Stragglers Page #2

"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

								

the stiffness out of these articles.

Three times a day the black billies and cloudy nose-bags are placed on
the table. The men eat in a casual kind of way, as though it were only
a custom of theirs, a matter of form--a habit which could be left off if
it were worth while.

The Exception is heard to remark to no one in particular that he'll give
all he has for a square meal.

“An' ye'd get it cheap, begod!” says a big Irish shearer. “Come and have
dinner with us; there's plenty there.”

But the Exception only eats a few mouthfuls, and his appetite is gone;
his stomach has become contracted, perhaps.

The Wreck cannot eat at all, and seems internally disturbed by the sight
of others eating.

One of the men is a cook, and this morning he volunteered good-naturedly
to bake bread for the rest. His mates amuse themselves by chyacking him.

“I've heard he's a dirty and slow cook,” says one, addressing Eternity.

“Ah!” says the cook, “you'll be glad to come to me for a pint of flour
when I'm cooking and you're on the track, some day.”

Sunset. Some of the men sit at the end of the hut to get the full
benefit of a breeze which comes from the west. A great bank of
rain-clouds is rising in that direction, but no one says he thinks it
will rain; neither does anybody think we're going to have some rain.
None but the greenest jackaroo would venture that risky and foolish
observation. Out here, it can look more like rain without raining, and
continue to do so for a longer time, than in most other places.

The Wreck went down to the station this afternoon to get some medicine
and bush medical advice. The Bourke sawney helped him to do up his swag;
he did it with an awed look and manner, as though he thought it a great
distinction to be allowed to touch the belongings of such a curiosity.
It was afterwards generally agreed that it was a good idea for the Wreck
to go to the station; he would get some physic and, a bit of tucker to
take him on. “For they'll give tucker to a sick man sooner than to a
chap what's all right.”

The Exception is rooting about in the rubbish for the other blucher
boot.

The men get a little more sociable, and “feel” each other to find out
who's “Union,” and talk about water, and exchange hints as to good
tucker-tracks, and discuss the strike, and curse the squatter (which
is all they have got to curse), and growl about Union leaders, and tell
lies against each other sociably. There are tally lies; and lies about
getting tucker by trickery; and long-tramp-with-heavy-swag-and-no-water
lies; and lies about getting the best of squatters and
bosses-over-the-board; and droving, fighting, racing, gambling and
drinking lies. Lies ad libitum; and every true Australian bushman must
try his best to tell a bigger out-back lie than the last bush-liar.

Pat is not quite easy in his mind. He found an old pair of pants in the
scrub this morning, and cannot decide whether they are better than his
own, or, rather, whether his own are worse--if that's possible. He does
not want to increase the weight of his swag unnecessarily by taking both
pairs. He reckons that the pants were thrown away when the shed cut out
last, but then they might have been lying out exposed to the weather
for a longer period. It is rather an important question, for it is very
annoying, after you've mended and patched an old pair of pants, to find,
when a day or two further on the track, that they are more rotten than
the pair you left behind.

There is some growling about the water here, and one of the men makes a
billy of tea. The water is better cooked. Pint-pots and sugar-bags
are groped out and brought to the kitchen hut, and each man fills his
pannikin; the Irishman keeps a thumb on the edge of his, so as to
know when the pot is full, for it is very dark, and there is no more
firewood. You soon know this way, especially if you are in the habit of
pressing lighted tobacco down into your pipe with the top of your thumb.
The old slush-lamps are all burnt out.

Each man feels for the mouth of his sugar-bag with one hand while he
keeps the bearings of his pot with the other.

The Irishman has lost his match-box, and feels for it all over the table
without success. He stoops down with his hands on his knees, gets the
table-top on a level with the flicker of firelight, and “moons” the
object, as it were.

Time to turn in. It is very dark inside and bright moonlight without;
every crack seems like a ghost peering in. Some of the men will roll
up their swags on the morrow and depart; some will take another day's
spell. It is all according to the tucker.
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