The Union Buries Its Dead Page #2

"The Union Buries Its Dead" is a short story by Australian writer Henry Lawson, published in 1901. Set against the backdrop of a miners' strike, the story explores themes of class struggle, sacrifice, and the harsh realities of life in a mining community. It follows the experiences of a group of workers as they navigate the tensions between labor rights and their personal lives, culminating in a poignant reflection on the impact of social conflict on individuals and families. Lawson's vivid prose captures the struggles of the working class and highlights the emotional toll of their fight for justice.

• Short story

								

scraped up some light and dusty soil and threw it down to deaden the
fall of the clay lumps on the coffin. He also tried to steer the first
few shovelfuls gently down against the end of the grave with the back
of the shovel turned outwards, but the hard dry Darling River clods
rebounded and knocked all the same. It didn't matter much--nothing
does. The fall of lumps of clay on a stranger's coffin doesn't sound any
different from the fall of the same things on an ordinary wooden box--at
least I didn't notice anything awesome or unusual in the sound; but,
perhaps, one of us--the most sensitive--might have been impressed by
being reminded of a burial of long ago, when the thump of every sod
jolted his heart.

I have left out the wattle--because it wasn't there. I have also
neglected to mention the heart-broken old mate, with his grizzled head
bowed and great pearly drops streaming down his rugged cheeks. He was
absent--he was probably “Out Back.” For similar reasons I have omitted
reference to the suspicious moisture in the eyes of a bearded bush
ruffian named Bill. Bill failed to turn up, and the only moisture was
that which was induced by the heat. I have left out the “sad Australian
sunset” because the sun was not going down at the time. The burial took
place exactly at midday.

The dead bushman's name was Jim, apparently; but they found no
portraits, nor locks of hair, nor any love letters, nor anything of that
kind in his swag--not even a reference to his mother; only some papers
relating to Union matters. Most of us didn't know the name till we
saw it on the coffin; we knew him as “that poor chap that got drowned
yesterday.”

“So his name's James Tyson,” said my drover acquaintance, looking at the
plate.

“Why! Didn't you know that before?” I asked.

“No; but I knew he was a Union man.”

It turned out, afterwards, that J.T. wasn't his real name--only “the
name he went by.” Anyhow he was buried by it, and most of the “Great
Australian Dailies” have mentioned in their brevity columns that a young
man named James John Tyson was drowned in a billabong of the Darling
last Sunday.

We did hear, later on, what his real name was; but if we ever chance to
read it in the “Missing Friends Column,” we shall not be able to give
any information to heart-broken mother or sister or wife, nor to anyone
who could let him hear something to his advantage--for we have already
forgotten the name.
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