Stragglers

"Stragglers" is a collection of short stories by Australian author Henry Lawson, published in 1901. This anthology captures the struggles and realities of rural life in Australia, highlighting the experiences of the marginalized and the harsh conditions faced by those living in the outback. Lawson’s vivid storytelling and keen observations portray the resilience of individuals, often focusing on themes of isolation, hardship, and the enduring spirit of the Australian people. Through his rich characters and evocative language, Lawson provides a poignant glimpse into the lives of stragglers—those who fall behind or are left out in the rapidly changing social landscape of early 20th-century Australia.

• Short story

								
An oblong hut, walled with blue-grey hardwood slabs, adzed at the ends
and set horizontally between the round sapling studs; high roof of the
eternal galvanized iron. A big rubbish heap lies about a yard to the
right of the door, which opens from the middle of one of the side walls;
it might be the front or the back wall--there is nothing to fix it.
Two rows of rough bunks run round three sides of the interior; and a
fire-place occupies one end--the kitchen end. Sleeping, eating, gambling
and cooking accommodation for thirty men in about eighteen by forty
feet.

The rouseabouts and shearers use the hut in common during shearing.
Down the centre of the place runs a table made of stakes driven into the
ground, with cross-pieces supporting a top of half-round slabs set with
the flat sides up, and affording a few level places for soup-plates; on
each side are crooked, unbarked poles laid in short forks, to serve as
seats. The poles are worn smoothest opposite the level places on the
table. The floor is littered with rubbish--old wool-bales, newspapers,
boots, worn-out shearing pants, rough bedding, etc., raked out of the
bunks in impatient search for missing articles--signs of a glad and
eager departure with cheques when the shed last cut out.

To the west is a dam, holding back a broad, shallow sheet of grey water,
with dead trees standing in it.

Further up along this water is a brush shearing-shed, a rough framework
of poles with a brush roof. This kind of shed has the advantage of being
cooler than iron. It is not rain-proof, but shearers do not work in
rainy weather; shearing even slightly damp sheep is considered the
surest and quickest way to get the worst kind of rheumatism. The floor
is covered with rubbish from the roof, and here and there lies a rusty
pair of shears. A couple of dry tar-pots hang by nails in the posts. The
“board” is very uneven and must be bad for sweeping. The pens are formed
by round, crooked stakes driven into the ground in irregular lines, and
the whole business reminds us of the “cubby-house” style of architecture
of our childhood.

Opposite stands the wool-shed, built entirely of galvanized iron; a
blinding object to start out of the scrub on a blazing, hot day. God
forgive the man who invented galvanized iron, and the greed which
introduced it into Australia: you could not get worse roofing material
for a hot country.

The wool-washing, soap-boiling, and wool-pressing arrangements are
further up the dam. “Government House” is a mile away, and is nothing
better than a bush hut; this station belongs to a company. And the
company belongs to a bank. And the banks belong to England, mostly.

Mulga scrub all round, and, in between, patches of reddish sand where
the grass ought to be.

It is New Year's Eve. Half a dozen travellers are camping in the hut,
having a spell. They need it, for there are twenty miles of dry lignum
plain between here and the government bore to the east; and about
eighteen miles of heavy, sandy, cleared road north-west to the next
water in that direction. With one exception, the men do not seem hard
up; at least, not as that condition is understood by the swagmen of
these times. The least lucky one of the lot had three weeks' work in a
shed last season, and there might probably be five pounds amongst the
whole crowd. They are all shearers, or at least they say they are. Some
might be only “rousers.”

These men have a kind of stock hope of getting a few stragglers to shear
somewhere; but their main object is to live till next shearing. In order
to do this they must tramp for tucker, and trust to the regulation--and
partly mythical--pint of flour, and bit of meat, or tea and sugar, and
to the goodness of cooks and storekeepers and boundary-riders. You can
only depend on getting tucker once at one place; then you must tramp
on to the next. If you cannot get it once you must go short; but there
is a lot of energy in an empty stomach. If you get an extra supply you
may camp for a day and have a spell. To live you must walk. To cease
walking is to die.

The Exception is an outcast amongst bush outcasts, and looks better
fitted for Sydney Domain. He lies on the bottom of a galvanized-iron
case, with a piece of blue blanket for a pillow. He is dressed in a blue
cotton jumper, a pair of very old and ragged tweed trousers, and one
boot and one slipper. He found the slipper in the last shed, and the
boot in the rubbish-heap here. When his own boots gave out he walked
a hundred and fifty miles with his feet roughly sewn up in pieces of
sacking from an old wool-bale. No sign of a patch, or an attempt at
mending anywhere about his clothes, and that is a bad sign; when a
swagman leaves off mending or patching his garments, his case is about
hopeless. The Exception's swag consists of the aforesaid bit of blanket
rolled up and tied with pieces of rag. He has no water-bag; carries
his water in a billy; and how he manages without a bag is known only to
himself. He has read every scrap of print within reach, and now lies on
his side, with his face to the wall and one arm thrown up over his
head; the jumper is twisted back, and leaves his skin bare from hip to
arm-pit. His lower face is brutal, his eyes small and shifty, and ugly
straight lines run across his low forehead. He says very little, but
scowls most of the time--poor devil. He might be, or at least seem, a
totally different man under more favourable conditions. He is probably a
free labourer.

A very sick jackaroo lies in one of the bunks. A sandy, sawney-looking
Bourke native takes great interest in this wreck; watches his every
movement as though he never saw a sick man before. The men lie about in
the bunks, or the shade of the hut, and rest, and read all the soiled
and mutilated scraps of literature they can rake out of the rubbish, and
sleep, and wake up swimming in perspiration, and growl about the heat.

It is hot, and two shearers' cats--a black and a white one--sit in one
of the upper bunks with their little red tongues out, panting like dogs.
These cats live well during shearing, and take their chances the rest of
the year--just as shed rouseabouts have to do. They seem glad to see
the traveller come; he makes things more homelike. They curl and sidle
affectionately round the table-legs, and the legs of the men, and purr,
and carry their masts up, and regard the cooking with feline interest
and approval, and look as cheerful as cats can--and as contented. God
knows how many tired, dusty, and sockless ankles they rub against in
their time.

Now and then a man takes his tucker-bags and goes down to the station
for a bit of flour, or meat, or tea, or sugar, choosing the time when
the manager is likely to be out on the run. The cook here is a “good
cook,” from a traveller's point of view; too good to keep his place
long.

Occasionally someone gets some water in an old kerosene-tin and washes
a shirt or pair of trousers, and a pair or two of socks--or
foot-rags--(Prince Alfreds they call them). That is, he soaks some of

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes