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Life
went
on
in
the
rhythmic
,
endless
cycle
of
the
land
;
the
following
summer
the
rains
came
,
not
monsoonal
but
a
by-product
of
them
,
filling
the
creek
and
the
tanks
,
succoring
the
thirsting
grass
roots
,
sponging
away
the
stealthy
dust
.
Almost
weeping
in
joy
,
the
men
went
about
the
business
of
the
patterned
seasons
,
secure
in
the
knowledge
they
would
not
have
to
hand-feed
the
sheep
.
The
grass
had
lasted
just
long
enough
,
eked
out
by
scrub-cutting
from
the
more
juicy
trees
;
but
it
was
not
so
on
all
the
Gilly
stations
.
How
many
stock
a
station
carried
depended
entirely
on
the
grazier
running
it
.
For
its
great
size
Drogheda
was
under-stocked
,
which
meant
the
grass
lasted
just
that
much
longer
.
Lambing
and
the
hectic
weeks
that
followed
it
were
busiest
of
all
in
the
sheep
calendar
.
Every
lamb
born
had
to
be
caught
;
its
tail
was
ringed
,
its
ear
marked
,
and
if
it
was
a
male
not
required
for
breeding
it
was
also
castrated
.
Filthy
,
abominable
work
which
soaked
them
to
the
skin
with
blood
,
for
there
was
only
one
way
to
wade
through
thousands
upon
thousands
of
male
lambs
in
the
short
time
available
.
The
testicles
were
popped
out
between
the
fingers
and
bitten
off
,
spat
on
the
ground
.
Circled
by
tin
bands
incapable
of
expanding
,
the
tails
of
male
and
female
lambs
alike
gradually
lost
their
vital
bloody
supply
,
swelled
,
withered
and
dropped
off
.
These
were
the
finest
wool
sheep
in
the
world
,
raised
on
a
scale
unheard
of
in
any
other
country
,
and
with
a
paucity
of
manpower
.
Everything
was
geared
to
the
perfect
production
of
perfect
wool
.
There
was
crutching
;
around
the
sheep
's
rear
end
the
wool
grew
foul
with
excrement
,
fly-blown
,
black
and
lumped
together
in
what
were
called
dags
.
This
area
had
to
be
kept
shaven
close
,
or
crutched
.
It
was
a
minor
shearing
job
but
one
far
less
pleasing
,
stinking
and
fly-ridden
,
and
it
paid
better
rates
.
Then
there
was
dipping
:
thousands
upon
thousands
of
bleating
,
leaping
creatures
were
hounded
and
yanked
through
a
maze
of
runs
,
in
and
out
of
the
phenyl
dips
which
rid
them
of
ticks
,
pests
and
vermin
.
And
drenching
:
the
administration
of
medicine
through
huge
syringes
rammed
down
the
throat
,
to
rid
the
sheep
of
intestinal
parasites
.
For
work
with
the
sheep
never
,
never
ended
;
as
one
job
finished
it
became
time
for
another
.
They
were
mustered
and
graded
,
moved
from
one
paddock
to
another
,
bred
and
unbred
,
shorn
and
crutched
,
dipped
and
drenched
,
slaughtered
and
shipped
off
to
be
sold
.
Drogheda
carried
about
a
thousand
head
of
prime
beef
cattle
as
well
as
its
sheep
,
but
sheep
were
far
more
profitable
,
so
in
good
times
Drogheda
carried
about
one
sheep
for
every
two
acres
of
its
land
,
or
about
125,000
altogether
.
Being
merinos
,
they
were
never
sold
for
meat
;
at
the
end
of
a
merino
's
wool-producing
years
it
was
shipped
off
to
become
skins
,
lanolin
,
tallow
and
glue
,
useful
only
to
the
tanneries
and
the
knackeries
.
Thus
it
was
that
gradually
the
classics
of
Bush
literature
took
on
meaning
.
Reading
had
become
more
important
than
ever
to
the
Clearys
,
isolated
from
the
world
on
Drogheda
;
their
only
contact
with
it
was
through
the
magic
written
word
.
But
there
was
no
lending
library
close
,
as
there
had
been
in
Wahine
,
no
weekly
trip
into
town
for
mail
and
newspapers
and
a
fresh
stack
of
library
books
,
as
there
had
been
in
Wahine
.
Father
Ralph
filled
the
breach
by
plundering
the
Gillanbone
library
,
his
own
and
the
convent
's
shelves
,
and
found
to
his
astonishment
that
before
he
was
done
he
had
organized
a
whole
Bush
circulating
library
via
Bluey
Williams
and
the
mail
truck
.
It
was
perpetually
loaded
with
books
--
worn
,
thumbed
volumes
which
traveled
down
the
tracks
between
Drogheda
and
Bugela
,
Dibban-Dibban
and
Braich
y
Pwll
,
Cunnamutta
and
Each-Uisge
,
seized
upon
gratefully
by
minds
starved
for
sustenance
and
escape
.
Treasured
stories
were
always
returned
with
great
reluctance
,
but
Father
Ralph
and
the
nuns
kept
a
careful
record
of
what
books
stayed
longest
where
,
then
Father
Ralph
would
order
copies
through
the
Gilly
news
agency
and
blandly
charge
them
to
Mary
Carson
as
donations
to
the
Holy
Cross
Bush
Bibliophilic
Society
.
Those
were
the
days
when
a
book
was
lucky
to
contain
a
chaste
kiss
,
when
the
senses
were
never
titillated
by
erotic
passages
,
so
that
the
demarcation
line
between
books
meant
for
adults
and
those
meant
for
older
children
was
less
strictly
drawn
,
and
there
was
no
disgrace
for
a
man
of
Paddy
's
age
to
love
best
the
books
his
children
also
adored
:
Dot
and
the
Kangaroo
,
the
Billabong
series
about
Jim
and
Norah
and
Wally
,
Mrs.
Aeneas
Gunn
's
immortal
We
of
the
Never-Never
.
In
the
kitchen
at
night
they
would
take
turns
to
read
the
poems
of
Banjo
Paterson
and
C.
J.
Dennis
out
loud
,
thrilling
to
the
ride
of
"
The
Man
from
Snowy
River
,
"
or
laughing
with
"
The
Sentimental
Bloke
"
and
his
Doreen
,
or
wiping
away
surreptitious
tears
shed
for
John
O'Hara
's
"
Laughing
Mary
.
"
I
had
written
him
a
letter
which
I
had
,
for
want
of
better
