Children of the Bush

This is a poetry book. It was about nine o'clock in the morning, and, though it was Sunday morning, it was no harm to wake me; but the shearer had mistaken me for a deaf jackaroo, who was staying at the shanty and was something like me, and had good naturedly shouted almost at the top of his voice, and he woke the whole shanty. Anyway he woke three or four others who were sleeping on beds and stretchers, and one on a shake down on the floor, in the same room. It had been a wet night, and the shanty was full of shearers from Big Billabong Shed which had cut out the day before. My room mates had been drinking and gambling overnight, and they swore luridly at the intruder for disturbing them. He was six foot three or thereabout. He was loosely built, bony, sandy complexioned and grey eyed. He wore a good humoured grin at most times, as I noticed later on; he was of a type of bushman that I always liked the sort that seem to get more good natured the longer they grow, yet are hard knuckled and would accommodate a man who wanted to fight, or thrash a bully in a good natured way. The sort that like to carry somebody's baby round, and cut wood, carry water and do little things for overworked married bush women. He wore a saddle tweed sac suit two sizes too small for him, and his face, neck, great hands and bony wrists were covered with sun blotches and freckles.