THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

 

AESOP'S FABLES

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Fable:

A Gnat flew over the meadow with much buzzing for so small a creature and settled on the tip of one of the horns of a Bull.

After he had rested a short time, he made ready to fly away but, before he left, he begged the Bull’s pardon for having used his horn for a resting place.

“You must be very glad to have me go now,” he said.

“It’s all the same to me,” replied the Bull. “I did not even know you were there.”

Moral:

We are often of greater importance in our own eyes than in the eyes of our neighbour.

The smaller the mind the greater the conceit.

QUOTE FOR THE DAY

 

BARCODE ARTISTRY

A post from Bytes, November 29, 2016:

Barcode Art

I have previously posted a stack of barcode art, especially examples from Japan where the humble barcode has been turned into promotional material. Read that post by clicking on:

http://bytesdaily.blogspot.com.au/2013/10/pictorial-week-japanese-bar-codes.html

Some more barcode art follows, with a couple of double ups. Sorry about that, Chief.

Taking a barcode and turning it into a work of art. . . as Spock would say, fascinating.

Update:

'Smore barcode artistry . . . 

QUOTE FOR THE DAY

 

POETRY SPOT: THE DEATH OF BEN HALL

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A lengthy but interesting post and story . . . .

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William Henry Ogilvie (1869 – 1963) was a Scottish-Australian narrative poet and horseman, jackaroo, and drover, and described as a quiet-spoken handsome Scot of medium height, with a fair moustache and red complexion. He was also known as Will Ogilvie and by pen names including 'Glenrowan' and the lesser 'Swingle-Bar', and by his initials, WHO. 

Ogilvie was part of the trio of Australian bush poets, with Banjo Paterson (1864–1941) and Henry Lawson (1867–1922). His Fair girls and gray horses (1896) was considered second only to Banjo Paterson's Man from Snowy River (1895).

Will Ogilvie

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The following poem is of the slaying of bushranger Ben Hall as a result of the treachery of a friend.

Ben Hall

The story is also told in song, The Streets of Forbes, which has been the subject of a detailed 2020 Bytes post.  This can be viewed by clicking on:

http://bytesdaily.blogspot.com/search?q=ben+hall

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The Death Of Ben Hall

By William Ogilvie

Ben Hall was out on Lachlans side

With a thousand pounds on his head;

A score of troopers were scattered wide

And a hundred more were ready to ride

Wherever a rumour led.

They had followed his track from the

Weddin Heights And north by the Weelong yards;

Through dazzling days and moonlit nights

They had sought him over their rifle-sights,

With their hands on their trigger guards.

The outlaw stole like a hunted fox

Through the scrub and stunted heath,

And peered like a hawk from his eyrie rocks

Through the waving boughs of the sapling box

On the troopers riding beneath.

His clothes were rent by the clutching thorn

And his blistered feet were bare;

Ragged and torn, with his beard unshorn,

He hid like a beast forlorn,

With a padded path to his lair.

But every night when the white stars rose

He crossed by the Gunning Plain

To a stockman's hut where the Gunning flows,

And struck on the door three swift light blows,

And a hand unhooked the chain -

And the outlaw followed the lone path back

With food for another day;

And the kindly darkness covered his track

And the shadows swallowed him deep and black

Where the starlight melted away.

But his friend had read of the big reward,

And his soul was stirred with greed;

He fastened his door and window board,

He saddled his horse and crossed the ford,

And spurred to the town at speed.

You may ride at a man's or maid's behest

When honour or true love call

And steel your heart to the worst or the best,

But the ride that is ta'en on a traitor's quest

Is the bitterest ride of all.

A hot wind blew from the Lachlan bank

And a curse on its shoulder came;

The pine-trees frowned at him, rank on rank,

The sun on a gathering storm-cloud sank

And flushed his cheek with shame.

He reigned at the Court; and the tale began

That the rifles alone should end;

Sergeant and trooper laid their plan

To draw the net on a hunted man

At the treacherous word of a friend.

False was the hand that raised the chain

And false was the whispered word:

'The troopers have turned to the south again,

You may dare to camp on the Gunning Plain.'

And the weary outlaw heard.

He walked from the hut but a quarter mile

Where a clump of saplings stood

In a sea of grass like a lonely isle;

And the moon came up in a little while

Like silver steeped in blood.

Ben Hall lay down on the dew-wet ground

By the side of his tiny fire;

And a night breeze woke, and he heard no sound

As the troopers drew their cordon round -

And the traitor earned his hire.

And nothing they saw in the dim grey light,

But the little glow in the trees;

And they crouched in the tall cold grass all night,

Each one ready to shoot at sight,

With his rifle cocked on his knees.

When the shadows broke and the dawn's white sword

Swung over the mountain wall,

And a little wind blew over the ford,

A sargeant sprang to his feet and roared:

'In the name of the Queen, Ben Hall!'

Haggard, the outlaw leapt from his bed

With his lean arms held on high,

'Fire!' And the word was scarcely said

When the mountains rang to rain of lead -

And the dawn went drifting by.

They kept their word and they paid his pay

Where a clean man's hand would shrink;

And that was the traitor's master day

As he stood by the bar on his homeward way

And called on the crowd to drink.

He banned no creed and he barred no class,

And he called to his friends by name;

But the worst would shake his head and pass

And none would drink from the bloodstained glass

And the goblet red with shame.

And I know when I hear the last grim call

And my mortal hour is spent,

When the light is hid and the curtains fall

I would rather sleep with the dead Ben Hall

Than go where that traitor went.

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