of a glad and eager departure with cheques when the shed last cut out.
To the west is a dam, holding back a broad, shallow sheet of grey water, with dead trees standing in it.
Further up along this water is a brush shearing shed, a rough framework of poles with a brush roof. This kind of shed has the advantage of being cooler than iron. It is not rain-proof, but shearers do not work in rainy weather; shearing even slightly damp sheep is considered the surest and quickest way to get the worst kind of rheumatism. The floor is covered with rubbish from the roof, and here and there lies a rusty pair of shears. A couple of dry tar-pots hang by nails in the posts. The 'board' is very uneven and must be bad for sweeping. The pens are formed by round, crooked stakes driven into the ground in irregular lines, and the whole business reminds us of the 'cubby-house' style of architecture of our childhood.
Opposite stands the wool-shed, built entirely of galvanised iron; a blinding object to start out of the scrub on a blazing, hot day. God forgive the man who invented galvanised iron, and the greed which introduced it into Australia: you could not get worse roofing material for a hot country.
The wool-washing, soap-boiling, and wool-pressing arrangements are further up the dam. 'Government House' is a mile away, and is nothing better than a bush hut; this station belongs to a company. And the company belongs to a bank. And the banks belong to England, mostly.
