Enough of pessimistic snarling and grumbling!  Enough!  Enough!  Now for a lilt of another theme: 

I am proud that I am an Australian, a daughter of the Southern Cross, a child of the mighty bush.  I am thankful I am a peasant, a part of the bone and muscle of my nation, and earn my bread by the sweat of my brow, as man was meant to do.  I rejoice I was not born a parasite, one of the blood-suckers who loll on velvet and satin, crushed from the proceeds of human sweat and blood and souls.

Ah, my sunburnt brothers!—­sons of toil and of Australia!  I love and respect you well, for you are brave and good and true.  I have seen not only those of you with youth and hope strong in your veins, but those with pathetic streaks of grey in your hair, large families to support, and with half a century sitting upon your work-laden shoulders.  I have seen you struggle uncomplainingly against flood, fire, disease in stock, pests, drought, trade depression, and sickness, and yet have time to extend your hands and hearts in true sympathy to a brother in misfortune, and spirits to laugh and joke and be cheerful.

And for my sisters a great love and pity fills my heart.  Daughters of toil, who scrub and wash and mend and cook, who are dressmakers, paperhangers, milkmaids, gardeners, and candle-makers all in one, and yet have time to be cheerful and tasty in your homes, and make the best of the few oases to be found along the narrow dusty track of your existence.  Would that I were more worthy to be one of you—­more a typical Australian peasant—­cheerful, honest, brave!

I love you, I love you.  Bravely you jog along with the rope of class distinction drawing closer, closer, tighter, tighter around you:  a few more generations and you will be as enslaved as were ever the moujiks of Russia.  I see it and know it, but I cannot help you.  My ineffective life will be trod out in the same round of toil—­I am only one of yourselves, I am only an unnecessary, little, bush commoner, I am only a—­woman!

The great sun is sinking in the west, grinning and winking knowingly as he goes, upon the starving stock and drought-smitten wastes of land.  Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold!  Down, down he goes.  The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies!  With much love and good wishes to all—­Good night!  Good-bye!

AMEN