The Bush Undertaker Page #3

"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

								

of clothes-line, lowered the body to a horizontal position. Then he
threw in an armful of gum-leaves, and then, very reluctantly, took the
shovel and dropped in a few shovelfuls of earth.

“An' this is the last of Brummy,” he said, leaning on his spade and
looking away over the tops of the ragged gums on the distant range.

This reflection seemed to engender a flood of memories, in which the old
man became absorbed. He leaned heavily upon his spade and thought.

“Arter all,” he murmured sadly, “arter all--it were Brummy.

“Brummy,” he said at last. “It's all over now; nothin' matters
now--nothin' didn't ever matter, nor--nor don't. You uster say as how it
'ud be all right termorrer” (pause); “termorrer's come, Brummy--come fur
you--it ain't come fur me yet, but--it's a-comin'.”

He threw in some more earth.

“Yer don't remember, Brummy, an' mebbe yer don't want to remember--I
don't want to remember--but--well, but, yer see that's where yer got the
pull on me.”

He shovelled in some more earth and paused again.

The dog rose, with ears erect, and looked anxiously first at his master
and then into the grave.

“Theer oughter be somethin' sed,” muttered the old man; “'tain't right
to put 'im under like a dog. Theer oughter be some sort o' sarmin.” He
sighed heavily in the listening silence that followed this remark and
proceeded with his work. He filled the grave to the brim this time, and
fashioned the mound carefully with his spade. Once or twice he muttered
the words, “I am the rassaraction.” As he laid the tools quietly aside,
and stood at the head of the grave, he was evidently trying to remember
the something that ought to be said. He removed his hat, placed it
carefully on the grass, held his hands out from his sides and a little
to the front, drew a long deep breath, and said with a solemnity
that greatly disturbed Five Bob: “Hashes ter hashes, dus ter dus,
Brummy--an'--an' in hopes of a great an' gerlorious rassaraction!”

He sat down on a log near by, rested his elbows on his knees and passed
his hand wearily over his forehead--but only as one who was tired and
felt the heat; and presently he rose, took up the tools, and walked back
to the hut.

And the sun sank again on the grand Australian bush--the nurse and tutor
of eccentric minds, the home of the weird.
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