The Bush Undertaker

"The Bush Undertaker" is a short story by Australian author Henry Lawson, exploring themes of isolation, hardship, and the unique challenges faced by those living in the remote Australian bush. The narrative follows the life of a bush undertaker who grapples with the emotional and practical burdens of his profession in a sparsely populated region. Through vivid imagery and rich characterizations, Lawson captures the stark realities of rural life, highlighting the resilience and fortitude of individuals confronted by death and loss in an unforgiving landscape. The story reflects Lawson's enduring insights into the Australian identity and the human condition.

• Short story

								
“Five Bob!”

The old man shaded his eyes and peered through the dazzling glow of that
broiling Christmas Day. He stood just within the door of a slab-and-bark
hut situated upon the bank of a barren creek; sheep-yards lay to the
right, and a low line of bare, brown ridges formed a suitable background
to the scene.

“Five Bob!” shouted he again; and a dusty sheep-dog rose wearily from
the shaded side of the but and looked inquiringly at his master, who
pointed towards some sheep which were straggling from the flock.

“Fetch 'em back,” he said confidently.

The dog went off, and his master returned to the interior of the hut.

“We'll yard 'em early,” he said to himself; “the super won't know. We'll
yard 'em early, and have the arternoon to ourselves.”

“We'll get dinner,” he added, glancing at some pots on the fire. “I cud
do a bit of doughboy, an' that theer boggabri'll eat like tater-marrer
along of the salt meat.” He moved one of the black buckets from the
blaze. “I likes to keep it jist on the sizzle,” he said in explanation
to himself; “hard bilin' makes it tough--I'll keep it jist a-simmerin'.”

Here his soliloquy was interrupted by the return of the dog.

“All right, Five Bob,” said the hatter, “dinner'll be ready dreckly.
Jist keep yer eye on the sheep till I calls yer; keep 'em well rounded
up, an' we'll yard 'em afterwards and have a holiday.”

This speech was accompanied by a gesture evidently intelligible, for the
dog retired as though he understood English, and the cooking proceeded.

“I'll take a pick an' shovel with me an' root up that old blackfellow,”
 mused the shepherd, evidently following up a recent train of thought; “I
reckon it'll do now. I'll put in the spuds.”

The last sentence referred to the cooking, the first to a blackfellow's
grave about which he was curious.

“The sheep's a-campin',” said the soliloquizer, glancing through the
door. “So me an' Five Bob'll be able to get our dinner in peace. I
wish I had just enough fat to make the pan siss; I'd treat myself to a
leather-jacket; but it took three weeks' skimmin' to get enough for them
theer doughboys.”

In due time the dinner was dished up; and the old man seated himself on
a block, with the lid of a gin-case across his knees for a table. Five
Bob squatted opposite with the liveliest interest and appreciation
depicted on his intelligent countenance.

Dinner proceeded very quietly, except when the carver paused to ask the
dog how some tasty morsel went with him, and Five Bob's tail declared
that it went very well indeed.

“Here y'are, try this,” cried the old man, tossing him a large piece of
doughboy. A click of Five Bob's jaws and the dough was gone.

“Clean into his liver!” said the old man with a faint smile. He washed
up the tinware in the water the duff had been boiled in, and then, with
the assistance of the dog, yarded the sheep.

This accomplished, he took a pick and shovel and an old sack, and
started out over the ridge, followed, of course, by his four-legged
mate. After tramping some three miles he reached a spur, running out
from the main ridge. At the extreme end of this, under some gum-trees,
was a little mound of earth, barely defined in the grass, and indented
in the centre as all blackfellows' graves were.

He set to work to dig it up, and sure enough, in about half an hour he
bottomed on payable dirt.

When he had raked up all the bones, he amused himself by putting them
together on the grass and by speculating as to whether they had belonged
to black or white, male or female. Failing, however, to arrive at any
satisfactory conclusion, he dusted them with great care, put them in the
bag, and started for home.

He took a short cut this time over the ridge and down a gully which was
full of ring-barked trees and long white grass. He had nearly reached
its mouth when a great greasy black goanna clambered up a sapling from
under his feet and looked fightable.

“Dang the jumpt-up thing!” cried the old man. “It 'gin me a start!”

At the foot of the sapling he espied an object which he at first
thought was the blackened carcass of a sheep, but on closer examination
discovered to be the body of a man; it lay with its forehead resting on
its hands, dried to a mummy by the intense heat of the western summer.

“Me luck's in for the day and no mistake!” said the shepherd, scratching
the back of his head, while he took stock of the remains. He picked up
a stick and tapped the body on the shoulder; the flesh sounded like
leather. He turned it over on its side; it fell flat on its back like a
board, and the shrivelled eyes seemed to peer up at him from under the
blackened wrists.

He stepped back involuntarily, but, recovering himself, leant on his
stick and took in all the ghastly details.

There was nothing in the blackened features to tell aught of name or
race, but the dress proclaimed the remains to be those of a European.
The old man caught sight of a black bottle in the grass, close beside
the corpse. This set him thinking. Presently he knelt down and examined
the soles of the dead man's blucher boots, and then, rising with an air
of conviction, exclaimed: “Brummy! by gosh!--busted up at last!

“I tole yer so, Brummy,” he said impressively, addressing the corpse.
“I allers told yer as how it 'ud be--an' here y'are, you thundering
jumpt-up cuss-o'-God fool. Yer cud earn more'n any man in the colony,
but yer'd lush it all away. I allers sed as how it 'ud end, an' now yer
kin see fur y'self.

“I spect yer was a-comin' t' me t' get fixt up an' set straight agin;
then yer was a-goin' to swear off, same as yer 'allers did; an' here
y'are, an' now I expect I'll have t' fix yer up for the last time an'
make yer decent, for 'twon't do t' leave yer alyin' out here like a dead
sheep.”

He picked up the corked bottle and examined it. To his great surprise it
was nearly full of rum.

“Well, this gits me,” exclaimed the old man; “me luck's in, this
Christmas, an' no mistake. He must 'a' got the jams early in his
spree, or he wouldn't be a-making for me with near a bottleful left.
Howsomenever, here goes.”

Looking round, his eyes lit up with satisfaction as he saw some bits of
bark which had been left by a party of strippers who had been getting
bark there for the stations. He picked up two pieces, one about four and
the other six feet long, and each about two feet wide, and brought them
over to the body. He laid the longest strip by the side of the corpse,
which he proceeded to lift on to it.

“Come on, Brummy,” he said, in a softer tone than usual, “ye ain't as
bad as yer might be, considerin' as it must be three good months since
yer slipped yer wind. I spect it was the rum as preserved yer. It was
the death of yer when yer was alive, an' now yer dead, it preserves yer
like--like a mummy.”

Then he placed the other strip on top, with the hollow side
downwards--thus sandwiching the defunct between the two pieces--removed
the saddle-strap, which he wore for a belt, and buckled it round one
end, while he tried to think of something with which to tie up the

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