Explore "All That Swagger" by Miles Franklin on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The lowering skies did not lift. It was one of the wettest months remembered in Danny's kingdom. A spring broke out in the stable. Water gushed up if a stick were thrust in the ground anywhere about the premises, but Clare was not to be deterred. Two more men had mustered from beyond the Fossicker's. No word had been allowed to seep to Learmont, a mile below the bridge.
As soon as Darcy was in his box they set out. The coffin was slung on an old salt lumper. The vast saturated bush was voiceless save for the patter of rain and the music of rills filling a hundred channels. Every gully had a creek swollen to a river, each hillside its cascading bridal veil. The horses sank to the hocks in mud or waded girth-deep through swamps and creeks. The hills and sidelings were the most difficult, as the earth gave way in greasy slithers.