Shearers & Some Sheds by John Arthur Barry

The interior of a big shed, containing, say thirty stands on each side of its spacious floor or sixty machines in all, is well worth a visit There is, in fact, nothing like it to be seen elsewhere. The whole scene is eloquent of the importance of the national industry, and of the fashion in which its primary operations are carried on. Let us suppose that a start is about to be made and that the moment for action has arrived. The catching pens are stacked full of sheep; each shearer stands by his machine; the classer and his assistant rollers and skirters are at their tables; picking-up boys are dotted here and there about the floor; the man in charge stands at his desk, all eyes fixed upon him; an expectant hush reigns throughout the great building. Suddenly, the overseer rings his bell, in signal to the engineer. At the long blast of the latter's whistle, 60 men, with a simultaneous rush, hurl themselves upon the pens, and emerge, each grasping a struggling, kicking sheep. Machines are thrown into gear, and each bent back in the long rows becomes instinct with strenuous exertion, as the deft hands guide the whirring cutters around and about the animal's body. Silence everywhere again, but for the incessant hum of the machinery; the soft pit-pat of naked feet, as the boys rush around and collect the fleeces, and bear them to the sorting tables. If the shearers are a good, fast lot, it will be a pleasure to watch them at work—their overseer's billet is a sinecure. Fleece after fleece will come rolling off with the swiftness and exactitude born of long experience; there will be no cuts, either in the staple itself, or on the skin; as one peels a ripe orange, so will the sheep be denuded of its coat without hurt or rough usage, until in a few minutes it slides down the shoot into the outer pens naked, shivering, and amazed. So rapidly are they shorn, so constant is the cry of "Sheep, oh!" to the penner-up, that it appears almost impossible the pace should last. But if the men are veterans fresh from other sheds, in prime form and training, there will be no slacking off; they will run as fast and surely as the machines, whose movements they control, and they will turn out their hourly tallies at a rate varying from anything between 80 and 120 per hour. In such a shed as this the below 80 man has no place. As time passes, and the bins at the rear of the classers' tables begin to bulge with combing, clothing, and "pieces" of various grades, the great press, sometimes a pair of presses, comes into action, worked either by steam power or by sheer muscle and sinew. And presently in the wool room row upon row of neat bales, all stencilled with signs denoting the quality of their contents, the brand of station or owner's initials, or both, and the number of the bale itself, begin to make their appearance. In a shed manned after this fashion the overseer will scarcely need to open his mouth; indeed, the less he has to say the better for himself and his men. Up one side of the floor and down the other he may march until the bell goes for "smoke oh, " Then, while the workers drink their hot tea and bolt big mouthfuls of "brownie, " he will find time to count out the pens of shorn sheep, entering each one to the tally of the man who is dropping his sheep into it from the floor above. Good men will run each other until they are almost exhausted with the hard and incessant effort. And the faster an expert shears, the better and cleaner his work generally is. But, as may be imagined, the constant strain on every limb and sinew and muscle is tremendous. Nor do bulk and strength always make for the largest tallies. The lightweight, lithe, and wiry, rapid of movement, and sure of hand and foot, not seldom "rings" the whole shed and tops every score.