She don’t want no prelimin’ries, this tart;
  She’s broke away before they rung the bell;
She’s beat the gun, an’ got a flyin’ start. 
  Smith makes a funny noise, an’ I sez, “’Ell”
Because I tumbles that I’m out uv place: 
But, as I went, I caught sight uv ’er face.

That’s all I want to know.  An’, as I ran,
  I ’ears ‘er cry, “My man!  Man an’ a ’arf! 
Don’t fool me with yer talk uv ’arf a man!”. . . . 
  An’ then I ’ears ole Digger start to larf. 
It was a funny larf, so ’elp me bob: 
Fair in the middle uv it come a sob. . . .

I don’t see Digger till the other night. 
 “Well, ’Arf-a-man,” I sez. “’Ow goes it now?”
“Yes, ’arf a man,” sez ’e.  “Yeh got it right;
I can’t change that, alone, not any’ow. 
But she is mendin’ things.”  ’E starts to larf. 
“Some day,” ’e sez, “she’ll be the better ’arf.”

XI.  SAWIN’ WOOD

Sawin’ Wood

I wondered wot was doin’.  First I seen
Ole Missus Flood wave signals to Doreen. 
  I’m in the paddick slashin’ down some ferns;
  She’s comin’ up the road; an’ if she turns
An ’andspring I won’t be su’prised a bit,
The way she’s caperin’, an’ goin’ it.

She yells out some remark when she gets near,
Which I don’t catch, I’m too fur off to ’ear. 
  An’ then Doreen comes prancin’ to our door,
  An’ Missus Flood she sprints, an’ yells some more;
My wife runs to the gate an’ waves ’er arms. . . . 
But I lays low; I’m used to these alarms.

A marri’d bloke, in time, ’e learns a bit;
An’ ’e ain’t over keen to throw a fit
  Each time the women calls the fire-reel out. 
  It’s jist a trifle ’e’ll know all about
When things get normal.  That’s a point I learn;
So I saws wood, an’ keeps on cuttin’ fern.

At least, I cut a few.  I got to give
Reel fac’s, an’ own I was inquisitive;
  An’ these ’ere fireworks gets me fair perplexed. 
  I watch the ’ouse to see wot ’appens next;
But nothin’s doin’.  They jist goes on in,
An’ leaves me wonderin’ wot’s caused the din.

I stands it for a full ’arf-hour or more;
Then gets dead sick uv starin’ at the door. 
  I goes down to the ‘ouse an’ ’unts about
  To find some ’baccer, which I ’ave no doubt
Is in me trousers pocket all the while. 
When I goes in, the talk stops, an’ they smile.

I sez I’ve lost me smoke, an’ search a bit,
An’ ask Doreen wot ’as became uv it,
  An’ turns the mantelshelf all upside-down,
  An’ looks inside the teapot, with a frown;
Then gives it up, an’ owns I’d like a drink;
When Missus Flood sez, “Bill, wot do you think?”

Now, ain’t that like a woman?  Spare me days,
I’ll never get resigned to all their ways. 
  When they ‘as news to tell they smile, an’ wink,
  An’ bottle it, an’ ask yeh wot yeh think. 
It’s jist a silly game uv theirs, an’ so,
I gives the countersign:  “Wot?  I dunno.”