Shearing commences April 27, 1895.

*THE WORKER*

BRISBANE, APRIL 27, 1895.

Bystanders' Notebook.

Life out West.

Shearing has commenced once again, and a heterogenous mob of men are gathered together for a few short weeks employment. The mob consists of many kinds – men with first-class abilities, others again with none; men of integrity, and some with habits and conduct so mean and paltry that its equal is hard to find elsewhere mechanics, tradesmen, all sorts and conditions are here united. Past follies may have driven them from the towns, but the probabilities are that they have been “had” by a capitalistic Government and been assured that out west they would find plenty of employment. They have found unlimited misery. They are not the happy family of olden times. The majority have been travelling for many weary months during the past year, and it has had a corresponding depressing effect. There are also various internal differences. With the unemployed and civilisation has the informer arrived, and one hardly knows who is who. What station huts are so also are the shed rouseabout's hut. On some stations good; on most they are old, draughty, badly constructed, and too small. As the gloaming comes on those who have been unable to find accommodation in the hut, and are unfortunate enough to be unprovided with tents of their own, wander away in the darkness, disappearing somewhere in the paddock to rest with the friendly galah and native dog. The lucky ones buy themselves with nailing up old bags and pasting up old Couriers. Formerly, these men thought this paper represented things as they were; but they have long discovered that it is printed on philanthropic grounds and sent out back to improve the P.U. huts and assist to keep out the rain and wind which enters through the wide-apart slabs with which the sides are composed, and therefore these men are correspondingly grateful.

True, the paper has one disadvantage. As the wind blows it makes a strange rustling sound, which to a nervous person might suggest snakes – but too much cannot be expected in this world. Slush lights, made out of calico embedded in fat, are now lit, giving out a flickering light and emitting a heavy black smoke. This, with the sickly smell of burnt fat and greasy moleskins, &c., have anything but a pleasing effect, and reminds one some what of a boiling-down establishment. Round the walls on rough wooden brackets, lately put up by the new arrivals, may be seen various bottles of medicine. Long tramping about, ill provided for, has not improved them, so a certain amount of their low-paid wages (lately further reduced) has to be expended in medicines. Constant coughing as of pleuro bullocks is heard from end to end of this barn-like constructure. One by one at last the lights are extinguished. A rattling of chains follow, turning out to be one of the dogs broken loose, and as each man here assembled has carefully provided himself with one of those friends of man an awful uproar starts from all those tied up. Enraged men in their shirts rush out to keep law-and-order, and other enraged men inside the hut protest and remind each other that their own property has nothing to do with that disturbance outside; and as imprecations resound on all sides one can easily distinguish from what part of the colony these men may hail from. Silence is at last obtained, but lasts not long. The galvanised roof is lifting and banging on the rafters with the increasing wind.

More men in shirts go out and a rumbling sound is heard. Heavy logs are being placed on the roof to stop those bangings. Sometimes the iron falls off and may light on some of those men outside-and then one wonders what earthquakes and revolutions are like. By-and-bye somebody discovers that it has commenced to rain and that he is lying under a part of the roof which lets in a kind of waterspout. This has also to be attended to. A stream flows in from outside and settles itself into small lakes where the floor has been worn away by past generations.

 But at last a short sleep, though broken, is obtained in the famous huts of noted P.U. Long before daylight can the cook be heard moving about outside, or it may be inside, as often the dining-table, for sanitary reasons, is carefully built inside the hut where these large number of men have to sleep. Owing to scarcity and worn-ness of blankets, unable to battle with the cold, they get up about daybreak and shortly before turning to all are assembled in front of the fire shivering in their old cotton shirts which they have been unable to replenish, and, strange to say, keeps not out the cold on these frosty mornings nor the bitter cutting wind. The cook, unable to reach the fire, expostulates, but all in vain. A slight row ensues, but after this is over they close up once again in front of that fire. Like and unlike their fathers of old they stand shoulder to shoulder, and as one views them thus planted one might well think that, like little Topsy, they grow'd there. Strange to remark they do not look very fit after their night's rest, and stand about looking rather moody and morose. By-and-bye when the sun is higher, if they have the time, they will find out about that dog question, and also nail some more bags up if they can get any. At present they are too cold to even swear. The bell sounds calling them to work, and one is reminded of church and gaols and other attributes of civilisation. True, hotels and other buildings are compelled by law to provide proper accommodation fit to live in, but then they belong not to the P.U. What is a necessary law for one is by no means so to another. Also, as other necessary accommodations are too few, and in some cases none, and as some of these men employed have wives and children camped round in tents the last state may be said to be worse than the first. But decency is a secondary desideratum. Such like the P.U. are, we suppose, what are called necessary evils. They are attributes of civilisation.

HINDOO.