A Day on a Selection

"A Day on a Selection" by Henry Lawson is a vivid short story that captures the life and struggles of a rural family in Australia. Set against the backdrop of the harsh bush landscape, the narrative explores themes of hardship, resilience, and the intimate connection between people and their land. Through rich descriptions and a keen observation of character, Lawson highlights the challenges faced by settlers, particularly in relation to their work and the relentless demands of nature. The story serves as a poignant reflection on the Australian experience and the enduring spirit of its people.

• Short story

								
The scene is a small New South Wales western selection, the holder
whereof is native-English. His wife is native-Irish. Time, Sunday, about
8 a.m. A used-up looking woman comes from the slab-and-bark house, turns
her face towards the hillside, and shrieks:

“T-o-o-mmay!”

No response, and presently she draws a long breath and screams again:

“Tomm-a-a-y!”

A faint echo comes from far up the siding where Tommy's presence is
vaguely indicated by half a dozen cows moving slowly--very slowly--down
towards the cow-yard.

The woman retires. Ten minutes later she comes out again and screams:

“Tommy!

“Y-e-e-a-a-s-s!” very passionately and shrilly.

“Ain't you goin' to bring those cows down to-day?”

“Y-e-e-a-a-s-s-s!--carn't yer see I'm comin'?”

A boy is seen to run wildly along the siding and hurl a missile at a
feeding cow; the cow runs forward a short distance through the trees,
and then stops to graze again while the boy stirs up another milker.

An hour goes by.

The rising Australian generation is represented by a thin, lanky youth
of about fifteen. He is milking. The cow-yard is next the house, and is
mostly ankle-deep in slush. The boy drives a dusty, discouraged-looking
cow into the bail, and pins her head there; then he gets tackle on to
her right hind leg, hauls it back, and makes it fast to the fence.
There are eleven cows, but not one of them can be milked out of the
bail--chiefly because their teats are sore. The selector does not
know what makes the teats sore, but he has an unquestioning faith in a
certain ointment, recommended to him by a man who knows less about
cows than he does himself, which he causes to be applied at irregular
intervals--leaving the mode of application to the discretion of his son.
Meanwhile the teats remain sore.

Having made the cow fast, the youngster cautiously takes hold of the
least sore teat, yanks it suddenly, and dodges the cow's hock. When he
gets enough milk to dip his dirty hands in, he moistens the teats, and
things go on more smoothly. Now and then he relieves the monotony of
his occupation by squirting at the eye of a calf which is dozing in the
adjacent pen. Other times he milks into his mouth. Every time the cow
kicks, a burr or a grass-seed or a bit of something else falls into the
milk, and the boy drowns these things with a well-directed stream--on
the principle that what's out of sight is out of mind.

Sometimes the boy sticks his head into the cow's side, hangs on by a
teat, and dozes, while the bucket, mechanically gripped between his
knees, sinks lower and lower till it rests on the ground. Likely as
not he'll doze on until his mother's shrill voice startles him with an
inquiry as to whether he intends to get that milking done to-day; other
times he is roused by the plunging of the cow, or knocked over by a calf
which has broken through a defective panel in the pen. In the latter
case the youth gets tackle on to the calf, detaches its head from the
teat with the heel of his boot, and makes it fast somewhere. Sometimes
the cow breaks or loosens the leg-rope and gets her leg into the bucket
and then the youth clings desperately to the pail and hopes she'll get
her hoof out again without spilling the milk. Sometimes she does, more
often she doesn't--it depends on the strength of the boy and the pail
and on the strategy of the former. Anyway, the boy will lam the cow down
with a jagged yard shovel, let her out, and bail up another.

When he considers that he has finished milking he lets the cows out
with their calves and carries the milk down to the dairy, where he has
a heated argument with his mother, who--judging from the quantity of
milk--has reason to believe that he has slummed some of the milkers.
This he indignantly denies, telling her she knows very well the cows are
going dry.

The dairy is built of rotten box bark--though there is plenty of good
stringy-bark within easy distance--and the structure looks as if it
wants to lie down and is only prevented by three crooked props on the
leaning side; more props will soon be needed in the rear for the dairy
shows signs of going in that direction. The milk is set in dishes made
of kerosene-tins, cut in halves, which are placed on bark shelves fitted
round against the walls. The shelves are not level and the dishes are
brought to a comparatively horizontal position by means of chips and
bits of bark, inserted under the lower side. The milk is covered by
soiled sheets of old newspapers supported on sticks laid across the
dishes. This protection is necessary, because the box bark in the roof
has crumbled away and left fringed holes--also because the fowls roost
up there. Sometimes the paper sags, and the cream may have to be scraped
off an article on dairy farming.

The selector's wife removes the newspapers, and reveals a thick, yellow
layer of rich cream, plentifully peppered with dust that has drifted in
somehow. She runs a forefinger round the edges of the cream to detach it
from the tin, wipes her finger in her mouth, and skims. If the milk and
cream are very thick she rolls the cream over like a pancake with her
fingers, and lifts it out in sections. The thick milk is poured into a
slop-bucket, for the pigs and calves, the dishes are “cleaned”--by the
aid of a dipper full of warm water and a rag--and the wife proceeds
to set the morning's milk. Tom holds up the doubtful-looking rag that
serves as a strainer while his mother pours in the milk. Sometimes the
boy's hands get tired and he lets some of the milk run over, and gets
into trouble; but it doesn't matter much, for the straining-cloth has
several sizable holes in the middle.

The door of the dairy faces the dusty road and is off its hinges and has
to be propped up. The prop is missing this morning, and Tommy is accused
of having been seen chasing old Poley with it at an earlier hour. He
never seed the damn prop, never chased no cow with it, and wants to know
what's the use of always accusing him. He further complains that he's
always blamed for everything. The pole is not forthcoming, and so an old
dray is backed against the door to keep it in position. There is more
trouble about a cow that is lost, and hasn't been milked for two days.
The boy takes the cows up to the paddock sliprails and lets the top rail
down: the lower rail fits rather tightly and some exertion is
required to free it, so he makes the animals jump that one. Then he
“poddies”--hand-feeds--the calves which have been weaned too early.
He carries the skim-milk to the yard in a bucket made out of an
oil-drum--sometimes a kerosene-tin--seizes a calf by the nape of the
neck with his left hand, inserts the dirty forefinger of his right
into its mouth, and shoves its head down into the milk. The calf sucks,
thinking it has a teat, and pretty soon it butts violently--as calves do
to remind their mothers to let down the milk--and the boy's wrist gets
barked against the jagged edge of the bucket. He welts that calf in the
jaw, kicks it in the stomach, tries to smother it with its nose in the

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