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Updated: April 30, 2025
Notwithstanding the fact that I had just slipped a light ragged fleece into the belly-wool and "bits" basket, I felt deeply injured, and righteously and fiercely indignant at being pulled up. It was a fearfully hot day. "If I catch you carrying three fleeces again," said the boss quietly, "I'll give you the sack." "I'll take it now if you like," I said. He nodded.
And how Dan talked of "tallies", "belly-wool", and "ringers" and implored Dad, over and over again, to go shearing, or rolling up, or branding ANYTHING rather than work and starve on the selection. That's fifteen years ago, and Dad is still on the farm. The Night We Watched For Wallabies. It had been a bleak July day, and as night came on a bitter westerly howled through the trees.
Dave rolled about a lot the first time round, but soon got his equilibrium. He brandished the shears and plunged the points of them into Podgy's belly-wool also into Podgy's skin. "Bur-UR-R!" Podgy blurted and struggled violently. Dave began to topple about. He dropped the shears. The audience guffawed. Then Dave jumped; but Podgy's horns got caught in his clothes and made trouble.
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