C.J. dennis comes along once more with his annual contribution to the bookshelf. Last year in "Digger Smith" he gave us a fine book with a real heart-call, which contained a very attractive pricture of a returned Digger whose Australianism the war had deepened, and whose mateship stood every test; now in Jim of the Hills (Angus and Robertson, Sydney) he leave shis larrikins, reformed and otherwise, and goes right into the bush. The incidents of this new yarn circle round a sawmill. A fight, a strike, a fatal accident, a widow in search of a mate, a bush-fire, a love tale and a lot of philosophy are crowded into 12 sets of verse. There is all the effect of a novel in small compass, and the "Den" touch gives life to the whole, Jim is a sturdy bushman of careful life and decent habits who at 30 lives alone and holds long conversations with his dog. He was thinking of marrying the widow, but didn't because Spring came and brought the girl. All through the characterisation is good, but not quite as convincing as in earlier volumes. Jim is a little too crude for a good Australian bush type; the girl doesn't matter enough; Ben Murray is a bit conventional; and the widow is just a widow. Bob Blair is the best picture - Bob and the dog. But the verse hardly keeps up. There is more tendency to fall into the commonplace and let things go when a little careful work would have lifted the whole stanza.

Still, Jim is likely to be very popular, He is a lot more respectable than the "Bloke," and the respectable is seldom the picturesque: but he has enough vigor and interest, in spite of all, to hold the attention from first page to last.

Take some samples. This is how the feeling of Spring getting into Jim's blood is described:-

But where's the call to think of strife with such good things about?
The gum-leaves are a-twinkle as the sun comes peepin' out.
   The blue-cap's in an' out the fern, red robin's on the gate,
   An' who could hear the song of them a hold a thought of hate?
Oh, it's Mornin'! Mornin'! No time for thinkin' wrong.
An' I'd be scared to strike a man, I feel so awful strong.


Grey thrush is in the wattle, an' it's, "O, you pretty dear!"
He's callin' to his little wife, an' don't care who should hear
   In the great bush, the fresh bush, washed again with dew.
   An' my axe is on my shoulder, an' there's work ahead to do.
Oh, it's Mornin'! Singin' Mornin'! in the land I count the best,
An' with the heart an' mind of me I'm singin' with the rest. 

Not quite the speech of the bushman that, but a better imitation than much that has seen print in prose works. This is from Jim's contest with the widow:-

I'm longin' for a breather, for I've done my nerve a lot,
When suddenly she starts on "Love," an' makes the pace reel hot.
   In half a jiff she has me on the ropes, an' breathin' hard,
   With not a fight inside me - I can only duck an' guard.


She uppercuts me with a sigh, an' jabs me with a glance.
(When a widow is the fighter, has a single bloke a chance?)
   Her short-arm blows are amorous, most lovin' is her lunge;
   Until it's just a touch an' go I don't throw up the sponge.

When Ben Murray lay dying Bob Blair stood by him:-

With a hard hand, woman-kind,
   He pushed back the sweaty hair.
"Now then, laddie, ease your mind,
   Pain will end for you out There. . . ."
An' the smile on Blair's rough face
Was a blessin' an' a grace.

There is no verse in this book with greater distinction that that; but there is a good deal that is of a lower standard. Dennis will add nothing to his laurels by Jim of the Hills, but he will hold the circle of readers that he has won. There are a couple of illustrations in color by Hal Gye, and the book is excellently printed.

The Bulletin, 18 December 1919, red page