It was a portly passenger, he had a double chin;
   A ruddy man with wrinkles that implied a comic bent.
He called a crier to him, and he bought a Bulletin,
   And the picked his seat, and squatted with an air of sweet content.


He filled his pipe and lit it, and he took a pull of "pap"
   As the steamer churned the smells up (Yah! the odour made me sneeze),
Then he doffed his glossy "topper," hid his baldness in a cap,
   Donned a wrap, and reared his heels up, blew a cloud, and sat at ease.


From the prow I gazed upon him.  "Here's a good old sort," I said,
   As he beamed with calm enjoyment on a illustrated page;
But presently he started, and the bland contentment fled
   From his ruddy face, and left it blank, perplexed, then black with rage.


He looked once more and snorted, and the down upon the deck
   He hurled the paper, cursing in a way that gave me pain.
For an hour at least his mutterings of wrath he could not check,
   And I watched him through the journey, and he never smiled again.


"Alas!" me thoguht, "what bigots are these men of means and weight,
   How intolerant, how selfish, and how narrow in their view,"
I secured the tattered journal, and my eye fell on the date,
   It was set forth on the cover - "Sydney, April, '92."

"Silas Snell"
The Bulletin, 2 June 1894, p14