THIS FREEDOM

Evening Star, Issue 22560, 30 January 1937, Page 2

THIS FREEDOM

SHEARING UNDER DIFFICULTIES [Written by M.E.S., for the ‘ Evening Star.’] “Wo may be poor and have to work hard, but at least we’re free to call our souls our own.” Such used to be the farmers’ boast. Lately we have altered our opinion about all that; the dairy farmer has already found himself legislated almost out of existence, in many cases out of his farm, and, since his experiences in shearing this season, the sheep farmer is a trifle less inclined to boast of the joys of freedom. Not that at any time shearing is a festive season; on the big stations it has been known, owing to the vagaries of the weather, to drag its weary way for three months instead of one, leaving a trail of irritable shepherds, tired dogs, and lame horses behind it. Even on the smaller farms under the best conditions it is a strenuous time for the farmer who musters and drafts, the family who “ fleece-oh’s ” and press wool, and the wife who serves gargantuan meals to unnumbered men at all hours.

“At any rate, this year will be easier,” said the farmer thankfully, looking back without regret at those slump years when, in debt over ,his ears-to bank and firm, he had had no money available even for shearing wages, and had been obliged, with the neighbours’ help, to shear his own sheep. They had formed themselves into a penniless gang of amateurs, going the round of the various sheds, toiling most painfully and at first turning out sheep that looked like some new and comic breed of poodle. If the quality of their work had presently improved, yet middle-aged backs had not ceased to ache, nor had they emerged victorious from their ceaseless battle against bidi-bidi. This is the bitterest foe of him who farms the hill country, for, should the season prove warm and sunny and favourable for shearing,- it will also bring the hutuwai early into flower, cause the burrs to stick spitefully to the sheep, and lower the value of every fleece by about half. The most painful memory of those years of amateur shearing had been the battle against time and hutuwai. THE GOLDEN FLEECE (But all that was over now, for prices were high and every sheep farmer could afford to employ labour, could watch the wool rolling smoothly from his sheep’s backs and reflect gladly that this year the fleece was once more golden. The only trouble we foresaw was the scarcity of shearers, but this we fancied we had solved by securing early in the day the promise of an excellent gang. But what are promises when one must contend with a stormy spring and a paternal Government? Rumours of difficulties reached us; the men were delayed at a shed some miles away, hindered by showery weather and even more by the new award, which appeared to stop work whenever the god of the weather was willing to allow it to proceed. At the beginning of November the bidi-bidi had commenced to stick and the shearers had not yet appeared. When they arrived about a fortnight later they had a sad tale to tell; they had been so well protected by recent legislation that they were earning a good deal less than those favoured of fortune—the unemployed. Work on Sunday was entirely prohibited; well, we were prepared for that; unfortunately, Saturday afternoon was a compulsory holiday unless the shearer had not achieved a full week’s work, when a beneficent decree permitted him to shear until a quarter to 4. At that magio hour, even though the shed were filled with sheep and the rain beginning to fall, work must cease and the sheep be turned out to be well drenched and dried again before shearing might be resumed. AN UNKIND FATE It all sounded fantastic to the farmer who had been accustomed to the good old method of working whenever the weather allowed it. Nor were the employees any better pleased about it. They showed him their time-sheets at the previous shed, and with much picturesque blasphemy told of weeks when they had averaged two days only, yet, when conditions were at last favourable, had not been allowed to put in more than eight hours and forty minutes per day, however urgent the. need. A list of hours, decorated with many playful obscenities for comment, was hung up in the shed; in no case were the_ shearers permitted to overstrain their strength by working for as much as two consecutive hours without a break, either for “ smoke-oh ” or for sharpening of shears. “ They looks after us so kindly,” said Bill, the boss of the gang, bitterly, “ that we’re three weeks late on our sheds and earnin’ half wages. Never mind; we’re that precious that they’d rather see us starvin’ than over-tired.” “ ’Tis a wise man, an’ him sober, would be needed to see when we was workin’ an’ when restin’ from the loikes o’ that toime-table,” said Micky Irish suggestively—but we had just heard of a prosecution of employer and shearers at a near-by shed, and were not sure that the plea “ blind drunk and unable to read hours ” would soften the magistrate’s heart however much its cause might delight Micky's. “ Best take no risks; we ought, with luck, to finish shearin’ by the time crutchin’s due,” agreed Bill savagely. At the moment of their arrival a series of westerly depressions were pursuing one another vengefully across the Tasman, with the result that we took a fortnight to shear a thousand sheep and went in peril of our lives from the threats of our neighbours who were awaiting the ministrations of our shearers. Then strange things began to happen. It was Saturday evening when, with black clouds banking on the horizon, we wore obliged to down tools and let the ewes out to their clamouring lambs. “ One blessing—we’ll be able to sleep in,” we told each other, and it was 8 o’clock before we were startled to hear strange sounds from the shed. CHEERFUL LAW-BREAKERS We looked out of the window; the rain was still merely threatening, due luito obviously to fall before evening, and from the yards came that wailing bleat that spoke of lambs once more deprived of maternal comfort. We hurried down to the shed; yes, the engine was indeed running, the shed full, the four shearers at work. Micky, the fleece-oh, too obviously posted on the look-out, hurried towards us. “ ’Tis a foine Monday marnin’ afther all,” he told us, but we were too dazed to accept the hit offered with true Celtic politeness. “ But it’s Sunday, and you’re breaking the law,” we gasped, and Micky’s eye completely disappeared in the most profound wink of which the human countenance was capable. “Is it then? Shure, the boys have forgotten,” he murmured seductively.

“ Is it wakenin’ them ye’d be, an’they happy in their drames?” he continued —and silently, breathlessly, we tip-toed away. It was 12 o’clock and that paddock of ewes cut out, when Bill the Boss, with a theatrical start of surprise* remembered that the day of tha week. . . . By a miracle of good luck we escaped detection, and that strange oversight helped us along nicely, so that at the end of the third week we had only 300 sheep left at 2 o’clock on Saturday, afternoon. “We just' won’t finish,’’ we told the men with pardonable annoyance, for they had been working hectically to enable the shed to be done and the settling in to their nest job to be accomplished on Sunday. They glared resentfully at Bill’s watch, and redoubled their efforts; silently, strenuously they shore, until, at what w« judged 4 o’clock, only 200 sheep remained. To be left with 200. . . . Gladly any one of us could have smashed that watch. . . . Bub there was no need. When _we glanced again it was still twenty minutes to 4; well, let them go on till the last minute. That minute was long in arriving.The light was beginning to fail and tha last sheep being turned from the shed when Bill's voice drawled slowly: “ Waal, I guess my watch was undependable for once.” Like Joshua, the men had caused time to stand still—• and the work was done. “ Guess I’m not due for a new watch till shearing's over,” remarked Bill as we repaired to the cookhouse to drink to the health of Bill’s timepiece—and the death of the new regulations. "