The ABC Book of Great Aussie Stories: For Young People

By Bill Marsh

A fascinating, moving and often funny collection of stories about the Australian way of life.For 10-14 year olds.
'If you've got a minute to spare I'll more than gladly relate to you the real, true, fair-dinkum, ridgy-didge, authentic story ... 'Bill 'Swampy' Marsh is one of Australia's most popular storytellers - he knows a good story when he hears it and now he has gathered together a collection of real Aussie adventures for younger readers! Imagine droving thousands of cattle across the vast outback for months, living under the stars without any parents around. Lots of people in this collection have done just that. You'll also hear great stories about fast trains running away without drivers, learn how to shear a sheep (and how not to), and read about the flying doctor service arriving just in the nick of time. Some stories you'll have to read to believe.these are stories of an Australia that is disappearing, but you can experience them today.For 10-14 year olds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jan 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9780730494584

Bill Marsh

Bill ‘Swampy' Marsh is an award-winning writer/performer of stories, songs and plays. Based in Adelaide, he is best known for his successful Great Australian series of books published with ABC Books: More Great Australian Flying Doctor Stories (2007), Great Australian Railway Stories (2005), Great Australian Droving Stories (2003), Great Australian Shearing Stories (2001), and Great Australian Flying Doctor Stories (1999).

Book preview

Introduction

As a young kid, I used to visit my uncle’s sheep and wheat property at Bogan Gate, in central New South Wales. If my visit coincided with shearing season, it was ‘all hands on deck’ and I’d help out in the shed. That was okay by me. I loved the frantic atmosphere, the smell of wool grease, the airy heat, the sounds of the machinery, the panic of the sheep; and I was particularly taken by the shearers themselves. Here was a mob of blokes whose stories related to a free and easy lifestyle.

Shearing. This was the job for me, I thought.

Of course, what I didn’t realise was that shearing is hard work. So hard in fact that the energy expended is likened to a person running a marathon. Then you have to coordinate raw speed with gentle technique. So my original thoughts about becoming a shearer began to dwindle. But those stories I’d heard back in my uncle’s shed still fascinated me. So, in late 1999, I began my quest to collect shearing stories. Then it struck me. Writing. This was the job for me. And what’s more, it wasn’t anywhere near as physically demanding as shearing!

Bill ‘Swampy’ Marsh

Big Ned from Big Burrawong

I got a real ball-tearer here for you, mate. Now, I don’t know if anyone else has told you the one about the shearer, Big Ned Barrett from Big Burrawong Station or not but, if they have, forget it, because it’s a complete and utter load of bull. But if you’ve got a minute to spare I’ll more than gladly relate to you the real, true, fair-dinkum, ridgy-didge, authentic story, which was told to me by an old shearer known to all, simply, as Old Jack.

Now Old Jack was the most honest shearer you could ever meet; so honest in fact that it’s often been stated that an untruth had never passed through his own teeth. That’s why I’ve got no doubt at all as to the authenticity of the story, even though, unfortunately, on the day that he told it to me Old Jack had misplaced his own false teeth and was wearing his late wife’s spare set.

So, in keeping with the truthful nature of the story, I’ve written it down word for word, which I’ll now relate to you.

As Old Jack tells it, a good while ago he was shearing in the largest shed in Australia, if not the world. This shed was known as Big Burrawong. Now just to give you some idea, on Big Burrawong Station they had so many sheep that they shore all year round. It was something like painting the Sydney Harbour Bridge. There could’ve been millions of sheep. No one knew, not even Old Jack, and he wasn’t sure because he said that every time he attempted to count the sheep on the property, he’d fall asleep well before he even got out of the second-reserve penning-up yard. But with having so many sheep to shear, the owners had to employ thousands of shearers, plus hundreds of roustabouts, pressers and such. Then to feed all of these workers they had to employ a great number of cooks; so many in fact that they employed cooks to cook for the cooks. So that’s how big the place was.

Now to give you some idea of the logistics of catering for such a large number of people, the amount of food consumed was measured in hundreds of tons per day. And, what’s more, the actual billy that they boiled the water up in was a specially manufactured tank which was so deep and wide that the cooks had to launch a rowing boat so they could go out on the boiling water to mix in the tea for smoko.

Big Burrawong was that big. Not a word of a lie.

Anyway, as Old Jack told me, at this shed there was a shearer working there who went by the name of Big Ned Barrett. Now this Big Ned was a massive feller, massive he was. But not only that, Big Ned was also touted as being Australia’s top shearer at that time. Old Jack reckoned him to be a good deal faster than the well-known Jackie Howe and twice as fast as Jackie’s slightly less well known twin brothers, Any and Some Howe. But as history won’t tell you, Big Ned’s exploits on the board were never recorded. And that’s mainly because the shearing contractor at Big Burrawong, a bloke known to the taxation department as Shifty Sam, reckoned that those people who’d never seen Big Ned shear might’ve thought his truly recorded exploits to be a complete fabrication.

Big Ned was that good. Not a word of a lie.

Now one day, during a spell of wet weather when they couldn’t shear, Big Ned decided to go out in the boat with the cooks to see how many shovelfuls of tea they put into the boiling water. But, unfortunately, by the time they got near the epicentre of this gigantic billy, the boiling water became so turbulent that it caused Big Ned to get seasick. And while he was being seasick, he fell out of the boat and ‘splash!’ into the drink he went. Unfortunately, by the time they’d fished the big shearer out, he was severely scalded to all parts of his body. Terrible it was, Old Jack reckoned. Definitely one of the worst cases of scalding he’d never seen.

But, to add to the tragedy, back in those days they didn’t have doctors and nurses running around all over the place like they do today. So the only thing they could do to protect Big Ned was to take him back to his quarters and wrap him up into a swathe of freshly pulled sheepskins. Which they did.

Now they left these sheepskins on Big Ned for a month or so to allow the scalding to heal. But Old Jack said that when they tried to take the skins off, they found that they’d grafted onto him. Now there was no way that Big Ned was going to let his fleece get in the way of his shearing. He had a living to earn and, what’s more, he loved shearing. So after that, before the start of each round of annual shearing, his mates had to run Big Ned in and they’d shear upwards of fifteen pound of wool off him before he was comfortable enough to start work.

And that’s the real, true, fair-dinkum, ridgy-didge, authentic story of Big Ned from Big Burrawong, which was told to me by the most honest shearer you’re ever likely not to meet, Old Jack. And, as Old Jack said to me in complete confidentiality, ‘Anybody who has any doubts whatsoever about the authenticity of that story deserves a whack over the noggin with a hot bogghi.’

‘Click’ Go the Shears

This is a true story, and it’s one that I wouldn’t like repeated too widely, what with me being an old shearing instructor and all. Now, when I first started shearing I was only fourteen. That was fifty-odd year ago now—no, sixty actually. But we came from a sheep farming property so I already knew a bit. I’d done a bit of bellying, and roustabouting, and picking up, and helping out and that, so I knew my way around a shed.

I think, from memory, back in those days the shearers were paid about a pound a hundred and the boss could rattle your sheep; deliberately miscount them, like. There were no double checks. The boss’s word was God. And of course, naturally, the ones he rattled, the shearers didn’t get paid for. Though, mind you, they didn’t do that wherever I shore. I only heard stories about how the cocky would rattle them. Of course, you couldn’t get away with it these days, what with the unions and what-not.

But when I first started, the war was on, you see, and there weren’t too many shearers about. In actual fact, there wasn’t too much male labour about at all. Still, even with that I ended up having to go all the way down to Coleraine and Hamilton, in south-western Victoria, to shear at my first shed.

Now, Coleraine was a hell of a way from home for a young feller like me. And, at this particular property, I remember that they had a gang of Italian prisoners of war working there. These blokes had uniforms and all that. Red overalls they had on. So during shearing season they were running around, helping out in the shed. I tell you, for a young bloke like me, fresh from home, it made the whole experience seem real strange, what with listening to all these foreign voices and all.

Anyway, as I said, I was only fourteen. I was in my first shed and I was a long way from home, in strange surroundings with strange accents. So I was pretty much on edge, pretty nervous about the whole thing, working in these odd surroundings. Then, to make matters even worse, the boss of the board would pace up and down, up and down, keeping a very strict eye on us all.

So there I was, shearing away this particular time, trying my best to be impressive. But, while I was shearing, I just couldn’t help but keep a bit of a watch- out, out of the corner of my eye, for