"A great-horned ram, in poor condition, but shorn of a heavy fleece, picks himself up at the foot of the `shoot', and hesitates, as if ashamed to go down to the other end where the ewes are.
The most ridiculous object under Heaven.
"A tar-boy of fifteen, of the bush, with a mouth so vile that a street-boy, same age (up with a shearing uncle), kicks him behind -- having proved his superiority with his fists before the shed started.
Of which unspeakable little fiend the roughest shearer of a rough shed was heard to say, in effect, that if he thought there was the slightest possibility of his becoming the father of such a boy he'd ---- take drastic measures to prevent the possibility of his becoming a proud parent at all.
"Twice a day the cooks and their familiars carry buckets of oatmeal-water and tea to the shed, two each on a yoke.
We cry, `Where are you coming to, my pretty maids?'
"In ten minutes the surfaces of the buckets are black with flies.
We have given over trying to keep them clear. We stir the living cream aside with the bottoms of the pints, and guzzle gallons, and sweat it out again.
Occasionally a shearer pauses and throws the perspiration from his forehead in a rain.
"Shearers live in such a greedy rush of excitement that often a strong man will, at a prick of the shears, fall in a death-like faint on the board.
"We hate the Boss-of-the-Board as the shearers' `slushy' hates the shearers' cook. I don't know why. He's a very fair boss.
"He refused to put on a traveller yesterday, and the traveller knocked him down. He walked into the shed this morning with his hat back and thumbs in waistcoat -- a tribute to man's weakness.
He threatened to dismiss the traveller's mate, a bigger man, for rough shearing -- a tribute to man's strength. The shearer said nothing.
We hate the boss because he IS boss, but we respect him because he is a strong man. He is as hard up as any of us, I hear, and has a sick wife and a large, small family in Melbourne. God judge us all!
"There is a gambling-school here, headed by the shearers' cook.
After tea they head-'em, and advance cheques are passed from hand to hand, and thrown in the dust until they are black. When it's too dark to see with nose to the ground, they go inside and gamble with cards.
Sometimes they start on Saturday afternoon, heading 'em till dark, play cards all night, start again heading 'em Sunday afternoon, play cards all Sunday night, and sleep themselves sane on Monday, or go to work ghastly -- like dead men.
"Cry of `Fight'; we all rush out. But there isn't much fighting.
Afraid of murdering each other. I'm beginning to think that most bush crime is due to irritation born of dust, heat, and flies.
"The smothering atmosphere shudders when the sun goes down.
We call it the sunset breeze.
"Saturday night or Sunday we're invited into the shearers' hut.
There are songs that are not hymns and recitations and speeches that are not prayers.
"Last Sunday night: Slush lamps at long intervals on table.
Men playing cards, sewing on patches -- (nearly all smoking) -- some writing, and the rest reading Deadwood Dick. At one end of the table a Christian Endeavourer endeavouring; at the other a cockney Jew, from the hawker's boat, trying to sell rotten clothes.
In response to complaints, direct and not chosen generally for Sunday, the shearers' rep. requests both apostles to shut up or leave.
"He couldn't be expected to take the Christian and leave the Jew, any more than he could take the Jew and leave the Christian.
We are just amongst ourselves in our hell.
. . . . .
"Fiddle at the end of rouseabouts' hut. Voice of Jackeroo, from upper bunk with apologetic oaths: `For God's sake chuck that up; it makes a man think of blanky old things!'
"A lost soul laughs (mine) and dreadful night smothers us."
