11 June 1936

WHEN ARE SHEEP 'WET'? 

Battle Of Wits Between Shearers And Contractors

The question of 'wet' sheep has often caused arguments between shearers and shearing contractors, but actually the decision is made by the shearers themselves, who, after shearing two sheep each, take a vote. If the majority vote 'wet,' that ends it, irrespective of whether the contractor considers that the sheep are dry or not. 

Invariably circumstances have an influence, and when a vote is being taken on the question a lot depends on whether the shearers desire a day's spell or not. I know of cases where sheep have been voted 'wet' without there having been one spot of rain within miles of where the doubtful sheep had been. But such cases nowadays are rare. The shearers do not always have things their own way, however, as the following story shows. 

The owner of a mob of sheep I was droving had arranged to have them shorn at a depot, and as the sheep were poor and not a blade of grass existed near the shed, time was precious. Storms were likely, and there was a danger of being unable to cross a couple of creeks should heavy rain fall. To get caught on the bare country around the depot would mean losing scores of daily weakening sheep. If no rain fell, I hoped to get away on the Saturday morning, five days after shearing was due to commence. 

In their agreements, the shearers signed on for not less than 7,500 and not more than 8,500 sheep; and with an expected daily tally of 1,750 at the least, the idea never entered my head that I might have to put in the week end at the depot. 

By the Thursday night, with three days' shearing completed, a few short of 6,000 sheep had been shorn, and with less than 2,000 left, there was a possibility of a 'cut-out' on the Friday, or at the latest during the first run on Saturday morning, thus allowing me to get away and camp on the other side of the creeks that night. 

On the Friday morning storm clouds showed up, and before noon rain commenced to fall. With the exception of about 40 sheep all were under cover when the rain came, and these sheep were rushed into the shed as soon as room was available. As a matter of fact, these 40 sheep had not been in the light rain for more than a few minutes. 

Where the rumour originated from I don't know, but during 'smoko' in the afternoon word was passed round that a couple of hundred sheep were still in the paddocks, and that I did not intend to have them shorn, owing to my anxiety to get away. Actually, there was only one sheep still in the paddock —a poor old ewe to weak to travel to the shed. However, on the advice of the shearing contractor I said nothing, but so as not to cause any possible trouble, the 40 'wet' sheep were allowed to remain in the race apart from the others. 

When the knock -off whistle went that evening, other than the 40, there were only five sheep left. The shed hands were jubilant, and it was taken for granted that 'wet' sheep would be the result of the vote in the morning. To suit their own interests, I heard that night from the contractor that the shearers had planned to remain at the depot, not only over the week-end, but until the Tuesday. Apparently, by common consent it had been planned to vote the sheep 'wet' on Saturday and again, on the following Monday. 

Naturally, I was anxious, and feared that the creeks would rise. 'Leave it to me,' said the contractor. 'Your sheep will all be shorn by 11 o'clock tomorrow, waiting for you to leave.' Both shed hands and shearers were in a jocular mood as they stood waiting for the starting bell next morning, and in due course, after each of the 12 shearers had shorn two sheep the vote was taken. 'Wet sheep' was the unanimous verdict. 

'I'm going to try them out again after 'smoko' said the contractor to the shearers' representative. With a grin the latter said the men would be on the board on time, adding, 'They won't dry in two hours.' 

On to the board came the shearers at 20 minutes to 11, and the remaining 21 sheep were shorn by the 12 men. 'You needn't bother taking a vote,' drawled the contractor, 'it's a cut-out.' It would not do to repeat the language of both shearers and shed hands, and although the procedure of the contractor was quite in order, it was a narrow shave for me. 

Actually, I had counted 7,548 sheep into the depot paddock, and allowing for deaths that had taken place, the minimum, as stated in the agreement, 7,500, had not been reached until the 37th sheep had been shorn on the Saturday morning. 

That night heavy rain fell, and the creeks came down bankers, but I had crossed them in ample time. The shrewd move of the shearing contractor had defeated the plans of the shearers, and had certainly saved the owner of the sheep a lot of money. Had I been forced to remain at the depot over the week end, the flooded creeks would have, as it turned out, kept me on the depot side for more than a week, as the owner's instructions were not to move on until all the sheep had been shorn.— 'Old Timer.' 

The Re-union 

My father often told me of two brothers on a farm near us who went to school with him, but afterwards left the district to see if they could do better for themselves elsewhere. Thirty years went by before anything more was heard of them. 

By a strange coincidence they turned up within a fortnight of one another, in consequence of a mention of their father's illness in a well-known farming weekly. They sent over to see if my father was still alive as they wished to renew his acquaintance, but as he had died in the meantime, I went over to explain matters to them. 

One of the brothers seemed to be in a very prosperous way, judging from his up-to-date motor car and other indications, while the other seemed to be a lot worse for wear. The seedy looking one told me his tale first. 

'I struck it lucky when I left here,' he said. 'In New South Wales I was fortunate enough to win a land ballot, and got an out-of-the-way piece of ground out of it. I'd no sooner taken it over than a road was built up to the next place below, and the price I got for the timber on my property gave me a start. 

'I put it into buying stock and land around the district, and did pretty well. I suppose I was worth thirty thousand before I turned 30. I got married, reared a family and things still went well with me. 

'Then the war came and my two boys went to the front. One came back a cripple, and the other didn't return. It cost me a lot to try and have the youngest patched up a bit from his wounds, as I didn't feel that Government treatment was good enough for him. It was all of no use, and he eventually passed away. 

'Meanwhile, I had been buying in heavily on the post-war boom, and was caught with the lot half-cleared up when the smash came. The mortgagors took everything, and my wife and I are living on what they allow us each quarter. That's all I've got to show for half a lifetime of hard work.' 

The other brother took up his tale at this stage. 

'I got a job on a wheat clipper as cook's offsider,' he said. 'My idea was to travel round and see the world a bit before I settled down, but I never managed to do much that way. For 10 years I stuck to the sea, but I seldom got further inland than the port we stopped at. I've been all over the world, but I haven't seen anything of it. 

'I met my wife in Liverpool, and she persuaded me to give up the sea and settle in England. I had a go at farming first, because that was the only trade I remembered, besides sailoring. I didn't do much good at it, so I sold out and had a cut at storekeeping; but that was a washout, too. 

'Eventually we drifted back here, and I got a job overseeing on a station in the Territory. It wasn't much for the wife and daughter, but all there was to be had. We stuck it out for 10 years, moving from station to station, but nothing altered our luck. 

'A couple of years ago, a wandering drover I used to know persuaded me to go halves in a Calcutta ticket. It came off. No, not first prize, but a nice round sum. We moved to Adelaide, and I bought up some city property with it. It went up in value almost overnight, and now I can take things easy.' 

'Well, how do you feel now your luck's changed?' I asked. 

'I know what I'm going to do?' he answered. 'First, we'll see if there's anything Bill and his missus would like to start at, and then we're off to do what I've been trying to do all my life —see the world at last.'— 'Warrigal'. 

An Unfortunate Priest 

In the early days of the West Coast visits from clergymen were not frequent, but those who came always received a warm welcome. The following tale indicates how the welcome might not always be according to plan. 

As Father Blank walked towards the entrance of the Flinders Hotel at Streaky Bay in the early seventies, after he had shut his ponies in the stables, he suddenly was thrown off his balance and pitched forward on his head. For some minutes he lay there stunned. 

As he did so, two young men who had been concealed in the shadows, tip-toed up and peered closely at him. As they saw who their victim was they gasped and hurried off. They had been trying to pay off a score against a resident of the district, and had stretched a rope across the pathway. Unfortunately they had mistaken the priest's identity and he had suffered. 

A little later the same young fellows felt sure that they had seen their victim arrive at the hotel. Accordingly they fixed a large pale of water over the door leading from one of the sitting rooms, and waited. As luck would have it, no sooner had they finished their work than in walked the priest, who pushed the door open and received the water all over him! The young men beat a hasty retreat. 

Outside they held a consultation. 'Well,' said one, 'we must get him this time. I'm sure he's tied his horses up in the stables. 'Let's have a look,' replied his companion. On arriving at the stables they found, a pair of chestnut ponies. 

'Good,' exclaimed one, 'We've got him now. Where are the whitewash and brushes?' 'Here they are.' They set to work and soon transformed the chestnut ponies into a pair of greys. 

Some time later the priest entered the bar, seeking Mr. Mudge, the landlord. He looked both worried and annoyed. 'What's the matter now, father?' asked Mr. Mudge. 

'Someone, has taken my horses out of the stables and put his own in,' replied the priest. 'I can't see mine about anywhere.' 

'That's too bad, father,' replied Mr. Mudge. 'We don't stand for that kind of thing here. Let's go and see.' In the stables they examined the horses. 'But aren't these yours, father?' asked Mr. Mudge. 'No,' replied the priest. 'Mine are a pair of chestnuts. These are greys.' 'Well, I don't know of anyone who has a pair of greys about here,' said Mr. Mudge. 

He ran his hand over one. As he did so he felt something strange on his hand. Quickly he held the lantern more closely to the pony. 'Goodness me!' he exclaimed, 'Someone has whitewashed your ponies!' 

The practical jokers had failed once again, and again at the expense of the unfortunate priest.— C.Y.A. 

A Terrible Infant 

A few years ago I took a job on a farm, and set out for the locality on my motor cycle, procuring some fruit at a wayside orchard to eat after arrival. 

The farmer met me at the gate of the house-yard, and, leaning my machine against the fence, I began discussing arrangements with him. After talking for a few minutes I felt a nudge on one shoulder, and, turning, saw a handsome yearling foal, pitch-black in color, rather small, and of a mischievous appearance, sniffing at my coat sleeve and regarding me with interest. 

'Rather, a tame little fellow and friendly,' I said, turning to the farmer again. 'You'll change your opinion in a few days, unless I'm much mistaken,' he said. 

I walked about, having a look at things for a time, and then decided to get my luggage and put my motor cycle under cover. I was surprised to find the remains of a paper bag lying near the machine, and soon discovered that my bag of fruit was missing. The presence of small hoof-prints and pieces of apple on the other side of the fence, provided sufficient evidence of the identity of the culprit.

I was allotted a small sleepout for quarters, and, the night being warm, went to bed with both door and window open. About 4.30 a.m. I was suddenly awakened by feeling my blankets being pulled away, and, sleepily clutching at them, I was hauled out of bed, and woke up to find myself on the floor. 

Looking up, I saw the foal's head vanishing through the doorway, with my blankets in tow. I jumped up and hurried outside, my sudden appearance scaring the foal, which, in turning to escape, became tangled in my blankets, and tore them badly. 

A few days later, as a result of its inquisitiveness, the foal received a severe lesson, through drinking milk which had been treated with medicine for some sick pigs. For several days it looked very ill, and we moved it to the house-yard for observation. 

It appeared to be too ill to be troublesome, and we became careless, with the result that one afternoon, while the farmer's wife was away, it managed to open the yard of the house. 

A feather mattress, that was hanging on the clothes-line by the house was torn open, and the feathers scattered all around the yard. Then the foal roamed over the garden, pulling up plants and vegetables, which were the pride of the farmers wife. Tiring of that, it turned its attention to a brush shed, in which eggs dairy and garden produce was stored. 

On returning home and seeing the damage, the farmer lost his temper, and dashed inside for his rifle, while I seized the opportunity of driving the foal out of sight. The farmer's' wife saved the animal by asking us to build a special yard to keep it out of mischief. 

Having done so, we placed the foal in it, but it did not take kindly to confinement, and I spent much of my leisure time consoling it and teaching it tricks. It was a loveable little fellow, and I was loth to leave it when my employment ended. 

I learnt some time later that the foal was allowed to graze on a neighbor's property, where it reverted to its former bad habits, and died of wheat gorge as the result. I was sorry to hear of its death, for, in spite of its mischievousness, one could not help liking it.

— R.W. 

Knew His Mind 

Old Sandy was the wealthiest man in the district, and had been confirmed bachelor from the age of sixteen to seventy, despite ardent efforts on the part of many attractive girls of all ages to make him change his mind. 

On one occasion he was attending a cattle-sale, and some of the girls were relating his history to a young thing from a neighboring farm, who had just returned from school in the city. 

'I'll bet you're not game to propose to him!' declared one of the girls, actuated by a spirit of mischief. 'It's a bet!' quickly replied Miss Fresh-From-School, and she made her way over to where Sandy was sitting on the capping, surrounded by a group of well-known cattle buyers. In order to increase his confusion, the impish girl called out loudly to him in their presence. 

'What is it, my lass?' asked Sandy. 'I just wanted to know if you'd care to marry me?' Sandy wasn't even embarrassed, and put the girl to flight with two sentences. 'You haven't a hope, my dear,' he chuckled. 'Why, I turned down your grandmother and your mother before you, and they were twice as good looking as you're ever likely to be !'— Mac. 

Native Cricket Balls 

All kinds of materials are used for making cricket balls in bush centres. These balls would probably not measure up to Test match standards, but some very interesting games have been played with them. 

The best home-made one I have ever used was made from 'blackfellows bread.' This was found at the foot of a decaying eucalyptus, and when first dug up resembled a potato in appearance. 

The irregular shaped mass was easily cut into the shape of a cricket ball with a sharp knife, the inside of it resembling a thick mass of sago. 

The ball looked fairly soft when put in the sun to dry, but in a few hours it had dried as hard as a rock, and was then ready for play. 

These balls are practically indestructible, and a new one is required only when the one in use runs down a rabbit burrow or is lost in some bushes.— J.R.