在我生活的圈子以南，我的故乡的一部分，是高原，在冬天的严寒下，瘦骨嶙峋的山坡高耸而纤细，低矮的树木，蓝叶和橄榄树，露出地面的花岗岩——这是一个干净、贫瘠、饥寒交迫的国家。小溪里的叶子沉默了，柳叶哽咽了，山坡上的枸杞和海棠枝叶交错，长满了绿色的地衣;老茅屋蹒跚而行，寻求庇护。啊，寒冷的黑霜之夜。墙壁吸进了热气，旧屋顶的接缝开裂了;挂着的水壶在火上发出咝咝的响声。难以置信的是，有一天夏天会在漫天玫瑰的浪潮中再次出现，把它炎热的脸插到这里来讲另一个故事——老丹可以把这个故事编成一条毯子来抵御冬天。七十年的故事藏在他的骨子里，七十年的岁月像陈年的蜜一样藏在他心里。那一年，查尔维尔到猎人，是一九一一年，干旱开始了;在麦金太尔留下了六十个人，他们周围的泥土硬化得像铁一样; and the yellow boy died in the sulky ahead with the gear, but the horse went on, stopped at Sandy Camp and waited in the evening. It was the flies we seen first, swarming like bees. Came to the Hunter, three hundred head of a thousand- cruel to keep them alive - and the river was dust. Or mustering up in the Bogongs in the autumn when the blizzards came early. Brought them down; down, what aren't there yet. Or driving for Cobb's on the run up from Tamworth-Thunderbolt at the top of Hungry Hill, and I give him a wink. I wouoldn't wait long, Fred, not if I was you. The troopers are just behind, coming for that job at the Hillgrove. He went like a luny, him on his big black horse. Oh, they slide and they vanish as he shuffles the years like a pack of conjuror's cards. True or not, it's all the same; and the frost on the roof cracks like a whip, and the back-log break into ash. Wake, old man. this is winter, and the yarns are over. No-one is listening South of my days' circle. I know it dark against the stars, the high lean country full of old stories that still go walking in my sleep.