A low sandhill, a few years since, had looked out over a sea of grey plains, covered partly with grass, partly with salsiferous bushes and herbs. Three huts built of the trunks of the pine and roofed with the bark of the box-tree, and a skeleton-looking cattle-yard with its high 'gallows8' (a rude timber arrangement whereon to hang slaughtered9 cattle), alone broke the monotony of the plain-ocean. A comparatively small herd11 of cattle, numbering two or three thousand, found more than sufficient pasturage during the short winter and spring, but were often compelled to migrate to mountain pastures when the precarious12 water-stores of the 'Run' were dried up. But, at most, half-a-dozen stock-riders and station hands were ever needed for the purpose of managing the herd, so inadequate13 in number and profitable occupation to this vast area of grazing country.
But a little later, one of the chiefs of the pastoral interest—a shepherd king, so to speak—of shrewdness, energy, and capital—had seen, approved of, and purchased the Crown lease of this waste kingdom. As if by magic, the scene changed. Gangs of navvies appeared, wending their way across the silent plain. Dams were made, wells were dug. Tons of fencing-wire 297were dropped on the sand by long lines of teams which never ceased arriving. Sheep by thousands and tens of thousands came grazing and cropping up to the erstwhile lonely sandhill—now swarming14 with blacksmiths, carpenters, engineers, fencers, shepherds, bullock-drivers—till the place looked like a fair on the borders of Tartary.
Meanwhile everything was moving with calculated force and cost, under the 'reign16 of law.' The seeming expense illustrated17 the economic truth of doing all necessary work at once, rather than by instalments. One hundred men for one day, rather than one man for a hundred days. Results began to demonstrate themselves. Within twelve months the dams were full, the wells sending up their far-fetched, priceless water, the wire-fences completed, the shepherds gone, and a hundred and seventy thousand sheep were cropping the herbage of Anabanco. Tuesday was the day fixed18 for the actual commencement of the momentous19, almost solemn transaction—the pastoral Hegira20, so to speak, as the time of most station events is calculated with reference to it, as happening before or after shearing. But before the first shot is fired which tells of the battle begun, what raids and skirmishes, what reconnoitring and vedette duty must take place!
First arrives the cook-in-chief to the shearers, with two assistants, to lay in a few provisions for the week's consumption of seventy able-bodied men. Now the cook of a large shearing shed is a highly paid and irresponsible official. He is chosen and provided by the shearers themselves. Payment is generally arranged on the scale of half-a-crown a head weekly from each shearer21. For this sum he contracts to provide punctual and effective cooking, paying out of his own pocket as many marmitons as may be needful for that end, and must satisfy the taste of his exacting22 and fastidious employers.
In the present case he confers with the storekeeper, Mr. de Vere, a young gentleman of aristocratic connections, who is thus gaining an excellent practical knowledge of the working of a large station; and to this end has the store-keeping department entrusted23 to him during shearing.
He is not, perhaps, quite fit for a croquet party as he stands now, with a flour-scoop in one hand and a pound of tobacco in the other. But he looks like a man at work, also like a gentleman, as he is. 'Jack24 the Cook' thus addresses him:
298'Now, Mr. de Vere, I hope there's not going to be any humbugging about my rations26 and things. The men are all up in their quarters, and as hungry as free selectors. They've been a-payin' for their rations for ever so long, and of course, now shearin's on, they're good for a little extra.'
'All right, Jack,' returns De Vere good-humouredly; 'your order was weighed out and sent away before breakfast. You must have missed the cart. Here's the list. I'll read it out to you—three bags flour, half a bullock, two bags sugar, a chest of tea, four dozen of pickles27, four dozen of jam, two gallons of vinegar, five lbs. pepper, a bag of salt, plates, knives, forks, ovens, frying-pans, saucepans, iron pots, and about a hundred other things. You're to return all the cooking things safe, or pay for them, mind that! You don't want anything more, do you? Got enough for a regiment28 of cavalry29, I should think.'
'Well, I don't know, sir. There won't be much left in a week if the weather holds good,' makes answer the chief, as one who thought nothing too stupendous to be accomplished30 by shearers; 'but I knew I'd forgot something. As I'm here, I'll take a few dozen boxes of sardines31, and a case of pickled salmon32. The boys likes 'em, and, murder alive! haven't we forgot the plums and currants; a hundredweight of each, Mr. de Vere. They'll be crying out for plum-duff and currant-buns for the afternoon, and bullying33 the life out of me if I haven't a few trifles like. It's a hard life, surely, a shearers' cook. Well, good-day, sir, you have 'em all down in the book.'
Lest the reader should imagine that the rule of Mr. Gordon at Anabanco was a reign of luxury and that waste which tendeth to penury35, let him be aware that shearers in Riverina are paid at a certain rate, usually that of one pound per hundred sheep shorn. They agree, on the other hand, to pay for all supplies consumed by them, at certain prices fixed before the shearing agreement is signed. Hence it is entirely36 their own affair whether their mess bills are extravagant37 or economical. They can have everything within the rather wide range of the station store—patés de foie gras, ortolans, roast ostrich38, novels, top-boots, double-barrelled guns, if they like to pay for them; with one exception—no wine, no spirits! Neither are they permitted to bring these stimulants39 'on to the ground' for their private use. Grog at shearing? 299Matches in a powder-mill! It's very sad and bad; but our Anglo-Saxon industrial champion cannot be trusted with the fire-water. Navvies, men-of-war's men, soldiers, and shearers—fine fellows all. But though the younger men might only drink in moderation, the majority of the elders are utterly40 without self-control, once in the front of temptation. And wars, 'wounds without cause,' hot heads, shaking hands, delay, and bad shearing, would be the inevitable42 result of spirits, à la discrétion. So much is this a matter of certainty from experience, that a clause is inserted and cheerfully signed in most shearing agreements, 'that any man getting drunk or bringing spirits on to the station during shearing, loses the whole of the money earned by him.' The men know that the restriction44 is for their benefit, as well as for the interest of the master, and join in the prohibition45 heartily46.
Let us give a glance at the small army of working-men assembled at Anabanco—one out of hundreds of stations in the colony of New South Wales, ranging from 100,000 sheep downwards47. There are seventy shearers; about fifty washers, including the men connected with the steam-engine, boilers48, bricklayers, etc.; ten or twelve boundary riders, whose duty it is to ride round the large paddocks, seeing that the fences are intact, and keeping a general look-out over the condition of the sheep; three or four overseers; half-a-dozen young gentlemen acquiring a practical knowledge of sheep-farming, or, as it is generally phrased, 'colonial experience,' a comprehensive expression enough; a score or so of teamsters, with a couple of hundred horses or bullocks waiting for the high-piled wool-bales, which are loaded up and sent away almost as soon as shorn; wool-sorters, pickers-up, pressers, yardsmen, extra shepherds. It may easily be gathered from this outline what an 'army with banners' is arrayed at Anabanco. While statistically50 inclined, it may be added that the cash due for the shearing alone (less the mess-bill) amounts to ￡17,000; for the washing (roughly), ￡400, exclusive of provisions consumed, hutting, wood, water, cooking, etc. Carriage of wool, ￡1500. Other hands from ￡30 to ￡40 per week. All of which disbursements take place within eight to twelve weeks after the shears51 are in the first sheep.
Tuesday arrives, 'big with fate.' As the sun tinges52 the far sky-line the shearers are taking a slight refection of coffee 300and currant-buns, to enable them to withstand the exhausting interval53 between six A.M. and eight o'clock, when serious breakfast occurs. Shearers diet themselves on the principle that the more they eat the stronger they must be. Digestion54, as preliminary to muscular development, is left to take its chance. They certainly do get through a tremendous amount of work. The whole frame is at its utmost tension, early and late. But the preservation55 of health is due to natural strength of constitution rather than to their profuse56 and unscientific diet. Half an hour after sunrise Mr. Gordon walks quietly into the vast building which contains the sheep and their shearers—called 'the shed,' par4 excellence57. Everything is in perfect cleanliness and order. The floor swept and smooth, with its carefully planed boards of pale yellow aromatic58 pine. Small tramways, with baskets for the fleeces, run the wool up to the wool-tables, superseding59 the more general plan of handpicking. At each side of the shed-floor are certain small areas, four or five feet square, such space being found by experience to be sufficient for the postures60 and gymnastics practised during the shearing of a sheep. Opposite each square is an aperture61, communicating with a long, narrow, paled yard, outside of the shed. Through this each man pops his sheep when shorn, where he remains62 in company with the others shorn by the same hand, until counted out. This being done by the overseer or manager, supplies a check upon hasty, unskilful work. The body of the woolshed, floored with battens placed half an inch apart, is filled with the woolly victims. This enclosure is subdivided63 into minor64 pens, of which each fronts the place of two shearers, who catch from it till the pen is empty. When this takes place, a man detailed65 for the purpose refills it. As there are local advantages, an equal distribution of places is made by lot.
On every subdivision stands a shearer, as Mr. Gordon walks, with an air of calm authority, down the long aisle66. Seventy men, chiefly in their prime, the flower of the working-men of the colony, they are variously gathered. England, Ireland, and Scotland are represented in the proportion of one-third of the number; the balance is composed of native-born Australians.
Among these last—of pure Anglo-Saxon or Anglo-Celtic descent—are to be seen some of the finest men, physically67 301considered, the race is capable of producing. Taller than their British-born brethren, with softer voices and more regular features, they inherit the powerful frames and unequalled muscular development of the breed. Leading lives chiefly devoted68 to agriculture, they enjoy larger intervals69 of leisure than are permissible70 to the labouring classes of Europe. The climate is mild and favourable71 to health. They have been accustomed from childhood to abundance of the best food; opportunities of intercolonial travel are common. Hence the Anglo-Australian labourer, without, on the one hand, the sharpened eagerness which marks his Transatlantic cousin, has yet an air of independence and intelligence, combined with a natural grace of movement, unknown to the peasantry of Britain.
An idea is prevalent that the Australians are, as a race, physically inferior to the British. It is asserted that they grow too fast, tend to height and slenderness, and do not possess adequate stamina72 and muscle. This idea is erroneous. The men reared in the cities on the sea-boards, living sedentary lives in shops or counting-houses, are often pallid73 and slight of form. Such are they who live under similar conditions all over the world. But those youngsters who have followed the plough on the upland farms, or lived a wilder life on the stations of the far interior; who have had their fill of wheaten bread, chops, and steaks since they could walk, and sniffed74 up the free bush breezes from infancy75, they are men—
Stout76 of heart and ready of hand,
As e'er drove prey77 from Cumberland
—a business, I may remark, at which many of them would have distinguished78 themselves.
Take Abraham Lawson, as he stands there in a natural and unstudied attitude, six feet four in his stockings, wide-chested, stalwart, with a face like that of a Greek statue. Take Billy May, fair-haired, mild, insouciant79, almost languid, till you see him at work. Then, again, Jack Windsor, handsome, saucy80, and wiry as a bull-terrier; like him, with a strong natural inclination81 for the combat; good for any man of his weight or a trifle over, with the gloves or without.
It is curious to note how the old English practice of 302settling disputes with nature's weapons has taken root in Australia. It would 'gladden the sullen82 souls of defunct83 gladiators' to watch two lads, whose fathers had never trodden Britain's soil, pull off their jackets, and go to work 'hammer and tongs84' with the savage85 silence of the true island type.
It is now seven o'clock. Mr. Gordon moves forward. As he does so, every man leans towards the open door of the pen, in front of which he stands. The bell sounds. With the first stroke each one of the seventy men has sprung upon a sheep; has drawn86 it out, placed its head across his knee, and is working his shears, as if the 'last man out' was to be flogged. Four minutes—James Steadman, who learned last year, has shorn down one side of his sheep; Jack Holmes and Gundagai Bill are well down the other side of theirs; when Billy May raises himself with a jerking sigh, and releases his sheep, perfectly87 clean—shorn from the nose to the heels, through the aperture of his separate enclosure. With the same effort apparently he calls out 'Wool!' and darts88 upon another sheep. Drawing this second victim across his knee, he buries his shear1-point in the long wool of its neck. A moment later (a lithe89, eager boy having gathered up fleece number one and tossed it into the tram-basket) he is half-way down its side, the wool hanging in one fleece like a great glossy90 mat, before you have done wondering whether he did really shear the first sheep, or whether he had not a ready-shorn one in his coat sleeve, like a conjurer. By this time Lawson and Windsor, Jack Holmes and Gundagai Bill are 'out,' or finished, and the cry of 'Wool! wool!' seems to run continuously up and down the long aisles91 of the shed, like a single note upon some rude instrument. Now and then the refrain is varied92 by 'Tar15!' being shouted instead, when a piece of skin is snipped93 off as well as the wool. Great healing properties are attributed to this extract in the shed. And if a shearer slice off a piece of flesh from his own person, as occasionally happens, he gravely anoints it with the universal remedy, and considers that the onus94 then lies with Providence95, there being no more that man can do. Though little time is lost, the men are by no means up to the speed which they will attain96 in a few days, when in full practice and training. Their nerve and muscle will be then, so to speak, 303at concert-pitch, while sheep after sheep will be shorn with a precision and celerity almost magical to the unprofessional observer.
The reader may here be informed that speed and completeness of denudation97 are the grand desiderata in shearing. The employer thinks principally of the latter, the shearer of the former. To adjust the proportion equitably98 is one of the incomplete aspirations99 which torment100 humanity. Hence the contest—old as human society—between labour and capital.
This is the first day. According to old-established custom, a kind of truce101 obtains. It is before the battle—the salut, when no hasty word or too demonstrative action can be suffered by the canons of good taste. Red Bill, Flash Jack, Jem the Scooper103, and other roaring blades, more famous for expedition than faithful manipulation, are shearing to-day with a painstaking104 precision, as of men to whom character is everything. Mr. Gordon marches softly up and down, regarding the shearers with a paternal105 and gratified expression, occasionally hinting at slight improvements of style, or expressing unqualified approval, as a sheep is turned out shaven rather than shorn. All goes on well. Nothing is heard but expressions of goodwill106 and enthusiasm for the general welfare. It is a triumph of the dignity of labour.
One o'clock. Mr. Gordon moved to the bell and sounded it. At the first stroke several men on their way to the pens stopped abruptly108, and began to put on their coats. One fellow of an alert nature had just finished his sheep and was sharpening his shears, when his eye caught Mr. Gordon's form in close proximity109 to the final bell. With a bound like a wild-cat, he reached the pen and drew out his sheep a bare second before the first stroke, amidst the laughter and congratulations of his comrades. Another man had his hand on the pen-gate at the same instant, but by the Median law was compelled to return sheepless. He was cheered, but ironically. Those whose sheep were in an unfinished stage quietly completed them, the others moving off to the dinner, where the board literally111 smoked with abundance. An hour passed. The meal was concluded; the smoke was over; and the more careful men were back in the shed sharpening their shears by two o'clock. Punctually at that hour the bell repeated its summons da 304capo. The warm afternoon gradually lengthened112 its shadows; the shears clicked in tireless monotone; the pens filled and became empty. The wool-presses yawned for the mountain of fleeces which filled the bins113 in front of them, divided into various grades of excellence, and continuously disgorged them, neatly114, cubically packed and branded.
At six o'clock the bell brought the day's work to a close. The sheep of each man were counted in his presence, and noted115 down with scrupulous116 care, the record being written in full and hung up for public inspection117 in the shed next day. This important ceremony over, master and men, manager, labourers, and supernumeraries betook themselves to their separate abodes118, with such avoidance of delay that in five minutes not a soul was left in or near the great building lately so busy and populous119, except the boys who were sweeping120 up the floor. The silence of ages seems to fall and settle upon it.
Next morning at a rather earlier hour every man is at his post. Business is meant decidedly. Now commences the delicate and difficult part of the superintendence which keeps Mr. Gordon at his post in the shed nearly from daylight to dark for from eight to ten weeks. During the first day he has formed a sort of gauge122 of each man's temper and workmanship. For now and henceforth the natural bias124 of each shearer will appear. Some try to shear too fast, and in their haste shear badly. Some are rough and savage with the sheep, which do occasionally kick and become unquiet at critical times, and, it must be confessed, are provoking enough. Some shear fairly and handsomely to a superficial eye, but commit the unpardonable offence of 'leaving wool on.' Some are deceitful, shearing carefully when overlooked, but 'racing125' and otherwise misbehaving directly the eye of authority is diverted. These and many other tricks and defects require to be noted and abated127, quietly but firmly, by the manager of the shed—firmly, because evil would develop and spread ruinously if not checked; quietly, because immense loss might be incurred128 by a strike. Shearing differs from other work in this wise—it is work against time, more especially in Riverina. If the wool be not off the backs of the sheep before November, all sorts of drawbacks and destructions supervene. The spear-shaped grass seeds, specially129 formed as if in special 305collusion with the evil one, hasten to bury themselves in the wool and even in the flesh of the tender victims. Dust rises in red clouds from the unmoistened, betrampled meadows, so lately verdurous and flower-spangled. From snowy white to an unlovely bistre turn the carefully-washed fleeces, causing anathemas130 from overseers and depreciation131 from brokers132. All these losses of temper, trouble, and money become inevitable if shearing be protracted133, it may be, beyond a given week.
Hence, as in harvest with a short allowance of fair weather, discipline must be tempered with diplomacy134. Lose your temper, and be over particular; off go Billy May, Abraham Lawson, and half-a-dozen of your best men, making a weekly difference of two or three thousand sheep for the remainder of the shearing. Can you not replace them? Not so! Every shed in Riverina will be hard at work during this present month of September and for every hour of October. Till that time not a shearer will come to your gate, except, perhaps, one or two useless, characterless men. Are you to tolerate bad workmanship? Not that either. But try all other means with your men before you resort to harshness; and be quite certain that your sentence is just, and that you can afford the defection.
So our friend Mr. Gordon, wise from tens of thousands of shorn sheep that have been counted out past his steady eye, criticises temperately135 but watchfully136. He reproves sufficiently137, but no more, any glaring fault; makes his calculation as to who are really bad shearers, and can be discharged without loss to the commonwealth138; or who shear fairly and can be coached up to a decent average. One division, slow, and good only when slow, have to be watched lest they emulate139 'the talent,' and so come to grief. Then 'the talent' has to be mildly admonished140 from time to time lest they force the pace, set a bad example, and lure141 the other men on to 'racing.' This last leads to slovenly142 shearing, ill-usage of the sheep, and general dissatisfaction.
Tact49, temper, patience, and firmness are each and all necessary attributes in that captain of industry who has the delicate and responsible task of superintending a large woolshed. Hugh Gordon had shown all in such proportion as would have made him a distinguished person anywhere, had 306fortune not adjusted for him this particular profession. Calm with the consciousness of strength, he was considerate in manner as in nature, until provoked by glaring dishonesty or incivility. Then the lion part of his nature awoke, so that it commonly went ill with the aggressor. As this was matter of public report, he had little occasion to spoil the repose143 of his bearing. Day succeeds day, and for a fortnight the machinery144 goes on smoothly145 and successfully. The sheep arrive at an appointed hour by detachments and regiments146 at the wash-pen. They depart thence, like good boys on Saturday night, redolent of soap and water, and clean to a fault—entering the shed white and flossy as newly-combed poodles, to emerge on the way back to their pasturage, slim, delicate, agile147, with a bright black A legibly branded with tar on their paper-white skins.
The Anabanco world—stiffish but undaunted—is turning out of bed one morning. Ha! what sounds are these? and why does the room look so dark? Rain, as I'm alive! 'Hurrah149!' says Master Jack Bowles, one of the young gentlemen. He is learning (more or less) practical sheep-farming, preparatory to having (one of these days) an Anabanco of his own. 'Well, this is a change, and I'm not sorry, for one,' quoth Mr. Jack. 'I'm stiff all over. No one can stand such work long. Won't the shearers growl150? No shearing to-day, and perhaps none to-morrow either.' Truth to tell, Mr. Bowles' sentiments are not confined to his ingenuous151 bosom152. Some of the shearers grumble153 at being stopped, 'just as a man was earning a few shillings.' Those who are in top pace and condition don't like it. But to many of the rank and file—working up to and a little beyond their strength—with whom swelled154 wrists and other protests of nature are becoming apparent, it is a relief. They are glad of the respite155. At dinner-time all the sheep in the sheds, put in overnight in anticipation156 of such a contingency157, are reported shorn. All hands then are idle for the rest of the day. The shearers dress and avail themselves of various resources. Some go to look at their horses, now in clover or its equivalent, in the Riverina graminetum. Some play cards, others wash or mend their clothes. A large proportion of the Australians, having armed themselves with paper, envelopes, and a shilling's worth of stamps from the store, bethink 307themselves of neglected or desirable correspondents. Many a letter for Mrs. Leftalone, Wallaroo Creek158, or Miss Jane Sweetapple, Honeysuckle Flat, as the case may be, will find its way into the post-bag to-morrow. A pair of the youngsters are having a round or two with the gloves; while to complete the variety of recreations compatible with life at a woolshed, a selected troupe159 are busy in the comparative solitude160 of that building, at a rehearsal161 of a tragedy and a farce162, with which they intend, the very next rainy day, to astonish the population of Anabanco.
At the home station a truce to labour's 'alarms' is proclaimed, except in the case and person of Mr. De Vere. So far is he from participation163 in the general holiday, that he finds the store thronged164 with shearers, washers, and 'knockabout men,' who, being let loose, think it would be nice to go and buy something. He therefore grumbles165 slightly at having no rest like other people.
'That's all very fine,' says Mr. Jack Bowles, who, seated on a case, is smoking a large meerschaum and mildly regarding all things; 'but what have you got to do when we're all hard at work at the shed?' with an air of great importance and responsibility.
'That's right, Mr. Bowles,' chimes in one of the shearers; 'stand up for the shed. I never see a young gentleman work as hard as you do.'
'Bosh!' growls166 De Vere; 'as if anybody couldn't gallop167 about from the shed to the wash-pen, and carry messages, and give half of them wrong! Why, Mr. Gordon said the other day he should have to take you off and put on a Chinaman—that he couldn't make more mistakes.'
'All envy and malice168 and t'other thing, De Vere, because you think I'm rising in the profession,' returns the good-natured Bowles. 'Mr. Gordon's going to send 20,000 sheep, after shearing, to the Lik Lak paddock, and he said I should go in charge.'
'Charge be hanged!' laughs De Vere (with two very bright-patterned Crimean shirts, one in each hand, which he offers to a tall young shearer for inspection). 'There's a well there, and whenever either of the two men, of whom you'll have charge, gets sick or runs away, you'll have to work the whim169 in his place, till another man's sent out, if it's a month.'
This appalling170 view of station promotion171 rather startles Mr. 308Bowles, who applies himself to his meerschaum, amid the ironical110 comments of the shearers. However, not easily daunted148, or 'shut up,' according to the more familiar station phrase, he rejoins, after a brief interval of contemplation, that 'accidents will happen, you know, De Vere, my boy—apropos of which moral sentiment, I'll come and help you in your dry-goods business; and then, look here, if you get ill or run away, I'll have a profession to fall back upon.' This is held to be a Roland of sufficient pungency172 for De Vere's Oliver. Every one laughed. And the two youngsters betook themselves to a humorous puffing173 of the miscellaneous contents of the store: tulip beds of gorgeous Crimean shirts, boots, books, tobacco, canvas slippers174, pocket-knives, Epsom salts, pipes, pickles, pain-killer, pocket-handkerchiefs, and pills, sardines, saddles, shears, and sauces; in fact, everything which every kind of man might want, and which apparently every man did want, for large and various were the purchases, and great the flow of conversation. Finally, after everything had been severely175 and accurately176 debited177 to the purchasers, the store was cleared and locked up. A store is a necessity of a large station; not by any means because of the profit upon goods sold, but it obviously would be bad economy for old Bill the shepherd, or Barney the bullock-driver, to visit the next township, from ten to twenty miles distant, as the case may be, every time the former wanted a pound of tobacco, or the latter a pair of boots. They might possibly obtain these necessary articles as good in quality, as cheap in price. But there are wolves in that wood, oh, my weak brothers! In every town dwells one of the 'sons of the giant'—the Giant Grog—red-eyed, with steel muscles and iron claws; once in these, which have held many and better men to the death, Barney nor Bill emerges not, save pale, fevered, nerveless, and impecunious178. So arose the station store. Barney befits himself with boots without losing his feet; Bill fills his pockets with match-boxes and smokes the pipe of sobriety, virtuous179 perforce till his carnival180, after shearing.
The next day was wet, and threatened broken weather. Matters were not too placid181 with the shearers. A day or two for rest is all very well, but continuous wet weather means compulsory182 idleness, and gloom succeeds repose; for not only are all hands losing time and earning no money, but 309they are, to use the language of the stable, 'eating their heads off' the while. The rather profuse mess and general expenditure183, which caused little reflection when they were earning at the rate of two or three hundred a year, became unpleasantly suggestive now that all was going out and nothing coming in. Hence loud and deep rose the anathemas, as the discontented men gazed sadly or wrathfully at the misty184 sky.
A few days' showery weather having well-nigh driven our shearers to desperation, out comes the sun in all his glory. He is never far away or very faint in Riverina.
All the pens are filled for the morrow; very soon after the earliest sunbeams, the bell sounds its welcome summons, and the whole force tackles to the work with an ardour proportioned to the delay, every man working as if for the ransom185 of his family from slavery. These men work, spurred on by the double excitement of acquiring social reputation and making money rapidly. Not an instant is lost; not a nerve, limb, or muscle doing less than the hardest taskmaster could flog out of a slave. Occasionally you see a shearer, after finishing his sheep, walk quietly out, and not appearing for a couple of hours, or perhaps not again during the day. Do not put him down as a sluggard186; be assured that he has tasked Nature dangerously hard, and has only just given in before she does. Look at that silent, slight youngster, with a bandage round his swollen187 wrist. Every 'blow' of the shears is agony to him, yet he disdains188 to give in, and has been working 'in distress189' for hours. The pain is great, as you can see by the flush which surges across his brown face, yet he goes on manfully to the last sheep, and endures to the very verge190 of fainting.
A change in the manner and tone of the shed is apparent towards the end of the day. It is now the ding-dong of the desperate fray191, when the blood of the fierce animal man is up, when mortal blows are exchanged, and curses float upwards192 with the smoke and dust. The ceaseless clicking of the shears—the stern earnestness of the men, toiling193 with feverish194, tireless energy—the constant succession of sheep shorn and let go, caught and commenced—the occasional savage oath or passionate195 gesture, as a sheep kicked and struggled with perverse196, delaying obstinacy—the cuts and stabs, with 310attendant effusion of blood, both of sheep and shearers—the brief decided121 tones of Mr. Gordon, in repression197 or command—all told the spectator that tragic198 action was introduced into the performance; indeed, one of the minor excitements of shearing was then and there transacted199. Mr. Gordon had more than once warned a dark, sullen-looking man that he did not approve of his style of shearing. He was temporarily absent, and on his return found the same man about to let go a sheep, whose appearance, as a shorn wool-bearing quadruped, was painful and discreditable in the extreme.
'Let your sheep go, my man,' said he, in a tone which arrested the attention of the shearers; 'but don't trouble yourself to catch another.'
'Why not?' said the delinquent200 sulkily.
'You know very well why not!' said Gordon, walking closely up to him, and looking straight at him with eyes that began to glitter. 'You've had fair warning; you've not chosen to take it. Now you can go!'
'I suppose you'll pay a man for the sheep he's shorn?' growled201 out the ruffian.
'Not one shilling until after shearing. You can come then, if you like,' answered Mr. Gordon with perfect distinctness.
The bully34 looks savage; but the tall, powerful frame and steady eye were not inviting202 for personal arbitration203 of the matter in hand. He puts up his two pairs of shears, takes up his coat, and walks out of the shed. The time was past when Red Bill or Terrible Dick (ruffians whom a sparse204 labour market rendered necessary evils) would have flung down his shears on the floor and told the manager that if he didn't like that shearing he could shear his —— sheep himself and be hanged to him; or, on refusal of instant payment, would have proposed to bury his shears in the intestines205 of his employer, by way of adjusting the balance between Capital and Labour. Wild tales are told of woolshed rows. One squatter206 at least was stabbed mortally with that fatal and too convenient weapon, a shear-blade.
The man thus summarily dealt with could, like most of his companions, shear very well if he took pains. Keeping to a moderate number of sheep, his workmanship could be good; but he must needs try and keep up with Billy May or 311Abraham Lawson, who can shear from a hundred to a hundred and thirty sheep per day, and do them beautifully. So in 'racing' he works hastily and badly, cuts the skin of his luckless sheep, and leaves wool here and there on them, grievous and exasperating208 to behold209. So sentence of expulsion goes forth123 fully43 against him. Having arrayed himself for the road, he makes one more effort for a settlement and some money wherewith to pay for board and lodgings210 on the road. Only to have a mad carouse211 at the nearest township, however; after which he will tell a plausible212 story of his leaving the shed on account of Mr. Gordon's temper, and avail himself of the usual free hospitality of the bush to reach another shed. He addresses Mr. Gordon with an attempt at conciliation213 and deference214:
'It seems very 'ard, sir, as a man can't get the trifle of money coming to him, which I've worked 'ard for.'
'It's very hard you won't try and shear decently,' retorts Mr. Gordon, by no means conciliated. 'Leave the shed!'
Ill-conditioned rascal215 as he is, he has a mate or travelling-companion in whose breast exists some rough ideas of fidelity216. He now takes up the dialogue.
'I suppose if Jim's shearing don't suit, mine won't either.'
'I did not speak to you,' answered Mr. Gordon, as calmly as if he had expected the speech; 'but of course you can go too.' He said this with an air of studied unconcern, as if he would rather like a dozen more men to knock off work. The two men walk out; but the epidemic217 does not spread; and several take the lesson home and mend their ways accordingly.
The weather is now splendid. Not a cloud specks218 the bright blue sky. The shearers continue to work at the same express-train pace; fifty bales of wool roll every day from the wool-presses; as fast as they reach that number they are loaded upon one of the numerous drays and waggons219 which have been waiting for weeks. Tall brown men have been recklessly cutting up hides for the last fortnight, wherewith to lash102 the bales securely. It is considered safer practice to load wool as soon as may be; fifty bales represent about a thousand pounds sterling220. In a building, however secure, should a fire break out, a few hundred bales are easily burned; but once on the dray, this much-dreaded221 edax rerum in a 312dry country has little chance. The driver, responsible to the extent of his freight, generally sleeps under his dray; hence both watchman and insulation222 are provided.
The unrelaxing energy with which work is pushed at this stage is exciting and contagious223. At or before daylight every soul in the great establishment is up. The boundary riders are always starting off for a twenty or thirty mile ride, and bringing tens of thousands of sheep to the wash-pen; at that huge lavatory224, there is splashing and soaking all day with an army of washers; not a moment is lost from daylight till dark, or used for any purpose save the all-engrossing work and needful food. At nine o'clock P.M. luxurious225 dreamless sleep obtains, given only to those whose physical powers have been taxed to the utmost, and who can bear without injury the daily tension.
Everything and everybody is in splendid working order, nothing is out of gear. Rapid and regular as a steam-engine the great host of toilers moves onward226 daily, with a march promising227 an early completion. Mr. Gordon is not in high spirits, for so cautious and far-seeing a captain rarely feels himself so independent of circumstances as to indulge in that reckless mood, but much satisfied with the prospect228. Whew! the afternoon darkens, and the night is given over to waterspouts and hurricanes, as it appears. Next day is raw, gusty229, with chill heavy showers, drains to be cut, roofs to be seen to, shorn sheep shivering, washers all playing pitch-and-toss, shearers sulky; everybody but the young gentlemen wearing an injured expression of countenance230. 'Looks as if it would rain for a month,' says Long Jack. 'If we hadn't been delayed, might have had the shearing over by this.' Reminded that there are 50,000 sheep yet remaining to be shorn, and that by no possibility could they have been finished; answers, 'He supposes so, always the same, everything sure to go agin the pore man.' The weather does not clear up. Winter seems to have taken thought, and determined231 to assert his rights even in this land of eternal summer. The shed is filled, and before the sheep so kept dry are shorn, down comes the rain again. Not a full day's shearing for ten days. Then the clouds disappear as if the curtain of a stage had been rolled up, and lo! the golden sun, fervid232 and impatient to obliterate233 the track of winter.
On the first day after the recommencement, matters go 313much as usual. Steady work and little talk; every one is apparently anxious to make up for lost time. But on the second morning after breakfast, when the bell sounds, instead of the usual cheerful dash at the sheep, every man stands silent and motionless in his place. Some one uttered the words 'Roll up!' Then the seventy men converge234, and slowly, but with one impulse, walk to the end of the shed, where stands Mr. Gordon.
The concerted action of any large body of men bears with it an element of power which commands respect. The weapons of force and number are theirs; at their option to wield235 with or without mercy. At one period of Australian colonisation a superintendent236 in Mr. Gordon's position might have had good ground for uneasiness. Mr. Jack Bowles sees in it an émeute of a democratic and sanguinary nature; regrets deeply his absent revolver, but draws up to his leader, prepared to die by his side. That calm centurion237 feels no such serious misgivings238. He knows there had been dire126 grumbling239 among the shearers, in consequence of the weather. He knows of malcontents among them. He is prepared for some sort of demand on their part, and has concluded to make moderate concessions241. So, looking cheerfully at the men, he quietly awaits the deputation. As they near him there is some hesitation242; then three delegates come to the front. These are old Ben, Abraham Lawson, and Billy May. Ben Thornton had been selected from his age and long experience of the rights and laws of the craft. A weather-beaten, wiry old Englishman, his face and accent, darkened as the former is by the Australian summers of half a century, still retain the trace of his native Devonshire. It is his boast that he had shorn for forty years, and as regularly 'knocked down' (or spent in a single debauch) his shearing money. Lawson represents the small free-holders, being a steady, shrewd fellow, and one of the fastest shearers. Billy May stands for the fashion and 'talent,' being the 'Ringer,' or fastest shearer of the whole assembly, and as such truly admirable and distinguished.
'Well now, men,' quoth Mr. Gordon, cheerily meeting matters half-way, 'what's it all about?' The younger delegates look at old Ben, who, now that it was 'demanded of him to speak the truth,' or such dilution243 thereof as might seem 314most favourable to the interests of the shed, found a difficulty, like many wiser men, about his exordium.
'Well, Muster244 Gordon, look'ee here, sir. The weather's been summat awful, and clean agin' shearin'. We've not been earning our grub, and——'
'So it has,' answered the manager, 'so it has; but can I help the weather? I'm as anxious as you are to have the shearing over quickly. We're both of us of one mind about that, eh?'
'That's right enough, sir,' strikes in Abraham Lawson, feeling that Ben was getting the worst of the argument, and was moreover far less fluent than usual, probably from being deprived of the aid of the customary expletives; 'but we're come to say this, sir, that the season's turned out very wet indeed; we've had a deal of broken time, and the men feel it hard to be paying for a lot of rations, and hardly earning anything. We're shearing the sheep very close and clean. You won't have 'em done no otherways. Not like some sheds where a man can "run" a bit and make up for lost time. Now, we've all come to think this, sir, that if we're to go on shearing the sheep well, and stick to them, so as to get them done before the dust and grass-seed come in, you ought to make us some allowance. We know we've agreed for so much a hundred, and all that. Still, the season's turned out so out-and-out bad, and we hope you'll consider it and make it up to us somehow.'
'Never knew a worse year,' corroborated245 Billy May, who thought it indispensable to say something; 'haven't made enough, myself, to pay the cook.'
This was not strictly246 true, at any rate, as to Master Billy's own earnings247; he being such a remarkably248 fast shearer (and good withal), that he had always a respectable sum credited to him for his day's work, even when many of the slower men came off short enough. However, enough had been said to make Mr. Gordon fully comprehend the case. The men were dissatisfied. They had come in a roundabout way to the conclusion that some concession240, not mentioned in their bond, should come from the side of Capital to that of Labour. Whether wages, interest of capital, share of profits or reserved fund, they knew not, nor cared. This was their stand. And being Englishmen they intended to abide249 by it.
315The manager had considered the situation before it actually arose. He now rapidly took in the remaining points of debate. The shearers had signed a specific agreement for a stipulated250 rate of payment, irrespective of the weather. By the letter of the law they had no case. Whether they made little or much profit was not his affair. But he was a just and kindly251 man, as well as reasonably politic252. They had shorn well, and the weather had been discouraging. He knew, too, that an abrupt107 denial might cause a passive mutiny, if not a strike. If they set themselves to thwart253 him, it was in their power to shear badly, to shear slowly, and to force him to discharge many of them. He might have them fined, perhaps imprisoned254 by the police court. Meanwhile how could shearing go on? Dust and grass-seeds would soon be upon them. He resolved on a compromise, and spoke5 out at once in a decided tone, as the men gathered yet more closely around him.
'Look here, all of you! You know well that I'm not bound to find you in good shearing weather. Still, I'm aware that the season has been against you; you have shorn pretty well, so far, though I've had to make examples, and am quite ready to make more. What I am willing to do is this: to every man who works on till the finish, and shears to my satisfaction, I will make a fair allowance in the ration25 account. That is, I will make no charge for the beef. Does that suit you? There was a chorus of 'All right, sir, we're satisfied.' 'Mr. Gordon always does the fair thing,' etc. And work was immediately resumed with alacrity255.
The clerk of the weather, too gracious even in these regions, as far as the absence of rain is concerned, became steadily256 propitious257.
Cloudless skies and a gradually ascending258 thermometer were the signs that spring was changing into summer. The splendid herbage ripened260 and dried; patches of bare earth began to be discernible amid the late thick-swarded pastures, dust to rise, and cloud-pillars of sand to float and eddy—the desert genii of the Arab. But the work went on at a high rate of speed, outpacing the fast-coming summer; and before any serious disaster arose, the last flock was 'on the battens,' and amid ironical congratulations the 'cobbler' (or last sheep) was seized, and stripped of his dense261 and difficult fleece. In ten minutes the vast woolshed, lately echoing with the ceaseless 316click of the shears, the jests, the songs, the oaths of the rude congregation, was silent and deserted262. The floors were swept, the pens closed, the sheep on their way to a distant paddock. Not a soul remains about the building but the pressers, who stay to work at the rapidly lessening263 piles of fleece in the bins, or a meditative264 teamster who sits musing265 on a wool-bale, absorbed in a calculation as to when his load will be made up.
It is sundown, a rather later time of closing than usual, but rendered necessary by the possibility of the grand finale. The younger men troop over to the hut, larking266 like schoolboys. Abraham Lawson throws a poncho267 over his broad shoulders, lights his pipe, and strides along, towering above the rest, erect268 and stately as a guardsman. Considerably269 more than you or I, reader, would have been, had we shorn a hundred and thirty-four sheep, as he has done to-day. Billy May has shorn a hundred and forty-two, and he puts his hand on the four-foot paling fence of the yard and vaults270 over it like a deer, preparatory to a swim in the creek. At dinner you will see them all, with fresh Crimeans and jerseys271, clean, comfortable, and in grand spirits. Next morning is settling day. The book-keeping department at Anabanco being severely correct, all is in readiness. Each man's tally207, or number of sheep shorn, has been entered daily to his credit. His private and personal investments at the store have been as duly debited. The shearers, as a corporation, have been charged with the multifarious items of their rather copious272 mess-bill. This sum-total is divided by the number of the shearers, the extract being the amount for which each man is liable. This sum varies in its weekly proportion, at different sheds. With an extravagant cook, or cooks, the weekly bill is often alarming. When the men and their functionary273 study economy, it may be kept reasonably low.
The men have been sitting or standing274 about the office for half an hour, when Mr. Jack Bowles rushes out and shouts, 'William May.' That young person, excessively clean, attired275 in a quiet tweed suit, with his hair cut correctly short, advances with an air of calm intrepidity276, and faces Mr. Gordon, now seated at a long table, wearing a judicial277 expression of countenance.
317'Well, May! here's your account:—
So many sheep at ￡1 per 100 ￡
Cook, so many weeks ￡
Shearing store account
Private store account
———
———
Total ￡
======
Is the tally of your sheep right?'
'Oh, I daresay it's all right, Mr. Gordon. I made it so and so; about ten less.'
'Well, well; ours is correct, no doubt. Now, I want to make up a good subscription278 for the hospital this year. How much will you give? You've done pretty well, I think.'
'Put me down a pound, sir.'
'Very well, that's fair enough. If every one gives what they can afford, you men will always have a place to go to when you're hurt or laid up. See, I put your name down, and you'll see it in the published list. Now, about the shearing, May. I consider that you have done your work excellently well, and behaved well all through. You're a fast shearer, but you shear closely, and don't knock your sheep about. I therefore do not charge you for any part of your meat bill, and I pay you at the rate of half-a-crown a hundred for all your sheep, over and above your agreement. Will that do?'
'Very well indeed, and I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Gordon.'
'Well, good-bye, May. Always call when you're passing, and if any work is going on you'll get your share. Here's your cheque. Send in Lawson.' Exit May in high spirits, having cleared about three pounds per week during the whole time of shearing, and having lived a far from unpleasant life, indeed akin41 to that of a fighting cock, from the commencement to the end of that period.
Lawson's interview may be described as having similar results. He also was a first-class shearer, though not so artistic279 as the gifted Billy. Jack Windsor's saucy blue eyes twinkled merrily as he returned to his companions, and incontinently leaped into the saddle on his wild-eyed colt. After these worthies280 came a shearer named Jackson. He belonged to quite a different class; he could shear well if 318he pleased, but had a rooted disbelief that honesty was the best policy, and a fixed determination to shear as many sheep as he could get the manager to pass. By dint281 of close watching, constant reprimand, and occasional 'raddling' (marking badly shorn sheep and refusing to count them), Mr. Gordon had managed to tone him down to average respectability of execution; still he was always uneasily aware that whenever his eye was not upon him, Jackson was doing what he ought not to do, with might and main. He had indeed kept him on from sheer necessity, but he intended none the less to mark his opinion of him.
'Come in, Jackson. Your tally is so and so. Is that right?'
Jackson.—'I suppose so.'
'Cook and store account, so much; shearing account so much.'
Jackson.—'And a good deal too.'
'That is your affair,' said Mr. Gordon, sternly enough. 'Now, look here, you're in my opinion a bad shearer and a bad man. You have given me a great deal of trouble, and I should have kicked you out of the shed weeks ago, if I had not been short of men. I shall make a difference between you and those who have tried to do their best; I make you no allowance of any sort; I pay you by the strict agreement; there's your cheque. Now, go!'
Jackson goes out with a very black countenance. He mutters, with an oath, that, if he'd known how he was going to be served 'he'd 'a "blocked" 'em a little more.' He is believed to have been served right, and he secures no sympathy whatever. Working-men of all classes in Australia are shrewd and fair judges generally. If an employer does his best to mete259 out justice, he is always appreciated and supported by the majority. These few instances will serve as a description of the whole process of settling with the shearers. The horses have been got in. Great catching282 and saddling-up has taken place all the morning. By the afternoon the whole party are dispersed283 to the four winds: some, like Abraham Lawson and his friends, to sheds 'higher up,' in a colder climate, where shearing necessarily commences later. From these they will pass to others, until the last flocks in the 'mountain runs' are shorn. Those who have not farms of 319their own then betake themselves to reaping. Billy May and Jack Windsor are quite as ready to back themselves against time in the wheat-field as on the shearing-floor. Harvest over, they find their pockets inconveniently284 full, so they commence to visit their friends and repay themselves for their toils285 by a liberal allowance of rest and recreation.
Old Ben and a few other specimens286 of the olden time get no further than the nearest public-house. Their cheques are handed to the landlord, and a 'sdubendous and derrible spree' sets in. At the end of a week or ten days, that worthy287 informs them that they have received liquor to the amount of their cheques—something over a hundred pounds—save the mark! They meekly288 acquiesce289, as is their custom. The landlord generously presents them with a glass of grog each, and they take the road for the next shed.
The shearers being despatched, the sheep-washers, a smaller and less regarded force, file up. They number some forty men. Nothing more than fair bodily strength, willingness, and obedience290 being required in their case, they are more easy to get and replace than shearers. They are a varied and motley lot. That powerful and rather handsome man is a New Yorker, of Irish parentage. Next to him is a slight, neat, quiet individual. He had been a lieutenant291 in a line regiment. The lad in the rear was a Sandhurst cadet. Then came two navvies and a New Zealander, five Chinamen, a Frenchman, two Germans, Tin Pot, Jerry, and Wallaby—three aboriginal292 blacks. There are no invidious distinctions as to caste, colour, or nationality. Every one is a man and a brother at sheep-washing. Wage, one pound per week; wood, water, tents, and food provided. Their accounts are simple: so many weeks, so many pounds; store accounts, so much. Hospital? Well, five shillings. Cheque; good-morning.
The wool-pressers, the fleece-rollers, the fleece-pickers, the yardsmen, the washers' cooks, the hut cooks, the spare shepherds—all these and other supernumeraries, inevitable at shearing-time, having been paid off, the snowstorm of cheques which has been fluttering all day comes to an end. Mr. Gordon and the remaining sous-officiers go to rest that night with much of the mental strain removed, which has been telling on every waking moment for the last two months.
The long train of drays and waggons, with loads varying 320from twenty to forty-five bales, has been moving off in detachments since the commencement. In a day or two the last of them will have rolled heavily away. The 1400 bales, averaging three and a half hundredweight, are distributed, slow journeying, along the road, which they mark from afar, or standing huge and columnar, like guide tumuli, from Anabanco to the waters of the Murray. Between the two points, a hundred and fifty miles, there is neither a hill nor a stone. All is one vast monotonous293 sea of plain—at this season a prairie-meadow exuberant294 of vegetation; in the late summer, or in the occasional and dreaded phenomenon of a dry winter, dusty and herbless as a brickfield, for hundreds of miles.
Silence falls on the plains and waters of Anabanco for the next six months. The woolshed, the wash-pen, and all the huts connected with them are lone10 and voiceless as caravanserais in a city of the plague.
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1
shear
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| n.修剪，剪下的东西，羊的一岁；vt.剪掉，割，剥夺；vi.修剪，切割，剥夺，穿越 | |
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shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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3
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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5
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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6
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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7
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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8
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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9
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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12
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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14
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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15
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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16
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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17
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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hegira
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| n.逃亡 | |
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shearer
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| n.剪羊毛的人；剪切机 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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25
ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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27
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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sardines
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| n. 沙丁鱼 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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35
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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38
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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39
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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40
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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41
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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42
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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43
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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44
restriction
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| n.限制，约束 | |
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45
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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46
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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47
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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48
boilers
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| 锅炉，烧水器，水壶( boiler的名词复数 ) | |
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49
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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50
statistically
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| ad.根据统计数据来看，从统计学的观点来看 | |
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51
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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52
tinges
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| n.细微的色彩，一丝痕迹( tinge的名词复数 ) | |
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53
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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54
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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55
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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56
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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57
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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58
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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59
superseding
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| 取代，接替( supersede的现在分词 ) | |
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60
postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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61
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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62
remains
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|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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63
subdivided
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| 再分，细分( subdivide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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65
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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66
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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67
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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68
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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69
intervals
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|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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70
permissible
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|
| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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71
favourable
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|
| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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72
stamina
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|
| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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73
pallid
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|
| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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74
sniffed
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|
| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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75
infancy
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|
| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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77
prey
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|
| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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78
distinguished
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|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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79
insouciant
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|
| adj.不在意的 | |
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80
saucy
|
|
| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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81
inclination
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|
| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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82
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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83
defunct
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|
| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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84
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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85
savage
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|
| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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86
drawn
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|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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87
perfectly
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|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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88
darts
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|
| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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89
lithe
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|
| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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90
glossy
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|
| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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91
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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92
varied
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|
| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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93
snipped
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|
| v.剪( snip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
onus
|
|
| n.负担；责任 | |
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95
providence
|
|
| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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96
attain
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|
| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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97
denudation
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|
| n.剥下；裸露；滥伐；剥蚀 | |
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98
equitably
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| 公平地 | |
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99
aspirations
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|
| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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100
torment
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|
| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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101
truce
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|
| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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102
lash
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|
| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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103
scooper
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|
| 斗式升运机；勺子 | |
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104
painstaking
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|
| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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105
paternal
|
|
| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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106
goodwill
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|
| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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107
abrupt
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|
| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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108
abruptly
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|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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109
proximity
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|
| n.接近，邻近 | |
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110
ironical
|
|
| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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111
literally
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|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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112
lengthened
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|
| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
bins
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|
| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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114
neatly
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|
| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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115
noted
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|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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116
scrupulous
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|
| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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117
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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118
abodes
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|
| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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119
populous
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|
| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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120
sweeping
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|
| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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121
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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122
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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123
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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124
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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125
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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126
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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127
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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128
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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129
specially
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|
| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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130
anathemas
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|
| n.（天主教的）革出教门( anathema的名词复数 )；诅咒；令人极其讨厌的事；被基督教诅咒的人或事 | |
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131
depreciation
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|
| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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132
brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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133
protracted
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|
| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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134
diplomacy
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|
| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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135
temperately
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|
| adv.节制地，适度地 | |
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136
watchfully
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| 警惕地，留心地 | |
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137
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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138
commonwealth
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|
| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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139
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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140
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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141
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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142
slovenly
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|
| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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143
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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144
machinery
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|
| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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145
smoothly
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|
| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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146
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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147
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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148
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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150
growl
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|
| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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151
ingenuous
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|
| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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152
bosom
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|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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153
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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154
swelled
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|
| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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155
respite
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|
| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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156
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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157
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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158
creek
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|
| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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159
troupe
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|
| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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160
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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161
rehearsal
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|
| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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162
farce
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|
| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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163
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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164
thronged
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|
| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
grumbles
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| 抱怨( grumble的第三人称单数 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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166
growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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167
gallop
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|
| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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168
malice
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|
| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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169
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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170
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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171
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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172
pungency
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| n.（气味等的）刺激性；辣；（言语等的）辛辣；尖刻 | |
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173
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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174
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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175
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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176
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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177
debited
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| v.记入（账户）的借方( debit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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178
impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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179
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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180
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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181
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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182
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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183
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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184
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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185
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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186
sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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187
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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188
disdains
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| 鄙视，轻蔑( disdain的名词复数 ) | |
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189
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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190
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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191
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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192
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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193
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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194
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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195
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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196
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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197
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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198
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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199
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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200
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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201
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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202
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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203
arbitration
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| n.调停，仲裁 | |
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204
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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205
intestines
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| n.肠( intestine的名词复数 ) | |
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206
squatter
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| n.擅自占地者 | |
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207
tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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208
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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209
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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210
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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211
carouse
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| v.狂欢；痛饮；n.狂饮的宴会 | |
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212
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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213
conciliation
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| n.调解，调停 | |
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214
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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215
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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216
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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217
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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218
specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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219
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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220
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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221
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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222
insulation
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| n.隔离；绝缘；隔热 | |
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223
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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224
lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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225
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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226
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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227
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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228
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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229
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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230
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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231
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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232
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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233
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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234
converge
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| vi.会合；聚集，集中；(思想、观点等)趋近 | |
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235
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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236
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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237
centurion
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| n.古罗马的百人队长 | |
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238
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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239
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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240
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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241
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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242
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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243
dilution
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| n.稀释，淡化 | |
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244
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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245
corroborated
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
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246
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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247
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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248
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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249
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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250
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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251
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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252
politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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253
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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254
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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255
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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256
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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257
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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258
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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259
mete
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| v.分配；给予 | |
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260
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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261
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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262
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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263
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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264
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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265
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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266
larking
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| v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的现在分词 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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267
poncho
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| n.斗篷，雨衣 | |
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268
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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269
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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270
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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271
jerseys
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| n.运动衫( jersey的名词复数 ) | |
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272
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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273
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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274
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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275
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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276
intrepidity
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| n.大胆，刚勇；大胆的行为 | |
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277
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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278
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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279
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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280
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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281
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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282
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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283
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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284
inconveniently
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| ad.不方便地 | |
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285
toils
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| 网 | |
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286
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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287
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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288
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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289
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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290
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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291
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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292
aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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293
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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294
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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