The Drover's Wife Page #2

"The Drover's Wife" is a short story by Australian writer Henry Lawson, first published in 1892. The narrative focuses on the life of a resilient woman living in the Australian outback, left alone to care for her children while her husband is away droving cattle. The story vividly depicts her struggles against the harsh environment, isolation, and the constant threats posed by nature, including a lurking snake. Through this portrayal, Lawson explores themes of survival, endurance, and the often-overlooked strength of women in a patriarchal society. The tale captures the essence of Australian identity and the challenges of rural life in the 19th century.

• Short story

								

bringing a drunken doctor, by force, to attend to her. She was alone on
this occasion, and very weak. She had been ill with a fever. She prayed
to God to send her assistance. God sent Black Mary--the “whitest” gin in
all the land. Or, at least, God sent King Jimmy first, and he sent Black
Mary. He put his black face round the door post, took in the situation
at a glance, and said cheerfully: “All right, missus--I bring my old
woman, she down alonga creek.”

One of the children died while she was here alone. She rode nineteen
miles for assistance, carrying the dead child.

It must be near one or two o'clock. The fire is burning low. Alligator
lies with his head resting on his paws, and watches the wall. He is not
a very beautiful dog, and the light shows numerous old wounds where the
hair will not grow. He is afraid of nothing on the face of the earth or
under it. He will tackle a bullock as readily as he will tackle a flea.
He hates all other dogs--except kangaroo-dogs--and has a marked dislike
to friends or relations of the family. They seldom call, however. He
sometimes makes friends with strangers. He hates snakes and has killed
many, but he will be bitten some day and die; most snake-dogs end that
way.

Now and then the bushwoman lays down her work and watches, and listens,
and thinks. She thinks of things in her own life, for there is little
else to think about.

The rain will make the grass grow, and this reminds her how she fought a
bush-fire once while her husband was away. The grass was long, and very
dry, and the fire threatened to burn her out. She put on an old pair of
her husband's trousers and beat out the flames with a green bough, till
great drops of sooty perspiration stood out on her forehead and ran in
streaks down her blackened arms. The sight of his mother in trousers
greatly amused Tommy, who worked like a little hero by her side, but
the terrified baby howled lustily for his “mummy.” The fire would have
mastered her but for four excited bushmen who arrived in the nick of
time. It was a mixed-up affair all round; when she went to take up
the baby he screamed and struggled convulsively, thinking it was a
“blackman;” and Alligator, trusting more to the child's sense than his
own instinct, charged furiously, and (being old and slightly deaf)
did not in his excitement at first recognize his mistress's voice, but
continued to hang on to the moleskins until choked off by Tommy with a
saddle-strap. The dog's sorrow for his blunder, and his anxiety to let
it be known that it was all a mistake, was as evident as his ragged tail
and a twelve-inch grin could make it. It was a glorious time for the
boys; a day to look back to, and talk about, and laugh over for many
years.

She thinks how she fought a flood during her husband's absence. She
stood for hours in the drenching downpour, and dug an overflow gutter
to save the dam across the creek. But she could not save it. There are
things that a bushwoman can not do. Next morning the dam was broken, and
her heart was nearly broken too, for she thought how her husband would
feel when he came home and saw the result of years of labour swept away.
She cried then.

She also fought the pleuro-pneumonia--dosed and bled the few remaining
cattle, and wept again when her two best cows died.

Again, she fought a mad bullock that besieged the house for a day. She
made bullets and fired at him through cracks in the slabs with an
old shot-gun. He was dead in the morning. She skinned him and got
seventeen-and-sixpence for the hide.

She also fights the crows and eagles that have designs on her chickens.
Her plan of campaign is very original. The children cry “Crows, mother!”
 and she rushes out and aims a broomstick at the birds as though it were
a gun, and says “Bung!” The crows leave in a hurry; they are cunning,
but a woman's cunning is greater.

Occasionally a bushman in the horrors, or a villainous-looking
sundowner, comes and nearly scares the life out of her. She generally
tells the suspicious-looking stranger that her husband and two sons
are at work below the dam, or over at the yard, for he always cunningly
inquires for the boss.

Only last week a gallows-faced swagman--having satisfied himself that
there were no men on the place--threw his swag down on the veranda, and
demanded tucker. She gave him something to eat; then he expressed his
intention of staying for the night. It was sundown then. She got a
batten from the sofa, loosened the dog, and confronted the stranger,
holding the batten in one hand and the dog's collar with the other. “Now
you go!” she said. He looked at her and at the dog, said “All right,
mum,” in a cringing tone, and left. She was a determined-looking woman,
and Alligator's yellow eyes glared unpleasantly--besides, the dog's
chawing-up apparatus greatly resembled that of the reptile he was named
after.

She has few pleasures to think of as she sits here alone by the fire, on
guard against a snake. All days are much the same to her; but on Sunday
afternoon she dresses herself, tidies the children, smartens up
baby, and goes for a lonely walk along the bush-track, pushing an old
perambulator in front of her. She does this every Sunday. She takes as
much care to make herself and the children look smart as she would if
she were going to do the block in the city. There is nothing to see,
however, and not a soul to meet. You might walk for twenty miles along
this track without being able to fix a point in your mind, unless you
are a bushman. This is because of the everlasting, maddening sameness
of the stunted trees--that monotony which makes a man long to break
away and travel as far as trains can go, and sail as far as ship can
sail--and farther.

But this bushwoman is used to the loneliness of it. As a girl-wife she
hated it, but now she would feel strange away from it.

She is glad when her husband returns, but she does not gush or make a
fuss about it. She gets him something good to eat, and tidies up the
children.

She seems contented with her lot. She loves her children, but has no
time to show it. She seems harsh to them. Her surroundings are not
favourable to the development of the “womanly” or sentimental side of
nature.

It must be near morning now; but the clock is in the dwellinghouse. Her
candle is nearly done; she forgot that she was out of candles. Some more
wood must be got to keep the fire up, and so she shuts the dog inside
and hurries round to the woodheap. The rain has cleared off. She seizes
a stick, pulls it out, and--crash! the whole pile collapses.

Yesterday she bargained with a stray blackfellow to bring her some wood,
and while he was at work she went in search of a missing cow. She was
absent an hour or so, and the native black made good use of his time.
On her return she was so astonished to see a good heap of wood by the
chimney, that she gave him an extra fig of tobacco, and praised him for
not being lazy. He thanked her, and left with head erect and chest well
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes