Shearing in the Riverina, New South Wales | Page 7

other sides of theirs;
when Billy May raises himself with a jerking sigh, and releases his
sheep, perfectly clean-shorn from the nose to the heels, through the
aperture of his separate enclosure. With the same effort apparently he
calls out 'Wool!' and darts upon another sheep. Drawing this second
victim across his knee, he buries his shear-points in the long wool of its
neck. A moment after a lithe and eager boy has gathered up fleece
number one, and tossed it into the train-basket, the shearer is halfway
down the sheep's side, the wool hanging in one fleece like a great
glossy mat, before you have done wondering whether he did really

shear the first sheep, or whether he had not a ready-shorn one in his
coat-sleeve--like a conjuror.
By this time Jack Holmes and Gundagai Bill are 'out,' or finished; and
the cry of "Wool!' Wool!" seems to run continuously up and down the
long aisles of the shed, like a single note upon some rude instrument.
Now and then the "refrain" is varied by "Tar!" being shouted instead,
when a piece of skin is snipped off as well as the wool. Great healing
properties are attributed to this extract in the shed. And if a shearer
slice off a piece of flesh from his own person, as occasionally happens,
he gravely anoints it with the universal remedy, and considers that the
onus then lies with Providence, there being no more that man can do.
Though little time is lost, the men are by no means up to the speed
which they will attain in a few days, when in full practice and training.
Their nerve, muscle, eye, endurance, will be all at, so to speak,
concert-pitch, and sheep after sheep will be shorn with a precision and
celerity even awful to the unprofessional observer.
The unpastoral reader may be informed that speed and completeness of
denudation are the grand desiderata in shearing; the employer thinks
principally of the latter, the shearer principally of the former. To adjust
equitably the proportion is one of those incomplete aspirations which
torment humanity. Hence the contest--old as human society-- between
labour and capital.
This is the first day. According to old-established custom, a kind of
truce obtains. It is before the battle, the "salut," when no hasty word or
too demonstrative action can be suffered by the canons of good taste.
Red Bill, Flash Jack, Jem the Scooper, and other roaring blades, more
famous for expedition than faithful manipulation, are shearing today
with a painstaking precision, as of men to whom character is
everything.
Mr Gordon marches softly up and down, regarding the shearers with a
paternal and gratified expression, occasionally hinting at slight
improvements of style, or expressing unqualified approval as a sheep is
turned out shaven rather than shorn. All goes on well. Nothing is heard
but expressions of goodwill and enthusiasm for the general welfare. It

is a triumph of the dignity of labour.
One o'clock. Mr Gordon moved on to the bell and sounded it. At the
first stroke several men on their way to the pens stopped abruptly and
began to put on their coats. One fellow of an alert nature (Master Jack
Windsor) had just finished his sheep and was sharpening his shears,
when his eye caught Mr Gordon's form in proximity to the final bell.
With a bound like a wild cat, he reached the pen and drew out his sheep
a bare second before the first stroke, amidst the laughter and
congratulations of his comrades. Another man had his hand on the
pen-gate at the same instant, but by the Median law was compelled to
return sheepless. He was cheered, but ironically. Those whose sheep
were in an unfinished stage quietly completed them; the others moving
off to their huts, where their board literally smoked with abundance.
An hour passed. The meal was concluded; the smoke was over; and the
more careful men were back in the shed sharpening their shears by two
o'clock. Punctually at that hour the bell repeated its summons DE
CAPO. The warm afternoon gradually lengthened its shadows; the
shears clicked in tireless monotone; the pens filled and became empty.
The wool-presses yawned for the mountain of fleeces which filled the
bins in front of them, divided into various grades of excellence, and
continuously disgorged them, neatly and cubically packed and branded.
At six o'clock the bell brought the day's work to a close. The sheep of
each man were counted in his presence, and noted down with
scrupulous care, the record being written out in full and hung up for
public inspection in the shed next day. This important ceremony over,
master and men, manager, labourers and supernumeraries, betook
themselves to their separate abodes, with such keen avoidance of delay
that