Meanwhile, back at the ranch

[austintorn@aol.com]

From my friend, Omar Khayyam:

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly---and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keeps falling one by one.

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse---and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness---
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes---or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
Lighting a little Hour or two---is gone.

Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and best
That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to Rest.

What, without asking, hither hurried whence?
And, without asking, whither hurried hence!
Another and another Cup to drown
The Memory of this Impertinence!

How long, how long, in infinite Pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute?
Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas---the Grape!

The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice
Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.

[Graybeard]

Brumby is the Aboriginal word for a wild horse, 'run' is the Australian word for 'ranch'. At a trial in N.S.W. Supreme Court Judge, hearing of Brumby horses, asked: "Who is Brumby, and where is his Run?"

Brumby's Run

It lies beyond the Western Pines
Towards the sinking sun,
And not a survey mark defines
The bounds of "Brumby's Run".

On odds and ends of mountain land,
On tracks of range and rock
Where no one else can make a stand,
Old Brumby rears his stock.

A wild, unhandled lot they are
Of every shape and breed.
They venture out 'neath moon and star
Along the flats to feed;

But when the dawn makes pink the sky
And steals along the plain,
The Brumby horses turn and fly
Towards the hills again.

The traveller by the mountain-track
May hear their hoof-beats pass,
And catch a glimpse of brown and black
Dim shadows on the grass.

The eager stockhorse pricks his ears
And lifts his head on high
In wild excitement when he hears
The Brumby mob go by.

Old Brumby asks no price or fee
O'er all his wide domains:
The man who yards his stock is free
To keep them for his pains.

So, off to scour the mountain-side
With eager eyes aglow,
To strongholds where the wild mobs hide
The gully-rakers go.

A rush of horses through the trees,
A red shirt making play;
A sound of stockwhips on the breeze,
They vanish far away!

Ah, me! before our day is done
We long with bitter pain
To ride once more on Brumby's Run
And yard his mob again.

A. B. Paterson, The Bulletin, 21 December 1895.

[labelwench]

For Greybeard,

A couple of brumbies at this link, out on the "run".

"Wild and wooly and full of fleas,
and never been curried below the knees"

Labelwench is fair to middling with a horse brush and comb. Believe she could gentle and come to terms with this pair.

http://www.australianstockhorsesusa.com/pages/home.php

[labelwench]

The Man from Snowy River
Banjo Paterson

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses -- he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up --
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least --
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die --
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop -- lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend --
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred."

"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."

So he went -- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump --
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them -- he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat --
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Clancy of the Overflow] [Been There Before]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------





The Man from Snowy River
by
Banjo

[labelwench]

Her stallion, Kinnick was lonely, by neccessity living a bachelor's life.

She contemplated her options, grooming the horse, reluctant to stand while the two Morgan mares were sporting across their shared fence, some 100 yards away. Bounding and wheeling, prancing and squealing like giggly girls, the two were enjoying each other's antics immensely.

Kinnick, now pacing, she left off brushing, to observe. Next to black in colour with a few highlights, a thin white strip adorned his face, the soulful brown eyes of which remained fixed on his kind, whence his pacing changed direction. Excellent bone and feet, beautifully proportioned, smooth and tireless to ride. Always in top form, self-exercising.

He was the finest horse of the number she had raised from birth and the bloodlines could not be duplicated, most having since passed. Top Morgan breeding from Rhode Island and equally notable Thoroughbred/QH from Ontario, by coincidence come to her doorstep in the Yukon.

She had selected Madelaine to be his mate, fetching her from Alberta the previous April. Nearer to solstice would be appropriate timing for equine romance and she would allow them to remain together, if they chose, until near the time of foaling, in horses roughly 11 1/2 months.

[labelwench]

The day was bright and sunny, from inside looking out. Through the 12 inch walls of the log home, the rampaging snow eater winds could be heard and their forceful impact vibrated along the fibers of the once living wood eerily.

Not a day fit for working with horses, they being made spooky by the movement of shadows and sounds unable to discern, source or locate to ascribe.

Out the back door, a greenhouse attached to the thermal mass of the home. Shovelling open the door, inside it was warm, while snow outside was still deep. Potting soil had been set by, many pots, all sizes, and hand tools also.

From the fridge, she got her stored seeds, double wrapped, and a sharpie marker.

Many little pots filled she, gently watered, and with a pair of tweezers seeded the exact number of each she desired, with redundancy appropriate for the germination percentage of each type. Herbs, tomatoes, flowers, several varieties or colours of each, so noted and named.

Then she carried her collected works indoors and placed them warm and bright until later in the year, for in a few hours the warmth of the greenhouse would once again be frozen out by the lingering winter.

[austintorn@aol.com]

FISH STORY

On the road to Kingston the other day I was happy to see that the rains had returned and that the drought was ending. I stopped to do a little fishing along the way, and it reminded me of a fish I’d caught during the dry season. I'll tell you about it now. It took me awhile to get over it.

It was so dry that I could walk across the reservoir and the creeks. The water was shallow due to the drought, and most of the fish were swimming sideways so they could stay under water. Then I saw a rather amazing sight: one fish was leaping from puddle to puddle, sometimes crawling across the dry land in between. I threw away my fishing pole and caught this fish with my bare hands, thinking of the delicious fish fry dinner that I would have that night.

I put the fish in a bucket of water in the front seat of my car to keep it fresh during the long drive home. Every so often that fish would poke its head out of the water bucket and look at me, sometimes even trying to jump out. Finally, it did get out of the bucket and sat on the seat next to me. It was then that I realized that I could never eat this fish. About the same time, a brilliant ideas stuck me: I would train this fish to live out of water, and make a pet out of it, as the fish seemed to already have inclinations in that direction.

At home I put the fish in a barrel of water, and sure enough, it tried to jump out. So, each morning I would take it out and put it on the grass which was still wet from the dew. Then, when I could see that it had had enough, I would put it back in the barrel. Each day the fish seemed to last longer and longer outside the water barrel before getting listless.

After a few months of this, the fish didn’t need much water at all. As I walked along the road in the morning, it would wriggle along beside me in the wet grass in the shade. Later, when the day became really hot, I would give the fish a drink from my water jug.

After a few more months of training, the fish was able to flop and sort of “swim” along down the middle of dusty roads. And when I offered it a drink, it refused. We even went to the beach together; of course, only I went swimming—the fish just laid on the sand getting a tan and enjoying the breeze. One day it was over 120 degrees and the fish just had to have a drink, so I gave it a dry beer. Other than that, the fish never touched water anymore, having become a land animal.

What a lovable pet! It slept with me, saw movies with me, went out to parties with me, chased down tennis balls and brought them back to me, rode on the back of my bike, etc. We were inseparable! But then a tragedy happened: we were walking down the road together one day, and passing over an old bridge. Suddenly my fish fell between some loose boards and down into the creek below and drowned.

[labelwench]

Many little pots filled she, gently watered, and with a pair of tweezers seeded the exact number of each she desired, with redundancy appropriate for the germination percentage of each type. Herbs, tomatoes, flowers, several varieties or colours of each, so noted and named.

Labelwench checked the pots for moisture daily, that being the most frequent cause for poor germination. All of the little pots were in contained enironments that maintained even temperature and humidity, on lighted, layered glass shelving unit. By selecting the height of the shelf, she had control of varying heat for the different seeds.

On the 3rd day, the cucumbers pushed through, followed within hours by the Godetia. Bushsteak tomato seed from 1997 appeared before any of the trendy hybrid types. By the fifth day, most of the tomatoes, basil and the violas were in view. Pansies and parsley were longer germinating species.

Yes, nothing like seedlings to invoke a spring-like feeling...

[timeparticle]

Hey, one of my sister's horse just had a filly. Cute, huh. Her ranch is near Seatle, in Sammamish. Her partner is the General Council of Starbucks..... They have a nice place.

[labelwench]

Thank you, Timeparticle. Lovely baby!

Horses are precocious young, in that they are on their feet and able to move quickly in very short time. One interesting fact, they are not born knowing to follow their mother and the early moments after birthing are spent in bonding and becoming familiar with each other's scent.

The mare follows the foal to start, encircling it with her body until the desired response is learned.

There is another aspect called "imprint training", where during the immediate time after birthing, the handler gently touches the foal everywhere, fingers in mouth, gently stroking ears, tummy, legs etc. Most often, a foal who has had such handling is easier to train later in life, as a large element of fear has been eliminated in the early bonding stage. The whole process only takes about 15 minutes, after which mare and foal should be left to further their own bond.

[COLOR="Blue"]You shall have to keep us informed on the filly, her naming and progress, Uncle TP, LOL. [/COLOR]