Shearing Commences.

Roll call at eight-thirty. Although perhaps commonplace and matter-of-fact to the regulars, the roll call is, to the uninitiated, rather a novel and interesting little ceremony, if such it could be designated. It marks the first official appearance of the “boss” (owner of Silverbourne), who briefly and informally addresses the assembled company, greets old hands, and welcomes new ones—just a little overture of goodwill preliminary to the more practical business, but not without effect in smoothing the running of that human machine. Roll call reveals a few vacancies, which are filled from the waiting list. The representative of the men confers with the “boss,” and a few details governing conditions of work are agreed upon. The engine is running smoothly, as Sandy Grant, official timekeeper, hangs up his big watch. A glance at the expert, an approving nod in reply, the bell clangs, and shearing has commenced. Rather ruggedly do those shearers move to work, some leisurely, others briskly, anxious to take the lead if only on sufferance. That first day is more or less a pipe-opener, just a preliminary canter, and finishes at 4 p.m. The regular shearing hours are 5.30 a.m. to 5.30 p.m., with breaks for meals and smoke-ohs, eight hours twenty minutes actual work for the day. The Silver-bourne shed, square in shape with the exception of a large wing built into the centre of the front, is built on approved lines for the expeditious, convenient, and economical handling of the clip. In this wing, classing, handling and baling are done. Along the front of the shed, on each side of the wing, is the shearing board, six stands on each side. Within a stride are the catching pens, two shearers sharing a pen, and directly in front of each stand is a port-hole waiting to receive the shorn sheep. A half derisive cheer signals the first down; then another and another, each into its allotted pen, for individual tallies must be strictly kept. Each fleece, freed from its wearer, is pounced upon by the waiting fleecy and whisked away to the classing table, there to be trimmed and skirted, and classified under Sandy's expert eye, and stored in the bins ready for the pressers. Matheson, the board-walker, in supreme command of operations, strolls

A wool-classer at work.

along the board with critical eye on that first day. Silverbourne has a reputation, built up over a lengthy period, for the quality of its product, not to be damaged by careless or incompetent shearing or handling. A measure of indulgence is exercised at the outset, but gross incompetence or carelessness are rigidly dealt with. The clanging of the bell indicates smoke-oh, the end of the first run. Sheep already on the board must be finished, but, by strict rule, none are taken from the pens after the bell.

Shearers straighten up and adjust their machines for the next run; fleecies snap up the remaining fleeces, and the broomy sweeps the board clean of litter; pens are filled up and refreshments partaken of. By general custom odds and ends and small lines of sheep are shorn first, and nothing in the way of big tallies is looked for at the beginning. Most of the shearers have been off the board for a year, and must get their hands in. Mid-day, with an hour for dinner and rest, is not unwelcome after three hours of work, and two short runs in the afternoon concludes the first day. Fair tallies have been made, machinery running smoothly, workmanship, with certain reservations, satisfactory (and scanning the sky) no sign of rain. Every prospect of a successful shearing. These were the dominant thoughts in the mind of Matheson as he rode his pony up to the homestead that night.

The scene in the precincts of the shearers' hut that evening was just a reflex of what was to be daily enacted for the next month. Soap and water played the leading part, for shearing is a dirty job; then a hearty meal, leisurely partaken of, while a general review of the day's work and the season's prospects monopolised the conversation. Down at the yards preparations for the next day proceeded apace. Shepherds and yard hands, with the dogs, hustle and bustle the sheep through the drafting pens to the music of incessant bleating, the music of shearing time subduing all other sound, and a little disturbing at first. The shed is again filled to capacity; the expert is making a few necessary adjustments; Sandy Grant and his assistants take stock and record the day's output; and all is ready for another day. Midday Saturday marks the finish for the week. With the exception of a couple of defections, which are usual at the beginning, all hands have settled down smoothly to the job. Saturday afternoon is occupied for the most part in attending to domestic arrangements, washing dirty clothes, and perfecting the little details which make for comfort in a shearing camp. Sunday is devoted to relaxation and rest, and provides the opportunity for that close acquaintance and friendly intercourse with one's fellows, only possible under such conditions.

The all-important factor in a successful shearing is fine weather, and work is resumed on Monday in glorious sunshine and a cloudless sky. The vacancy on the board had been filled at the week-end, and each succeeding day records an increase in the rate of output, as the bigger and more even lines come in. Well conditioned and clean pointed sheep make for big tallies, and shearers' earnings are assessed on tallies. The board-walker quickens his vigilance, and with a word or a gesture indicates that quality must not be sacrificed for quantity. One “chip” is usually sufficient to correct a tendency in this direction. But the urge of the tally is irresistible; the fever is infectious, and fleecies and shed hands respond to the call; must, in fact, or be submerged in a deluge of wool. At the end of each day the tally board is page 29 eagerly scanned, the relative position of competitors in the “marathon” noted, and prospects estimated. The highlights are already emerging, and at the end of the sixth day Jim Hanlon shares pride of place with Charlie Downs. At the eighth day Jim has taken the lead by a bare half-dozen, while “Curly” Parkes, an athletic young Australian, has emerged from the ruck and threatens the leaders. Mid-day Friday (the ninth day) seems set for record making, but an engine breakdown of an hour was fatal to that hope. Despite this setback, a minute before time a learner reached his coveted first hundred, to the accompaniment of encouraging recognition; simultaneously, Jim Hanlon turned off the juice, straightened his back, and wiped away the perspiration, well satisfied with the first double-century of the season, and content to call it a day.