I lets it go at that, an’ does me job;
An’ when a little later on I lob
  Along the ’omeward track, down by Flood’s gate
  I meet ole Digger Smith, an’ stops to state
Me views about the weather an’ the war. . . . 
’E tells me Jim gets ‘ere nex’ day, at four.

An’ as we talk, I sees along the road
A strange bloke ‘umpin’ some queer sort uv load. 
  I points ‘im out to Smith an’ sez; “’Oo’s that? 
  Looks like a soldier, don’t ’e, be ’is ’at?”
“Stranger,” sez Digger, “be the cut uv ’im.” 
But, trust a mother’s eyes. . . . “It’s Jim!  My Jim!

“My Jim!” I ‘ears; an’, scootin’ up the track
Come Missus Flood, with Flo close at ’er back. 
  It was a race, for lover an’ for son;
  They finished neck an’ neck; but mother won,
For it was ’er that got the first good ’ug. 
(I’m so took back I stands there like a mug.)

Then come Flo’s turn; an’ Jim an’ Digger they
Shake ’ands without no fancy, gran’-stand play. 
  Yeh’d think they parted yesterd’y, them two. 
  For all the wild ’eroics that they do. 
“Yeh done it, lad,” sez Jim.  “I knoo yeh would.” 
“You bet,” sez Smith; “but I’m all to the good.”

Then, uv a sudden, all their tongues is loosed. 
They finds me there an’ I am intrajuiced;
  An’ Jim tells ’ow it was ’e come to land
  So soon, while Mar an’ Flo each ’olds a ’and. 
But, jist as sudden, they all stop an’ stare
Down to the ‘ouse, at Dad Flood standin’ there.

’E’s got ’is ‘and up shadin’ off the sun. 
Then ’e starts up to them; but Dad don’t run
  ’E isn’t ‘owlin’ for ’is lost boy’s kiss;
  ’E’s got ’is own sweet way in things like this. 
‘E wanders up, an’ stands an’ looks at Jim. 
An’, spare me days, that look was extra grim!

I seen the mother pluckin’ at ’er dress;
I seen the girl’s white face an’ ’er distress. 
  An’ Digger Smith, ’e looks reel queer to me
  Grinnin’ inside ’imself ’e seemed to be. 
At last Dad sez—­oh, ’e’s a tough ole gun! 
“Well, are yeh sorry now for wot yeh done?”

Jim gives a start; but answers with a grin,
“Well, Dad, I ‘ave been learnin’ discipline. 
  An’ tho’ I ain’t quite sure wot did occur
  Way back”—­’e’s grinnin’ worse—­“I’m sorry, sir.” 
(It beats me, that, about these soldier blokes
They’re always grinnin’, like all things was jokes.)

P’r’aps Dad is gettin’ dull in ’is ole age;
But ’e don’t seem to see Jim’s cammyflage. 
  P’r’aps ’e don’t want to; for, in ’is ole eye,
  I seen a twinkle as ’e give reply. 
“Nex’ week,” ’e sez, “we will begin to cart
The taters.  Yeh can make another start.”

But then ’e grabs Jim’s ’and.  I seen the joy
In mother’s eyes.  “Now, welcome ’ome, me boy,”
  Sez Dad; an’ then ’e adds, “Yeh’ve made me proud;”
  That’s all.  An’ ’e don’t add it none too loud. 
Dad don’t express ’is feelin’s in a shout;
It cost ‘im somethin’ to git that much out.