Enter Mitchell

"Enter Mitchell" is a short story by Australian author Henry Lawson, reflecting the struggles and experiences of Australian life in the late 19th century. The narrative follows the character of Mitchell, who represents the everyman facing the challenges of rural existence, work, and interpersonal relationships. Through Lawson's vivid storytelling and keen observations, the story explores themes of resilience, human connection, and the harsh realities of life in the Australian bush, all while capturing the unique landscape and spirit of the time. It is a poignant portrayal of the individual’s quest for meaning and belonging amidst adversity.

• Short story

								
The Western train had just arrived at Redfern railway station with a lot
of ordinary passengers and one swagman.

He was short, and stout, and bow-legged, and freckled, and sandy. He had
red hair and small, twinkling, grey eyes, and--what often goes with such
things--the expression of a born comedian. He was dressed in a ragged,
well-washed print shirt, an old black waistcoat with a calico back, a
pair of cloudy moleskins patched at the knees and held up by a plaited
greenhide belt buckled loosely round his hips, a pair of well-worn,
fuzzy blucher boots, and a soft felt hat, green with age, and with no
brim worth mentioning, and no crown to speak of. He swung a swag on to
the platform, shouldered it, pulled out a billy and water-bag, and then
went to a dog-box in the brake van.

Five minutes later he appeared on the edge of the cab platform, with an
anxious-looking cattle-dog crouching against his legs, and one end of
the chain in his hand. He eased down the swag against a post, turned
his face to the city, tilted his hat forward, and scratched the
well-developed back of his head with a little finger. He seemed
undecided what track to take.

“Cab, Sir!”

The swagman turned slowly and regarded cabby with a quiet grin.

“Now, do I look as if I want a cab?”

“Well, why not? No harm, anyway--I thought you might want a cab.”

Swaggy scratched his head, reflectively.

“Well,” he said, “you're the first man that has thought so these ten
years. What do I want with a cab?”

“To go where you're going, of course.”

“Do I look knocked up?”

“I didn't say you did.”

“And I didn't say you said I did.... Now, I've been on the track this
five years. I've tramped two thousan' miles since last Chris'mas, and I
don't see why I can't tramp the last mile. Do you think my old dog wants
a cab?”

The dog shivered and whimpered; he seemed to want to get away from the
crowd.

“But then, you see, you ain't going to carry that swag through the
streets, are you?” asked the cabman.

“Why not? Who'll stop me! There ain't no law agin it, I b'lieve?”

“But then, you see, it don't look well, you know.”

“Ah! I thought we'd get to it at last.”

The traveller up-ended his bluey against his knee, gave it an
affectionate pat, and then straightened himself up and looked fixedly at
the cabman.

“Now, look here!” he said, sternly and impressively, “can you see
anything wrong with that old swag o' mine?”

It was a stout, dumpy swag, with a red blanket outside, patched with
blue, and the edge of a blue blanket showing in the inner rings at the
end. The swag might have been newer; it might have been cleaner;
it might have been hooped with decent straps, instead of bits of
clothes-line and greenhide--but otherwise there was nothing the matter
with it, as swags go.

“I've humped that old swag for years,” continued the bushman; “I've
carried that old swag thousands of miles--as that old dog knows--an'
no one ever bothered about the look of it, or of me, or of my old dog,
neither; and do you think I'm going to be ashamed of that old swag,
for a cabby or anyone else? Do you think I'm going to study anybody's
feelings? No one ever studied mine! I'm in two minds to summon you for
using insulting language towards me!”

He lifted the swag by the twisted towel which served for a
shoulder-strap, swung it into the cab, got in himself and hauled the dog
after him.

“You can drive me somewhere where I can leave my swag and dog while I
get some decent clothes to see a tailor in,” he said to the cabman. “My
old dog ain't used to cabs, you see.”

Then he added, reflectively: “I drove a cab myself, once, for five years
in Sydney.”
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