Explore "Shooting the Moon" by Henry Lawson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
We lay in camp in the fringe of the mulga, and watched the big, red, smoky, rising moon out on the edge of the misty plain, and smoked and thought together sociably. Our nose-bags were nice and heavy, and we still had about a pound of nail-rod between us.
The moon reminded my mate, Jack Mitchell, of something -- anything reminded him of something, in fact.