In a Wet Season

"In a Wet Season" is a poignant short story by Henry Lawson, a prominent Australian writer known for his vivid depictions of rural life and the struggles of common people. The narrative unfolds against the backdrop of the Australian bush during a particularly rainy season, illustrating the challenges faced by a group of characters grappling with isolation, hardship, and the harsh realities of life. Through rich descriptions and heartfelt dialogue, Lawson explores themes of resilience, human connection, and the profound impact of nature on everyday existence, making it a quintessential reflection of the Australian experience.

• Short story

								
It was raining--“general rain.”

The train left Bourke, and then there began the long, long agony of
scrub and wire fence, with here and there a natural clearing, which
seemed even more dismal than the funereal “timber” itself. The only
thing which might seem in keeping with one of these soddened flats would
be the ghost of a funeral--a city funeral with plain hearse and string
of cabs--going very slowly across from the scrub on one side to the
scrub on the other. Sky like a wet, grey blanket; plains like dead seas,
save for the tufts of coarse grass sticking up out of the water; scrub
indescribably dismal--everything damp, dark, and unspeakably dreary.

Somewhere along here we saw a swagman's camp--a square of calico
stretched across a horizontal stick, some rags steaming on another stick
in front of a fire, and two billies to the leeward of the blaze. We knew
by instinct that there was a piece of beef in the larger one. Small,
hopeless-looking man standing with his back to the fire, with his
hands behind him, watching the train; also, a damp, sorry-looking dingo
warming itself and shivering by the fire. The rain had held up for a
while. We saw two or three similar camps further on, forming a temporary
suburb of Byrock.

The population was on the platform in old overcoats and damp, soft felt
hats; one trooper in a waterproof. The population looked cheerfully and
patiently dismal. The local push had evidently turned up to see off some
fair enslavers from the city, who had been up-country for the cheque
season, now over. They got into another carriage. We were glad when the
bell rang.

The rain recommenced. We saw another swagman about a mile on struggling
away from the town, through mud and water. He did not seem to have heart
enough to bother about trying to avoid the worst mud-holes. There was a
low-spirited dingo at his heels, whose sole object in life was seemingly
to keep his front paws in his master's last footprint. The traveller's
body was bent well forward from the hips up; his long arms--about six
inches through his coat sleeves--hung by his sides like the arms of a
dummy, with a billy at the end of one and a bag at the end of the
other; but his head was thrown back against the top end of the swag, his
hat-brim rolled up in front, and we saw a ghastly, beardless face which
turned neither to the right nor the left as the train passed him.

After a long while we closed our book, and looking through the window,
saw a hawker's turn-out which was too sorrowful for description.

We looked out again while the train was going slowly, and saw a
teamster's camp: three or four wagons covered with tarpaulins which hung
down in the mud all round and suggested death. A long, narrow man, in a
long, narrow, shoddy overcoat and a damp felt hat, was walking quickly
along the road past the camp. A sort of cattle-dog glided silently and
swiftly out from under a wagon, “heeled” the man, and slithered back
without explaining. Here the scene vanished.

We remember stopping--for an age it seemed--at half a dozen straggling
shanties on a flat of mud and water. There was a rotten weather-board
pub, with a low, dripping veranda, and three wretchedly forlorn horses
hanging, in the rain, to a post outside. We saw no more, but we knew
that there were several apologies for men hanging about the rickety bar
inside--or round the parlour fire. Streams of cold, clay-coloured water
ran in all directions, cutting fresh gutters, and raising a yeasty froth
whenever the water fell a few inches. As we left, we saw a big man in an
overcoat riding across a culvert; the tails of the coat spread over the
horse's rump, and almost hid it. In fancy still we saw him--hanging up
his weary, hungry little horse in the rain, and swaggering into the bar;
and we almost heard someone say, in a drawling tone: “'Ello, Tom! 'Ow
are yer poppin' up?”'

The train stopped (for about a year) within a mile of the next station.
Trucking-yards in the foreground, like any other trucking-yard along the
line; they looked drearier than usual, because the rain had darkened
the posts and rails. Small plain beyond, covered with water and tufts
of grass. The inevitable, God-forgotten “timber,” black in the distance;
dull, grey sky and misty rain over all. A small, dark-looking flock
of sheep was crawling slowly in across the flat from the unknown, with
three men on horse-back zigzagging patiently behind. The horses just
moved--that was all. One man wore an oilskin, one an old tweed overcoat,
and the third had a three-bushel bag over his head and shoulders.

Had we returned an hour later, we should have seen the sheep huddled
together in a corner of the yard, and the three horses hanging up
outside the local shanty.

We stayed at Nyngan--which place we refrain from sketching--for a few
hours, because the five trucks of cattle of which we were in charge
were shunted there, to be taken on by a very subsequent goods train.
The Government allows one man to every five trucks in a cattle-train. We
shall pay our fare next time, even if we have not a shilling left over
and above. We had haunted local influence at Comanavadrink for two long,
anxious, heart-breaking weeks ere we got the pass; and we had put up
with all the indignities, the humiliation--in short, had suffered
all that poor devils suffer whilst besieging Local Influence. We only
thought of escaping from the bush.

The pass said that we were John Smith, drover, and that we were
available for return by ordinary passenger-train within two days, we
think--or words in that direction. Which didn't interest us. We might
have given the pass away to an unemployed in Orange, who wanted to go
out back, and who begged for it with tears in his eyes; but we didn't
like to injure a poor fool who never injured us--who was an entire
stranger to us. He didn't know what Out Back meant.

Local Influence had given us a kind of note of introduction to be
delivered to the cattle-agent at the yards that morning; but the agent
was not there--only two of his satellites, a Cockney colonial-experience
man, and a scrub-town clerk, both of whom we kindly ignore. We got on
without the note, and at Orange we amused ourself by reading it. It
said:

“Dear Old Man--Please send this beggar on; and I hope he'll be landed
safely at Orange--or--or wherever the cattle go--yours,---”

We had been led to believe that the bullocks were going to Sydney. We
took no further interest in those cattle.

After Nyngan the bush grew darker and drearier; and the plains more
like ghastly oceans; and here and there the “dominant note of Australian
scenery” was accentuated, as it were, by naked, white, ring-barked trees
standing in the water and haunting the ghostly surroundings.

We spent that night in a passenger compartment of a van which had been
originally attached to old No. 1 engine. There was only one damp cushion
in the whole concern. We lent that to a lady who travelled for a few
hours in the other half of the next compartment. The seats were about

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes