SHEARING TIME

Evening Star, Issue 20666, 13 December 1930, Page 2

SHEARING TIME

AN AMATEUR ON THE LAND [Written by D.G.8., for the ‘Evening Star.’] Unemployment, which has caused many a man to adopt strange occupations, caused me to find myself on an Otago farm at shearing time engaged as a “ picker-up.” I knew little of farm life m general, and nothing at all of the duties I would have to perform. Still, 1 was young enough to bo interested in new phases of life, and so I anticipated the coming days with but little misgiving. I arrived late one afternoon by tho mail car, and after tea I set about my first task, which was to fill the shearing shed with sheep ready for the work to commence at 6 a.m. next day. I discovered at once that there was a knack in handling sheep, and also that I did not possess .this facility. I rushed about with shouts and arm waviugs, but tho sheep only milled round and round tho pens. At last, with the aid of one of the shepherds, somo 200 sheep were confined in the shed. Sheep to be shorn are always penned in the shed the night, before in order to save time in the morning, and also to keep the sheep dry—au essential point—and, furthermore, the heat generated in the crowded shed brings out the natural greasiness of the wool and this makes , shearing easier.

I was called at half-past 5 next morning, partook of a cup of cocoa, Homo biscuits and cheese, and thus refreshed, went out into day. Never before had I been abroad at such an hour walking through the fields of the country, and the experience was as beautiful as it was unique. The scene was fresh and young, bathed in the morning dew and the early sunlight, and the air was full of sound. Larks sang, a thrush on the topmost twig of a pine tree worshipped the new day; somewhere in the distance a farmyard monarch crowed,, and nearer at hand the challenge waS echoed lustily. Through all these sounds, like tho undertone of waves, came the bleating of the lambs and the heavier answering calls of the ewes. In sight and hearing of all this what could a man do but square his shoulders and whistle? Not even the hot, moist atmosphere of the shearing shed could conquer the glory of that first impression.

Two shearers, both Australians, had been engaged for the season, and they were already on the “board,” as the shearing platform is termed, and were busy sorting out the combs and clippers and overhauling the mechanism of the shears. In the middle of the platform against the wall stood the petrol engine which drove the clippers, and on either side of it was a space about sft square—here the shearers worked. In from; of this space were the pens of sheep, and at the roar were loopholes through which the sheep were pushed after being shorn. On the tick of the hour of 6 the engine was cranked up and the shearing started. Each shearer plunged into bis “ catching pen,” seized a sheep, dragged it to the platform, hoisted it on to its buttocks with a deft twist, set his machine in motion, and buried the chattering teeth in tho wool. It was fascinating to watch the long, clean, swift strokes with which the men shore. Down one side, a few broad swathes- along the back, .down the other side, a few finishing touches along the legs, and the sheep, shorn, is pushed through the loophole and the shearer moves for his next sheep. The fleece lies in a crumpled blanket on the floor.

Now is the moment when I play my park I dart in and seize the fleece by the hind legs, as I have been shown, crumple it into a heap in my arms, and carry it through to the woolroom, where it is spread oilt on a grated table and trimmed and rolled up by a wool classer, who places it in a compartment according > to its grading. I watch him at his work for a moment till a hail of “ Wool-oh!” tells me that the second shearer is finished and that another fleece is to be removed. Shearers must never bo kept waiting (this point .is always stressed), so i move quickly to answer the summons. Such was my sole occupation, except that tho floor had to be swept at intervals of tho stray Jocks of wool that lay around. At half-past 7 tho first spell ended. (A “spell”’is a. working-shift, 'and a rest is a “smoke-oh.”) it was breakfast time. The hour soon, passed, and then the engine chugged and tho work went on again. Now came a break. The catching pens wore empty and more sheep had to be drafted up from the rear to fill them. The task sounds simple enough, but sheep at any time are stubborn, and now they were frightened by the dimness of the pons ahead and by the noiso of the engine. Sometimes they would herd up to the entrance, and then, just as i thought the task almost completed, one sheep would take fright at nothing at all and would jump aside. In a moment all would turn and rush to huddle themselves in the farthest corner of tho shed. Sometimes the pen had to be filled one sheep at a tune, and the gate kept shut so that those already in could not rush out. It was a task fraying to tho temper, but nevertheless, after the first few days, I found it welcome for tho relief it afforded frolutho monotony of picking up and sweeping up. From 10 o’clock the next half-hour was “ smoke-oh ’’-—black, steaming tea and a pile of buttered scones, sandwiches, and cakes. Many a set afternoon ten is composed of viands plainer than those wo devoured perched on tho bales of wool. And then what a delightful sensation it was to sprawl at ease and drowse into a brown study, or listen to the others talking' as they smoked!

From half-past 10 until 12 _ o’clock was another spell. By this tinio tho shearers had settled down to their business, and their speed and energy were infectious. Not a minute was wasted. From tho disposal of one sheep to tbo seizure of another was one complete movement; there was no “breather” in between. Both had smoked before, but now their pipes were out and were left aside.

Twelve o’clock, and the engine was switched off. Its noisy chugging died down sjowly; ono final cough and then the contrast of silence, a silence which the baa-lug of tho sheep seemed to intensify. One o’clock, and on again with the work. The glorious morning had fulfilled its promise, and had now matured into a hot summer day. There was scarcely a cloud in the sky and not a breath of air moVod. In the low, iron-roofed shed the heat was stifling. I followed the example of the shearers and stripped to singlet and trousers. Always the routine of the work was tne same. The ip’en plunged for a sheep, shore it with the same motions, thrust it through the loophole and plujiged for another. I stobd watching and waiting to remove the fleeces and to occupy spare moments sweeping the floor. About every hour tho catchingpens had to bo filled, and soon sufficient wool had accumulated for me to assist in pressing a halo. At half-past

2 there is a short rest, and then at 4 o’clock comes afternoon tea. ■ The heat of the day is decreasing now, and a slight breeze from the coast carries into the shed a welcome freshness. Now is the last spell of the day, and at 6 o’clock the day’s shearing ended, but not the day’s work. I found that for me there was still to assist in filling the shed again and in branding the shorn sheep—some 200 of them. It was dusk when at last I crossed the paddock to my quarters and retii’ed for the night. Such is a day’s shearing. Every day is practically the same except that sometimes the weather is hotter, sometimes it blows, and sometimes a thfinder shower passes overhead. Twice there were spells of wet weather when the shearing was held up. Still, there were several tasks to be done around the shed, so thug, did not hang upon our hands. The work was monotonous but . not overtiring. In other sheds where there are more shearers there is naturally more work, and pickers-up are often required to attend as many as five shearers. For ■ three weeks the shearing went on uneventfully, and then, two days before Christmas, the work was done and my engagement was at an end. The experience had been interesting, though not always wholly congenial. Still there Were compensations; even ' the weariness was almost Worth experiencing for the relief of the hour before bedtime.. The intimate glearii of the candle, then later tlie, moonlight patterning the curtains on the walls of the darkened room, the ease of a comfort-v able bed, and the effortless drift to sleep—these were delights never so much appreciated before. Not least of the compensations for e Te < was the privilege of listening to the shearers and the shepherds telling stories of other parts of the world and of adventures and incidents encountered there. Their narratives had flavours of Munchausen and Boccaccio, and were told With a crude, unconscious artistry. One instance of story-telling ability I remember -vividly. A surveying party in the back regions of one country found an insane sheep herder. The unfortunate man was secured after some difficulty. “We looked after him for three weeks, and then we handed him over to the police,” concluded the narrator. That was all ho said,, hut what words could have conveyed more strikingly the terrible strain of that period'than did his reticence? At times I saw for a moment the romance of the work. For the most part the crude monotony of the occupation chilled the senses to what lay beimnd the immediate , present. . But what I had seen and done had broadened me, and I thought of those whose whole lives lay in' these surroundings, and of whose work shearing was but one phase. I thought of them, and saw their vitality in the scheme of Nature, ahd I thought of the towns and the city occupations, the artificial growths of civilisation. I read the natures of those men of the land, and saw how their lives were at once richer and poorer than those with which I had previously come into contact.