VIII. Shearing Time

On la tond,
On la tond,
La laine du mouton.

Ronde enfantine.

For some days we have scarcely seen anything of Mr. Deslandes. It is the busiest time of the year on the station, and his attention is given wholly to the shearing.

All the outbuildings have been opened up—the sheds, the packing rooms where the wool is compressed into bales, and the quarters for the shearers, who have arrived in a body.

Despite my uncle’s protests, I am going to watch the sheep being shorn.

It is a weird sight! Once is sufficient; I do not wish to repeat the experience. There is something so savage and bestial in the scene. Half-naked men rushing wildly about, waving their arms and shouting like demons in the midst of bleating, terrified sheep; the atmosphere of steaming humanity, of pungent animal odours, of blood even, for now and then a poor beast is wounded by the shears. It mounts to one’s brain, intoxicating and revolting at the same time.

I could not look on for more than a few minutes, and not until I have had a long gallop on Said, inhaling great draughts of the saline air which blows across the lake from the Southern Ocean, do I feel clean and fresh again.

Hector never fails to be home at this time. He organises concerts and other amusements in the large common room set apart for the shearers.

Some of the men have fine voices, untrained but clear and resonant, developed in sunshine and liberty. Sometimes lantern pictures are thrown on the wall, and it is always a marvel to me to see these big children of the bush so interested in Old World pictures. Snow scenes especially arouse their wonder and admiration, and a thoughtful face here and there indicates that memory is back among the half-effaced scenes of childhood. The phonograph is brought into requisition, and a dance generally winds up the evening’s fun—a dance with men only, like those on board a man-of-war.

What a strange nomadic people are these shearers! Journeying from station to station, traversing Australia from north to south, according to the seasons, rough, uncouth and violent, with quick passions, counting on the need of their services to make their own terms with the squatters! Poor people! I can scarcely blame them; their lives are hard, their work strenuous.

Many have no greater ambition or hope than to “knock down” the cheque so laboriously earned, in the nearest bar, which, thanks to the machinations of the publican and the seductions of the barmaid, they only leave when their last penny is gone.... I heard of the wife of a wealthy hotel-keeper who actually sat down and cried with vexation because a shearer left the hotel with thirty shillings still in his pocket.

Then the journey to the next station is resumed, and the same pitiful comedy, I might almost say tragedy, is re-enacted.

Comparatively few return to the cities. The shearing season over, the majority still tramp from station to station, arriving generally about sunset, and asking a meal and a night’s lodging which are rarely refused. Hence the expressive name given to them—Sundowners.

What is the secret spell which this silent and mysterious land of far distances weaves around these Bohemians of the Bush who prefer to cook their simple meals and boil their “billy” on the track, sleeping at night under a stately gum, through whose pendant leaves filters the soft light of the Southern Cross?

Few abandon the life—they may go to the capital occasionally for a “jolly spree,” as they call it, but the Spirit of the Bush calls with insistent voice; an unseen presence is on the trail, and they must fain follow.

The need of affection drives them to seek companionship with another “mate,” that expressive word which indicates a community of interest, affection and fidelity.

One meets them thus in couples, helping each other through difficult moments, sharing alike good and bad fortune, tending each other in illness until, perhaps, the summons of the Dread Spectre calls for the last service which faithful hands can give. The Bush has its silent, secret language, known only to its initiates. A cross, rudely cut in a tree above an initial, may be passed quite unsuspectingly by an outsider, but the bushman knows that it marks the last resting-place of an unknown comrade, and his hat is reverently raised as he passes on. So, too, may he sleep in the deep stillness.

I am never tired of listening to Hector.

Full of sympathy himself, he possesses the rare gift of evoking it in others. His interest in the material welfare of the men on the station is as keen as his desire to awaken the religious instinct in their hearts.

In the daytime when every one is busy we resume our rides. My aunt, whom I am afraid of neglecting, is the first to find a pretext for sending us off together. Placing her pretty hand on my shoulder, she said to me this morning:

“I am so happy that my two children get on so well together; that is right, enjoy your youth.”

Sometimes Hector takes me for a row on the lake.

Neither lofty mountains nor far vistas move me so deeply as a little rocky inlet by the seashore, a turn of the river bordered with poplars, or a tiny stream babbling under willows.

Is it the magnetism of the water, its fluidity, its incessant movement, the latent life which is imprisoned? Or is it simply the interchanging play of light and shadow which gives it a new aspect every moment?

Our corner of the lake is fringed with weeping willows, whose tender green tassels contrast vividly with the dull-toned gum trees.

Mooring our boat to the trunk of a tree, we pass long hours on the unruffled water.

Hector is initiating me into the beauties of Burns, Keats and Shelley, the obscurities of Browning, whom he admires above all; the lofty socialism of Ruskin, which strongly appeals to me.

We discuss the perennial disputes between England and France, and compare Shakespeare and Victor Hugo.

Naturally, the national poet of each is exalted in turn.

“Shakespeare!” exclaims Hector, rhetorically; “the myriad-minded, the Seer of the Ages, whose intellect resolved the secrets of Humanity, whose sympathy softened them into music. His soul is the garner-house of immemorial experiences.”

To which I reply:

“Victor Hugo, ‘the Poet of the Soul.’ His heart is a lyre which resounds to all vibrations. He loves, he fights, he suffers with all humanity.”