent.If one were to ask that enormous city: “What isthis?” she would reply: “It is my little one.”

CHAPTER II

SOME OF HIS PARTICULAR

CHARACTERISTICS

CHAPTER III

HE IS AGREEABLE

In the evening, thanks to a few sous, which healways finds means to procure, the homuncioenters a theatre. On crossing that magic thresh-old, he becomes transfigured; he was the streetArab, he becomes the titi.18 Theatres are a sortof ship turned upside down with the keel in theair. It is in that keel that the titi huddle together.The titi is to the gamin what the moth is to thelarva; the same being endowed with wings andsoaring. It suffices for him to be there, with hisradiance of happiness, with his power of enthu-siasm and joy, with his hand-clapping, whichresembles a clapping of wings, to confer on thatnarrow, dark, fetid, sordid, unhealthy, hideous,abominable keel, the name of Paradise.18 Chicken: slang allusion to the noise made incalling poultry.Bestow on an individual the useless and deprivehim of the necessary, and you have the gamin.The gamin is not devoid of literary intuition. Histendency, and we say it with the proper amountof regret, would not constitute classic taste. Heis not very academic by nature. Thus, to give anexample, the popularity of Mademoiselle Marsamong that little audience of stormy childrenwas seasoned with a touch of irony. The gamincalled her Mademoiselle Muche —“hide your-self.”This being bawls and scoffs and ridicules and

CHAPTER IV

HE MAY BE OF USE

Paris begins with the lounger and ends with thestreet Arab, two beings of which no other city iscapable; the passive acceptance, which con-tents itself with gazing, and the inexhaustibleinitiative; Prudhomme and Fouillou. Paris alonehas this in its natural history. The whole of themonarchy is contained in the lounger; the wholeof anarchy in the gamin.This pale child of the Parisian faubourgs livesand develops, makes connections, “growssupple” in suffering, in the presence of socialrealities and of human things, a thoughtful wit-ness. He thinks himself heedless; and he is not.He looks and is on the verge of laughter; he is onthe verge of something else also. Whoever youmay be, if your name is Prejudice, Abuse, Igno-rance, Oppression, Iniquity, Despotism, Injus-tice, Fanaticism, Tyranny, beware of the gapinggamin.The little fellow will grow up.



Business letterThe Little Woman

The little woman, to her I bowAnd doff my hat as I pass her by;In reverence the furrows that markher browAnd the sparkling love-light in hereye.The little woman who stays athomeAnd makes no bid for the world'sapplause;Who never sighs for a chance toroam,But toils all day in a grander cause.The little woman, who seems soweak,Yet bears her burdens day by dayAnd no one has ever heard herspeakIn a bitter or loud complaining way.She sings a snatch of a merrysong,As she toils in her home from morntill night.Her work is hard and the hourslongBut the little woman's heart is light.A slave to love is that womansmall,And her burdens heavier yearlygrow,But somehow she seems to bearthem allAs the deep'ning lines in her whitecheeks show.Her children all have a mother'scare,Her home the touch of a good wifeknows;No burden's too heavy for her tobear,But, patiently doing her best, shegoes.The little woman, may God be kindTo her wherever she dwells today;The little woman, who seems tofindHer joy in toiling along life's way.May God bring peace to her work-worn breastAnd joy to her mother-heart at last;May love be hers when it's time torestAnd the roughest part of the roadis passed.The little woman-how oft it seemsGod chooses her for the mother'spart,And many a grown-up sits anddreamsTo-day of her with an aching heart.For he knows well how she toiledfor himAnd he sees it now that it is toolate;And often his eyes with tears growdimFor the little woman whosestrength was great.

E.A.G.

Be sure to wipe

your boots

Young Willie was a grubby boyAnd he was very fond of play,Though home he crept, just like amouse,He'd always hear his Mother say,"Be sure to wipe your boots."Poor Willie had an accident,Was cut in pieces by a train,The ambulance men brought himhome,They also heard the same refrain,"Be sure to wipe your boots."The shock killed Mother and sheflewTo regions of celestial air,When Willie came, he heard hervoice,"Before you climb the golden stair,Be sure to wipe your boots."

F. OSWALD BARNETT

Dear Sir,In reply to your letter requesting meto send a cheque, I wish to inform youthat the present condition of my bankaccount makes it ordinarily impos-sible. My shattered financial conditionis due to Union Laws, ProvincialLaws, Sister-in-Laws. Brother-in-Laws, and Outlaws.

Through these Laws I am com-pelled to pay a busi ness tax, supertax, railway tax, petrol tax, gas tax,excise tax, sales tax, tariff tax andamusement tax, of which I have none.

Even my brain is taxed. I am required to get a business licence, carlicence, truck licence, not to mentionmarriage licence and a dog licence.

I am required to contribute to ev-ery society and organisation which thegenius of man is capable of bringingto light the women's relief, the unem-ployment relief and the gold diggers'relief.

Also to every hospital and chari-table institution in the country includ-ing the Red Cross and the doublecross.

For my own safety I am requiredto carry a life insurance, property in-surance, liability insurance, burglaryinsurance, accident insurance, earth-quake insurance, war risk insurance,unemployment insurance, old age in-surance and fire insurance.

My business is so governed that Ido not know today, nor can I find out,who owns it.

I am inspected, expected, sus-pected, rejected, disrespected, exam-ined, and re-examined, informed, re-quired, summoned, fined, com-manded and compelled until I providean inexhaustible supply of money forevery known need, desire or hope ofthe human race.

Simply because I re fused to do-nate something or other, I am boy-cotted, talked about, held up, helddown, and robbed until I am ruined.

I can tell you honestly, that exceptfor the miracle that happened, I couldnot enclose the cheque.

The Wolf that comes to manydoors nowadays, had pups in mykitchen. I sold them, and here is themoney ..

... and anotherDear Sir,For the following reasons I am unableto send you the cheque you ask for

I have been held up, held down,sand bagged, walked upon, sat upon,flattened out and squeezed by the In-come Tax, the Super Tax, the MotorTax, and by every Society,Organisation, and Club that the inven-tive mind of man can think of to ex-tract what I may or may not have inmy possession.

I have been sucked dry for the RedCross, the Black Cross, the Blue Cross,the Double Cross, and every hospital,male, female and infantile, in the coun-try.

The Government has governed mybusiness until I don't know who ownsit.

I am inspected, suspected, exam-ined and re-examined, informed, re-formed, required, requested, com-

manded and demanded, so that I nolonger know what I am, where I am,who I am, or why I am here at all.

All that I know is that I am ex-pected, suspected, surmised, allegedand accused of being an inexhaust-ible supply of money for every need,desire, want, lack, requirement orhope of the human race, and becauseI will not go out and beg, borrow, filch,purloin, misappropriate, rob, thieve orsteal money to give away, I am cussed,discussed, scandalised, boycotted,talked to, talked at, talked about, liedto, lied about, held up, hung up, rungup, written to, wired to, robbed anddamned near ruined.

The only reason why I am obligedto live at all is to see what the hell isgoing to happen next, in case I havebeen missed somewhere.

Hoping cordially that you are thesame, Yours faithfully.

Why

worry?

Either you are successful or you are not successful.

If you are successful there is nothing to worry about.

If you're not successful there are only two things to worry about ;

Your health is either good or you are sick. If your health is good there is nothing to worry

about; if you are sick there are only two things to worry about, you are going to get well or you

are going to shuffle off this mortal coil.

If you get well there is nothing to worry about, and if you are going to shuffle off this mortal

coil, there are only two things to worry about; you are either going to heaven or you are bound

for the other place. If you are going to heaven there is nothing to worry about; if, on the

other hand, you are going to the other place, you will be so busy on your arrival shaking

hands with old friends that you won't have any time to worry so why worry?

Taking a bath Nephew John

Broad is the gate and wide is thepath,That leads man to his shining bath,But ere you spend the shining hour,'Midst spray, and soap and sluiceandshower,Be careful, where'er you be,To shut the door and turn the key.

I had a friend-my friend no more,Who failed to bolt the bathroomdoor,A maiden aunt came in one day,As in the bath submerged he lay.She didn't notice Nephew JohnAnd turned the boiling water on.

He had no time, nor even scopeTo camouflage himself with soap

But gave a yell, and flung asideThe sponge with which he soughtto hide.It fell to earth I know not where,He beat his breast in wild despairAnd then like Venus from the foam,Sprang into. view and made forhome.

His aunt fell swooning to the groundAlas ! they never brought her round,She died, intestate in her prime,The victim of another's crime.

And so poor John cannot forgetHow by a breach of etiquetteHe lost in one foul swoop andplungeHis aunt, his honour and his sponge.

DANNY WEBB (3DB)

Three monkeys sat on a cocoanut treeDiscussing things as they're said to be;Said one to the others-"Now listen, youtwoThere's a certain rumour that can't betrue ;That man descended from our noble race,Why! The very idea! It's a dire disgrace.No monkey ever deserted his wifeStarved her baby-or ruined her life,And you've never known a mother monkTo leave her young with others tobunkTill they scarcely knew their mother.And another thing you'll never seeA monk build a fence round a cocoanuttree,And let the cocoanuts go to waste,Forbidding all other monks a taste.Why,,if I built a fence around this treeStarvation would force you to stealfrom me.Here's a thing another monk won't doGo out at night and get on a stew,Or use a gun, or a club, or a knifeTo take some other monkey's life.Yes, man descended, the ornery cuss,But brother-he didn't descend from us.

The Monkey’s Viewpoint



It Has More Punch

I'd rather see a sermon than hearone any day,I'd rather one should walk with methan merely tell the way.The eye's a better pupil and morewilling than the ear,Fine counsel is confusing, butexample's always clear,And the best of all the preachersare the men who live their creeds,For to see good put in action is whateverybody needs.I can soon learn how to do it if you'lllet me see it done,I can watch your hands in action,but your tongue too fast may run,And the lectures you deliver maybe very wise and true,But I'd rather get my lessons byobserving what you do,For I may misunderstand you andthe high advice you give,But there's no misunderstandinghow you act and how you live.When I see a deed of kindness Iam eager to be kind,When a weaker brother stumbles,and a strong man stays behindJust to see if I can help him, thenthe wish grows strong in meTo become as big and thoughtfulas I know that friend to be,And all travellers can witness thatthe best of guides to-dayIs not the one who tells them, butthe one who shows the way.One good man teaches many, menbelieve what they behold,One deed of kindness noticed isworth forty that are told.Who stands with men of honourlearns to hold his honour dearFor right living speaks a languagewhich to everyone is clear.Though an able speaker charmsme with his eloquence, I say,I'd rather see a sermon than hearone any day.

I’m Glad I Am

Australian

Although I hate no other man,I'm glad I am Australian.It's more than love of open air,The sun that shines through all theyear,Or cloudless skies and lazy seas,Or scent of eucalyptus trees.I love them all, but more I findI love the right to speak my mind,About the Church and Parliament,Wherever I may have a bent,Among my friends or in a crowd,I still may think my thoughts aloud,Without a fear I'll go to quod,Or have to face a firing squad.Of all the freedoms that I seekI prize the most the right to speakAlthough I hate no other man,I'm glad I am Australian.

- F Oswald Barnett

If I Knew

If I knew that a word of mine,A word not kind or true,Might leave its trace on a lovedone's face,I wouldn't speak harshly, wouldyou?If I knew that the light of a smile,Might linger the whole daythrough,And lighten some heart with aheavier part,I wouldn't withhold it, would you?

The Vagabond Poet

Introduction to "Vagabond'sHouse" DON BLANDING-THEVAGABOND

POETHe is an American, living in Ha-waii, although by temperamentand inclination he is a vagabondand wanderer in many climes.

He is the author of at least tenbooks of prose and poetry, all ofwhich are profusely illustratedwith black and white sketches andornaments, which come from theable pen of this astounding char-acter.

A certain man once offeredDon Blanding a million dollars forthe "secrets of laughter"-Blanding couldn't collect becausehe had the laughter, but didn'tknow the formula.

With him the greatest secretof laughter has always been hisability to evoke high adventurefrom every hour of living.

Best known of all his works is"Vagabond's House."

The house is his ideal expres-sion of that imaginary retreatwhich each man builds and fur-nishes according to his heart'sdesire.

His wanderings and wishingsbrought him sufficient success torealise his dream and he built his"Dream House."

As you will hear, he filled it withall the beautiful things his hearthad longed for.

He lived in it and his door wasalways open to the guest or wayfarer.

The tragedy came some yearslater when, during one of his no-madic absences, the dream housewas destroyed by fire.

When I have a house .. as I sometimemay . .I'll suit my fancy in every way.I'll fit it with things that have caughtmy eyeIn drifting from Iceland to Molokai.It won't be correct or in period style,But . . oh, I've thought for a long, longwhileOf all the corners and all the nooks,Of all the bookshelves and all thebooks,The great big table, the deep softchairs,And the Chinese rug at the foot of thestairs(It's an old, old rug from far ChowWan that a Chinese princess oncewalked on).My house will stand on the side of ahillBy a slow, broad river, deep and still,With a tall lone pine on guard nearbyWhere the birds can sing and thestorm winds cry.A flagstone walk, with lazy curves,Will lead to the door where a Pan'shead servesAs a knocker there, like a vibrantdrum,To let me know that a friend hascome,And the door will squeak as I swing itwideTo welcome you to the cheer inside.For I'll have good friends who can sitand chatOr simply sit, when it comes to that,By the fireplace where the fir logsblazeAnd the smoke rolls up in a weavinghaze.I'll want a wood-box, scarred andrough,For leaves and bark and odorous stuffLike resinous knots and cones andgumsTo toss on the flames when wintercomes.And I hope a cricket will stay around,For I love its creaky lonesome sound.There'll be driftwood powder to burnon logsAnd a shaggy rug for a couple ofdogs,Boreas, winner of prize and cup,And Mickey, a lovable gutter-pup.Thoroughbreds, both of them, rightfrom the start,One by breeding, the other by heart.There are times when only a dog willdoFor a friend . . . when you're beaten,sick and blueAnd the world's all wrong, for he won'tcareIf you break and cry, or grouch andswear,For he'll let you know as he licks yourhandsThat he's downright sorry .. and understands.I'll have on a bench a box inlaidWith dragon-plaques of milk-whitejadeTo hold my own particular brandOf cigarettes brought from thePharaoh's land,With a cloisonne bowl on a lizard'sskinTo flick my cigarette ashes in.And a squat blue jar for a certain blendOf pipe tobacco, I'll have to sendTo a quaint old chap I chanced to meetIn his fusty shop on a London street.A long low shelf of teak will holdMy best-loved books in leather andgold,While magazines lie on a bowleggedstand,In a polyglot mixture close at hand.I'll have on a table a rich brocade

A great big smashing fine marineThat'll make you feel the spray in yourface.I'll hang it over my fireplace.The second picture ... a freakish thing... Is gaudy and bright as a macaw'swing,An impressionistic smear called"Sin,"A nude on a striped zebra skinBy a Danish girl I knew in France.My respectable friends will lookaskanceAt the purple eyes and the scarlet hair,At the pallid face and the evil stareOf the sinister, beautiful vampireface.I shouldn't have it about the place,But I like ... while I loathe ... thebeastly thing,And that's the way that one feels aboutsin.The picture I love the best of allWill hang alone on my study wallWhere the sunset's glow and themoon's cold gleamWill fall on the face, and make it seemThat the eyes in the picture are meetinmine,That the lips are curved in the finesweet lineOf that wistful, tender, provocativesmileThat has stirred my heart for a won-drous while.It's a sketch of the girl who loved toowellTo tie me down to that bit of HellThat a drifter knows when he findshe's heldBy the soft, strong chains that pas-sions weld.It was best for her and for me, I know,That she measured my love and bademe goFor we both have our great illusionyetUnsoiled, unspoiled by vain regret.I won't deny that it makes me sadTo know that I've missed what I mighthave had.It's a clean sweet memory, quite apart,And I've been faithful ... in my heart.All these things I will have about,Not a one could I do without;Cedar and sandalwood chips to burnIn the tarnished bowl of a copper urn;A paper-weight of meteoriteThat seared and scorched the sky onenight,A Moro kris . . . my paper-knife . . .Once slit the throat of a Rajah's wife.The beams of my house will be fra-grant woodThat once in a teeming jungle stoodAs a proud tall tree where the leop-ards couchedAnd the parrots screamed and theblack men crouched.The roof must have a rakish dipTo shadowy eaves where the rain candripIn a damp, persistent tuneful way;It's a cheerful sound on a gloomy day.And I want a shingle loose some-whereTo wail like a banshee in despairWhen the wind is high and the stormgods raceAnd I am snug by my fireplace.I hope a couple of birds will nestAround the house. I'll do my bestTo make them happy, so every yearThey'll raise their brood of fledglingshere.When I have my house I will suitmyselfAnd have what I'll call my "Condi-ment Shelf,"Filled with all manner of herbs andspice,Curry and chutney for meats and rice,

Some lines

scrawled on the

door of the

Vagabond’s house

West of the sunset stands myhouse,There . . and east of the dawn;North to the Arctic runs my yard;South to the Pole, my lawn;Seven seas are to sail my shipsTo the ends of the earth . . . be-yond;Drifter's gold is for me to spend -For I am a vagabond.Fabulous cities are mine to loot;Queens of the earth to wed;Fruits of the world are mine to eat;The couch of a king, my bed;All that I see is mine to keep;Foolish, the fancy seems,But I am rich with the wealth ofSight,The coin of the realm of dreams....

That I think the pixies must, havemade,For the dull gold thread on blues andgraysWeaves a pattern of Puck ... the MagicMaze.On the mantelpiece I'll have a placeFor a little mud god with a paintedfaceThat was given to me ... oh, long ago,By a Philippine maid in Olangapo.Then, just in range of a lazy reach .. .A bulging bowl of Indian beechWill brim with things that are good tomunch,Hickory nuts to crack and crunch;Big fat raisins and sun-dried dates,And curious fruits from the MalayStraits;Maple sugar and cookies brownWith good hard cider to wash themdown;Wine-sap apples, pick of the crop,And ears of corn to shell and popWith plenty of butter and lots of salt ...If you don't get filled it's not my fault.And there where the shadows fall I'veplannedTo have a magnificent concert-grandWith polished wood and ivory keys,For wild discordant rhapsodies,For wailing minor Hindu songs,For Chinese chants with clanginggongs,For flippant jazz, and for lullabies,And moody things that I'll improviseTo play the long gray dusk awayAnd bid good-bye to another day.Pictures ... I think I'll have but three:One, in oil, of a wind-swept seaWith the flying scud and the waveswhipped white .. .(I know the chap who can paint it right)In lapis blue and a deep jade green ...

Pots and bottles of extracts rare ...Onions and garlic will both be thereAnd soya and saffron and savoury-gooAnd stuff that I'll buy from an oldHindu;Ginger with syrup in quaint stone jarsWhen I have my house I will suitmyselfAnd have what I'll call my "Condi-mentShelf,"Filled with all manner of herbs andspice,Curry and chutney for meats and rice,Pots and bottles of extracts rare ...Onions and garlic will both be there...And soya and saffron and savoury-gooAnd stuff that I'll buy from an oldHindu;Ginger with syrup in quaint stone jarsAlmonds and figs in tinselled bars;Astrakhan caviare, highly prized,And citron and orange peel crystal-lized;Anchovy paste and poha jam;Basil and chili and marjoram;Pickles and cheeses from every land,And flavours that come fromSamarkand;And, hung with a string from a handyhook,Will be a dog-eared, well-thumbedbookThat is pasted full of recipesFrom France and Spain and theCaribbees;Roots and leaves and herbs to useFor curious soups and odd ragouts.I'll have a cook that I'll name "Oh Joy,"A sleek, fat, yellow-faced China boyWho can roast a pig or mix a drink,(You can't improve on a slant-eyedChink).On the gray-stone hearth there'll be amatFor a scrappy, swaggering yellow catWith a war-scarred face from a hun-dred fightsWith neighbours' cats on moonlightnights.A wise old Tom who can hold his ownAnd make my dogs let him alone.

The

Vagabond Poet

continues next

week in The

Philosopher’s

Scrapbbook

Melbourne Observer. 130227B. February 27, 2013. Part B. Pages 17-28, 61-72

Documents

Transcript of Melbourne Observer. 130227B. February 27, 2013. Part B. Pages 17-28, 61-72