Mary Hannay Foott Biography

A bridle-path in the tangled mallee,
With blossoms unnamed and unknown bespread,
And two who ride through its leafy alley,
But never the sound of a horse's tread.
...

The rushes are black by the river bed,
And the sheep and the cattle stand
Wistful-eyed, where the waters were,
In a waste of gravel and sand;
...

A fringe of rushes -- one green line
   Upon a faded plain;
A silver streak of water-shine --
   Above, tree-watchers twain.
...

Conde had come with us all the way --
   Eight hundred miles -- but the fortnight's rest
Made him fresh as a youngster, the sturdy bay!
   And Lurline was looking her very best.
...

She heard the story of the end,
   Each message, too, she heard;
And there was one for every friend;
   For her alone -- no word.
...