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~~~ Song of the Shingle-Splitters ~~~
The dweller in town may lie upon down,
What though our work be heavy, we shirk ~~~ On a Street ~~~
Upon the lap of green, sweet lands,
I will not say who suffered there,
How gladly would I change my theme,
Here, surely, on this bank of bloom,
I only hear the brutal curse
No tear at all is asked for him --
She could not face the lighted square,
I tell you, this is not a tale
Have I no word at all for him
Just think of him -- beneath the ban,
But He in whom the dying thief
But still I hate that haggard street, ~~~ Heath from the Highlands ~~~
Behind me is the deep green dell
And yonder is the mountain glen,
The old weird cry of plover comes
No novel life or light I see,
This touching growth hath made me dream --
It droops -- this plant -- like one who grieves;
For near its wind-blown native spot
There haply by the sounding streams,
And on the peaks where never leaf
Not far, perchance, this heather throve
Against the radiant river ways
Perhaps my heather used to beam
I hope, indeed, the singer knew
A Highland sky my vision fills;
The peaks of Scotland, where the din
So potent is this heather here,
And under windy mountain wall, ~~~ The Austral Months ~~~
The first fair month! In singing Summer's sphere
February
The bright-haired, blue-eyed last of Summer. Lo,
March
Clear upland voices, full of wind and stream,
April
The darling of Australia's Autumn -- now
May
Now sings a cool, bland wind, where falls and flows
June
Not like that month when, in imperial space,
July
High travelling winds, filled with the strong storm's soul,
August
Across the range, by every scarred black fell,
October
Where fountains sing and many waters meet,
November
Now beats the first warm pulse of Summer -- now
December
The month whose face is holiness! She brings ~~~ Aboriginal Death-Song ~~~
Women are we, and the wives
Koola, our love and our light,
Black-headed snakes in the grass
Far by the forested glen,
Yea, and the fish-river clear
Hunter and climber of trees,
We, who were followed and bound,
Dumb with the sorrow that kills,
Seeing the fathers are far ~~~ Sydney Harbour ~~~
But calm and lucid as an English lake,
And while sweet Autumn with her gipsy face
Moreover, when the moon is gazing down ~~~ A Birthday Trifle ~~~
Alas! the blossom I would take,
But this pure pleasure is my own, ~~~ Frank Denz ~~~
A little blue hood, with the shawl of the girl that I took for my wife
Oh, women and men who have known the perils of weather and wave,
In the whistle of wind, and the whirl of ominous fragments of wreck,
In the boat I was ordered to go -- I was not more afraid than the rest,
I was weak for some moments, and cried; but only one hope was in life;
In the place of a coward, who shook like a leaf in the quivering boat,
And there were my darlings on board for the rest of that terrible day,
Ah! where was my power, when Death was glaring at me from the reef?
Oh, girl that I took by the hand to the altar two summers ago,
The night sped along, and I strained to the shadow and saw to the end
The wind, like a life without home, comes mocking at door and at pane
My home was all morning and glow when wife and her baby were there,
There were three of us once in the world; but two are deep down in the sea, ~~~ Sydney Exhibition Cantata ~~~
~Chorus~
Songs of morning, with your breath
~Recitative and Chorus~
Lo, they come -- the lords unknown,
~Solo -- Tenor~
By the days that sound afar,
Part II
~Solo -- Bass~
Where now a radiant city stands,
~Solo -- Alto~
Upon the hills that blaze to-day
~Solo -- Soprano~
Ah! haply on some mossy slope,
Part III
~Children~
A gracious morning on the hills of wet
~Solo -- Soprano~
And hence a fair dream goes before our gaze,
Part IV
~Basses and Chorus~
Father, All-Bountiful, humbly we bend to Thee; ~~~ Hymn of Praise ~~~
Encompassed by the psalm of hill and stream,
The great, sublime hosannas of the sea
Ah! at the close of many splendid hours,
To Thee, from whom all shining blessings flow,
For that glad season which will pass to-day
All praise is Thine -- all love that we can give
To: The List of Poetic Works of Henry Kendall
To: Australian Master Poets Menu
And the dingoes nightly yell --
Where the curlew's cry goes floating by,
We splitters of shingles dwell.
And all day through, from the time of the dew
To the hour when the mopoke calls,
Our mallets ring where the woodbirds sing
Sweet hymns by the waterfalls.
And all night long we are lulled by the song
Of gales in the grand old trees;
And in the brakes we can hear the lakes
And the moan of the distant seas.
For afar from heat and dust of street,
And hall and turret and dome,
In forest deep, where the torrents leap,
Is the shingle-splitter's home.
And own his palace and park:
We envy him not his prosperous lot,
Though we slumber on sheets of bark.
Our food is rough, but we have enough;
Our drink is better than wine:
For cool creeks flow wherever we go,
Shut in from the hot sunshine.
Though rude our roof, it is weather-proof,
And at the end of the days
We sit and smoke over yarn and joke,
By the bush-fire's sturdy blaze.
For away from din and sorrow and sin,
Where troubles but rarely come,
We jog along, like a merry song,
In the shingle-splitter's home.
From nothing beneath the sun;
And toil is sweet to those who can eat
And rest when the day is done.
In the Sabbath-time we hear no chime,
No sound of the Sunday bells;
But yet Heaven smiles on the forest aisles,
And God in the woodland dwells.
We listen to notes from the million throats
Of chorister birds on high,
Our psalm is the breeze in the lordly trees,
And our dome is the broad blue sky.
Oh! a brave, frank life, unsmitten by strife,
We live wherever we roam,
And our hearts are free as the great strong sea,
In the shingle-splitter's home.
I have not seen for eight long years;
A mother's curse is on the place,
(There's blood, my reader, in her tears).
No child of man shall ever track,
Through filthy dust, the singer's feet --
A fierce old memory drags me back;
I hate its name -- I dread that street.
Whose months are like your English Mays,
I try to hide in Lethe's sands
The bitter, old Bohemian days.
But sorrow speaks in singing leaf,
And trouble talketh in the tide;
The skirts of a stupendous grief
Are trailing ever at my side.
'Tis best the name aloof to keep,
Because the world is very fair --
Its light should sing the dark to sleep.
But, let me whisper, in that street
A woman, faint through want of bread,
Has often pawned the quilt and sheet
And wept upon a barren bed.
Or cease the song and steal away,
But on the hill and by the stream
A ghost is with me night and day!
A dreadful darkness, full of wild,
Chaotic visions, comes to me:
I seem to hear a dying child,
Its mother's face I seem to see.
My verse with shine would ever flow;
But ah! it comes -- the rented room,
With man and wife who suffered so!
From flower and leaf there is no hint --
I only see a sharp distress --
A lady in a faded print,
A careworn writer for the press.
Of landlord clamouring for his pay;
And yonder is the pauper's hearse
That comes to take a child away.
Apart, and with the half-grey head
Of sudden age, again I see
The father writing by the dead
To earn the undertaker's fee.
A drunkard well deserves his life;
But voice will quiver, eyes grow dim,
For her, the patient, pure young wife,
The gentle girl of better days,
As timid as a mountain fawn,
Who used to choose untrodden ways,
And place at night her rags in pawn.
Or show the street her poor, thin dress;
In one close chamber, bleak and bare,
She hid her burden of distress.
Her happy schoolmates used to drive,
On gaudy wheels, the town about;
The meat that keeps a dog alive
She often had to go without.
Conceived by me, but bitter truth;
Bohemia knows it, pinched and pale,
Beside the pyre of burnt-out youth:
These eyes of mine have often seen
The sweet girl-wife, in winters rude,
Steal out at night, through courts unclean,
To hunt about for chips of wood.
Who used down fetid lanes to slink,
And squat in tap-room corners grim,
And drown his thoughts in dregs of drink?
This much I'll say, that when the flame
Of reason reassumed its force,
The hell the Christian fears to name,
Was heaven to his fierce remorse.
And steeped in sorrow to the neck,
Without a friend -- a feeble man,
In failing health -- a human wreck.
With all his sense and scholarship,
How could he face his fading wife?
The devil never lifted whip
With thongs like those that scourged his life.
Upon the Cross did place his trust,
Forgets the sin and feels the grief,
And lifts the sufferer from the dust.
And now, because I have a dream,
The man and woman found the light;
A glory burns upon the stream,
With gold and green the woods are bright.
Its filthy courts, its alleys wild;
In dreams of it I always meet
The phantom of a wailing child.
The name of it begets distress --
Ah, song, be silent! show no more
The lady in the perished dress,
The scholar on the tap-room floor.
To bays of silver sea,
I hold within my hand to-day
A wild thing, strange to me.
Where lives familiar light;
The leaves and flowers I know so well
Are gleaming in my sight.
Where sings in trees unstirred
By breath of breeze or axe of men
The shining satin-bird.
Across the marshy ways,
And here the hermit hornet hums,
And here the wild bee strays.
On hill, in dale beneath:
All things around are known to me
Except this bit of heath.
It sends my soul afar
To where the Scottish mountains gleam
Against the Northern star.
But, while my fancy glows,
There is that glory on its leaves
Which never robed the rose.
Were born, by crags uphurled,
The ringing songs of Walter Scott
That shook the whole wide world.
And where the fountains break,
He saw the darling of his dreams,
The Lady of the Lake.
Of lowland beauty grew,
Perhaps he met Clan Alpine's chief,
The rugged Roderick Dhu.
(Above fair banks of ferns),
From that green place of stream and grove
That knew the voice of Burns.
Still waves the noble wood,
Where in the old majestic days
The Scottish poet stood.
In robes of morning frost,
By dells which saw that lovely dream --
The Mary that he lost.
The little spot of land
On which the mountain beauty grew
That withers in my hand.
I feel the great, strong North --
The hard grey weather of the hills
That brings men-children forth.
And flame of thunders go,
Seem near me, with the masculine,
Hale sons of wind and snow.
That under skies of blue,
I seem to breathe the atmosphere
That William Wallace knew.
Where breaks the torrent loose,
I fancy I can hear the call
Of grand old Robert Bruce.
She glows, the eldest daughter of the year.
All light, all warmth, all passion, breaths of myrrh,
And subtle hints of rose-lands, come with her.
She is the warm, live month of lustre -- she
Makes glad the land and lulls the strong, sad sea.
The highest hope comes with her. In her face
Of pure, clear colour lives exalted grace;
Her speech is beauty, and her radiant eyes
Are eloquent with splendid prophecies.
Her clear song lives in all the winds that blow;
The upland torrent and the lowland rill,
The stream of valley and the spring of hill,
The pools that slumber and the brooks that run
Where dense the leaves are, green the light of sun,
Take all her grace of voice and colour. She,
With rich warm vine-blood splashed from heel to knee,
Comes radiant through the yellow woodlands. Far
And near her sweet gifts shine like star by star.
She is the true Demeter. Life of root
Glows under her in gardens flushed with fruit;
She fills the fields with strength and passion -- makes
A fire of lustre on the lawn-ringed lakes;
Her beauty awes the great wild sea; the height
Of grey magnificence takes strange delight
And softens at her presence, at the dear
Sweet face whose memory beams through all the year.
Greet March, the sister of the flying beam
And speedy shadow. She, with rainbow crowned,
Lives in a sphere of songs of mazy sound.
The hymn of waters and the gale's high tone,
With anthems from the thunder's mountain throne,
Are with her ever. This, behold, is she
Who draws its great cry from the strong, sad sea;
She is the month of majesty. Her force
Is power that moves along a stately course,
Within the lines of order, like no wild
And lawless strength of winter's fiercest child.
About her are the wind-whipped torrents; far
Above her gleams and flies the stormy star,
And round her, through the highlands and their rocks,
Rings loud the grand speech from the equinox.
Down dewy dells the strong, swift torrents flow!
This is the month of singing waters -- here
A tender radiance fills the Southern year;
No bitter winter sets on herb and root,
Within these gracious glades, a frosty foot;
The spears of sleet, the arrows of the hail,
Are here unknown. But down the dark green dale
Of moss and myrtle, and the herby streams,
This April wanders in a home of dreams;
Her flower-soft name makes language falter. All
Her paths are soft and cool, and runnels fall
In music round her; and the woodlands sing
For evermore, with voice of wind and wing,
Because this is the month of beauty -- this
The crowning grace of all the grace that is.
The runnel by the grave of last year's rose;
Now, underneath the strong perennial leaves,
The first slow voice of wintering torrent grieves.
Now in a light like English August's day,
Is seen the fair, sweet, chastened face of May;
She is the daughter of the year who stands
With Autumn's last rich offerings in her hands;
Behind her gleams the ghost of April's noon,
Before her is the far, faint dawn of June;
She lingers where the dells and dewy leas
Catch stormy sayings from the great bold seas;
Her nightly raiment is the misty fold
That zones her round with moonlight-coloured gold;
And in the day she sheds, from shining wings,
A tender heat that keeps the life in things.
The high, strong sun stares at the white world's face;
Not like that haughty daughter of the year
Who moves, a splendour, in a splendid sphere;
But rather like a nymph of afternoon,
With cool, soft sunshine, comes Australian June.
She is the calm, sweet lady, from whose lips
No breath of living passion ever slips;
The wind that on her virgin forehead blows
Was born too late to speak of last year's rose;
She never saw a blossom, but her eyes
Of tender beauty see blue, gracious skies;
She loves the mosses, and her feet have been
In woodlands where the leaves are always green;
Her days pass on with sea-songs, and her nights
Shine, full of stars, on lands of frosty lights.
Are here, with dark, strange sayings from the Pole;
Now is the time when every great cave rings
With sharp, clear echoes caught from mountain springs;
This is the season when all torrents run
Beneath no bright, glad beauty of the sun.
Here, where the trace of last year's green is lost,
Are haughty gales, and lordships of the frost.
Far down, by fields forlorn and forelands bleak,
Are wings that fly not, birds that never speak;
But in the deep hearts of the glens, unseen,
Stand grave, mute forests of eternal green;
And here the lady, born in wind and rain,
Comes oft to moan and clap her palms with pain.
This is our wild-faced July, in whose breast
Is never faultless light or perfect rest.
Strong Winter blows his horn of wild farewell;
And in the glens, where yet there moves no wing,
A slow, sweet voice is singing of the Spring.
Yea, where the bright, quick woodland torrents run,
A music trembles under rain and sun.
The lips that breathe it are the lips of her
At whose dear touch the wan world's pulses stir --
The nymph who sets the bow of promise high
And fills with warm life-light the bleak grey sky.
She is the fair-haired August. Ere she leaves
She brings the woodbine blossom round the eaves;
And where the bitter barbs of frost have been
She makes a beauty with her gold and green;
And, while a sea-song floats from bay and beach,
She sheds a mist of blossoms on the peach.
October comes with blossom-trammelled feet.
She sheds green glory by the wayside rills
And clothes with grace the haughty-featured hills.
This is the queen of all the year. She brings
The pure chief beauty of our southern springs.
Fair lady of the yellow hair! Her breath
Starts flowers to life, and shames the storm to death;
Through tender nights and days of generous sun
By prospering woods her clear strong torrents run;
In far deep forests, where all life is mute,
Of leaf and bough she makes a touching lute.
Her life is lovely. Stream, and wind, and bird
Have seen her face -- her marvellous voice have heard;
And, in strange tracts of wildwood, all day long,
They tell the story in surpassing song.
There shines great glory on the mountain's brow.
The face of heaven in the western sky,
When falls the sun, is filled with Deity!
And while the first light floods the lake and lea,
The morning makes a marvel of the sea;
The strong leaves sing; and in the deep green zones
Of rock-bound glens the streams have many tones;
And where the evening-coloured waters pass,
Now glides November down fair falls of grass.
She is the wonder with the golden wings,
Who lays one hand in Summer's -- one in Spring's;
About her hair a sunset radiance glows;
Her mouth is sister of the dewy rose;
And all the beauty of the pure blue skies
Has lent its lustre to her soft bright eyes.
With her the glory of majestic things.
What words of light, what high resplendent phrase
Have I for all the lustre of her days?
She comes, and carries in her shining sphere
August traditions of the world's great year;
The noble tale which lifts the human race
Has made a morning of her sacred face.
Now in the emerald home of flower and wing
Clear summer streams their sweet hosannas sing;
The winds are full of anthems, and a lute
Speaks in the listening hills when night is mute
And through dim tracks where talks the royal tree
There floats a grand hymn from the mighty sea;
And where the grey, grave, pondering mountains stand
High music lives -- the place is holy land!
Tops of the sharp-headed spear,
Hard by the thickets that pierce,
Lo! they are nimble and near.
Strong Arrawatta hath won;
Weary because of our lives,
Sick of the face of the sun.
What have they done unto you?
Man of the star-reaching sight,
Dipped in the fire and the dew.
Struck at the fleet-footed lord --
Still is his voice at the pass,
Soundless his step at the ford.
Starkly he lies in the rain;
Kings of the council of men
Shout for their leader in vain.
Never shall blacken below
Spear and the shadow of spear,
Bow and the shadow of bow.
Now doth his tomahawk rust,
(Dread of the cunning wild bees),
Hidden in hillocks of dust.
Dashed under foot by the foe,
Sit with our eyes to the ground,
Faint from the brand and the blow.
Sorrow for brother and chief,
Terror of thundering hills,
Having no hope in our grief,
Seeking the spoils of the dead
Left on the path of the war,
Matted and mangled and red.
Burns through the darkness with a splendid ring
Of tenfold light, and where the awful face
Of Sydney's northern headland stares all night
O'er dark, determined waters from the east,
From year to year a wild, Titanic voice
Of fierce aggressive sea shoots up and makes, --
When storm sails high through drifts of driving sleet,
And in the days when limpid waters glass
December's sunny hair and forest face, --
A roaring down by immemorial caves,
A thunder in the everlasting hills.
Beloved by beams and wooed by wind and wing,
Shut in from tempest-trampled wastes of wave,
And sheltered from white wraths of surge by walls --
Grand ramparts founded by the hand of God,
The lordly Harbour gleams. Yea, like a shield
Of marvellous gold dropped in his fiery flight
By some lost angel in the elder days,
When Satan faced and fought Omnipotence,
It shines amongst fair, flowering hills, and flows
By dells of glimmering greenness manifold.
And all day long, when soft-eyed Spring comes round
With gracious gifts of bird and leaf and grass --
And through the noon, when sumptuous Summer sleeps
By yellowing runnels under beetling cliffs,
This royal water blossoms far and wide
With ships from all the corners of the world.
Stands in the gardens, splashed from heel to thigh
With spinning vine-blood -- yea, and when the mild,
Wan face of our Australian Winter looks
Across the congregated southern fens,
Then low, melodious, shell-like songs are heard
Beneath proud hulls and pompous clouds of sail,
By yellow beaches under lisping leaves
And hidden nooks to Youth and Beauty dear,
And where the ear may catch the counter-voice
Of Ocean travelling over far, blue tracts.
Upon her lovely reflex in the wave,
(What time she, sitting in the zenith, makes
A silver silence over stirless woods),
Then, where its echoes start at sudden bells,
And where its waters gleam with flying lights,
The haven lies, in all its beauty clad,
More lovely even than the golden lakes
The poet saw, while dreaming splendid dreams
Which showed his soul the far Hesperides.
While air is soft and sky is clear,
What tender message shall I send
To her I hold so dear?
What rose of song with breath like myrrh,
And leaf of dew and fair pure beams
Shall I select and give to her --
The lady of my dreams?
The song as sweet as Persian speech,
And carry for my lady's sake,
Is not within my reach.
I have no perfect gift of words,
Or I would hasten now to send
A ballad full of tunes of birds
To please my lovely friend.
That I have power to waft away
A hope as bright as heaven's zone
On this her natal day.
May all her life be like the light
That softens down in spheres divine,
"As lovely as a Lapland night,"
All grace and chastened shine!
The cry of my darling, my child, comes ever and ever to me;
And I stand where the haggard-faced wood stares down on a sinister shore,
But all that is left is the hood of the babe I can cherish no more.
In a happy old season, is all that remains of the light of my life;
The wail of a woman in pain, and the sob of a smothering bird,
They come through the darkness again --
in the wind and the rain they are heard.
It is sad that my sweet ones are blown under sea without shelter of grave;
I sob like a child in the night, when the gale on the waters is loud --
My darlings went down in my sight, with neither a coffin nor shroud.
The wife, with her poor little girl, saw death on the lee of the deck;
But, sirs, she depended on me -- she trusted my comforting word;
She is down in the depths of the sea -- my love, with her beautiful bird.
But a husband will falter, you know, with the love of his life at his breast;
My captain was angry a space, but soon he grew tender in tone --
Perhaps there had flashed by his face a wife and a child of his own.
The hood upon baby I tied -- I fastened the shawl on my wife.
The skipper took charge of the child -- he stuck to his word till the last;
But only this hood on the wild, bitter shore of the sea had been cast.
A seat by the rowlocks I took; but the sea had me soon by the throat,
The surge gripped me fast by the neck -- in a ring, and a roll, and a roar,
I was cast like a piece of the wreck, on a bleak, beaten, shelterless shore.
And I watched and I prayed to the Lord, as never before I could pray.
The windy hills stared at the black, heavy clouds coming over the wave;
My girl was expecting me back, but where was my power to save?
I cried till I gasped for my breath, aloof with a maddening grief.
We couldn't get back to the deck: I wanted to go, but the sea
Dashed over the sides of the wreck, and carried my darling from me.
I would you were buried on land -- my dear, it would comfort me so!
I would you were sleeping where grows the grass and the musical reed!
For how can you find a repose in the toss of the tangle and weed?
My captain and bird -- he remained to the death a superlative friend:
In the face of the hurricane wild, he clung with the babe to the mast;
To the last he was true to my child -- he was true to my child to the last.
In the time of the cry of the foam -- in the season of thunder and rain,
And, dreaming, I start in the bed, and feel for my little one's brow --
But lost is the beautiful head; the cradle is tenantless now!
But, ah! it is saddened, you know, by dresses my girl used to wear.
I cannot re-enter the door; its threshold can never be crossed,
For fear I should see on the floor the shoes of the child I have lost.
Where waif and where tangle are hurled -- the two that were portions of me;
They are far from me now, but I hear, when hushed are the night and the tide,
The voice of my little one near -- the step of my wife by my side.
Sing the darkness now to death;
Radiant river, beaming bay,
Fair as Summer, shine to-day;
Flying torrent, falling slope,
Wear the face as bright as Hope;
Wind and woodland, hill and sea,
Lift your voices -- sing for glee!
Greet the guests your fame has won --
Put your brightest garments on.
Sons of Peace, from every zone!
See above our waves unfurled
All the flags of all the world!
North and south and west and east
Gather in to grace our feast.
Shining nations! let them see
How like England we can be.
Mighty nations! let them view
Sons of generous sires in you.
Sound, and shine like star by star;
By the grand old years aflame
With the fires of England's fame --
Heirs of those who fought for right
When the world's wronged face was white --
Meet these guests your fortune sends,
As your fathers met their friends;
Let the beauty of your race
Glow like morning in your face.
The dark oak used to wave,
The elfin harp of lonely lands
Above the wild man's grave;
Through windless woods, one clear, sweet stream
(Sing soft and very low)
Stole like the river of a dream
A hundred years ago.
With splendid dome and spire,
The naked hunter tracked his prey,
And slumbered by his fire.
Within the sound of shipless seas
The wild rose used to blow
About the feet of royal trees,
A hundred years ago.
Against the shining springs,
In those old days the angel Hope
Sat down with folded wings;
Perhaps she touched in dreams sublime,
In glory and in glow,
The skirts of this resplendent time,
A hundred years ago.
And wind and mist her glittering feet has set;
The life and heat of light have chased away
Australia's dark, mysterious yesterday.
A great, glad glory now flows down and shines
On gold-green lands where waved funereal pines.
And lifts the skirts of the hereafter days,
And sees afar, as dreams alone can see,
The splendid marvel of the years to be.
Heads are uncovered in sight of Thy face.
Here, in the flow of the psalms that ascend to Thee,
Teach us to live for the light of Thy grace.
Here, in the pause of the anthems of praise to Thee,
Master and Maker -- pre-eminent Friend --
Teach us to look to Thee -- give all our days to Thee,
Now and for evermore, world without end!
By hymns august with their majestic theme,
Here in the evening of exalted days
To Thee, our Friend, we bow with breath of praise.
Ascend on wings of mighty winds to Thee,
And mingled with their stately words are tones
Of human love, O Lord of all the zones!
While falls Thy gracious light in radiant showers,
We seek Thy face, we praise Thee, bless Thee, sing
This song of reverence, Master, Maker, King!
All gifts of lustre, all the joys we know,
To Thee, O Father, in this lordly space,
The great world turns with worship in its face.
With light and music like a psalm away,
The gathered nations with a grand accord,
In sight of Thy high heaven, thank Thee, Lord!
Is also Thine, in whose large grace we live,
In whom we find the ~One~ long-suffering Friend,
Whose immemorial mercy has no end.
Copyright 1996-2001 - KRACKATINNI IS THE REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF RODNEY JOHN O'BRIEN