“What’s Australia? A big, thirsty, hungry wilderness, with one or two cities for the convenience of foreign speculators, and a few collections of humpies, called towns - also for the convenience of foreign speculators: and populated mostly by mongrel sheep, and partly by fools, who live like European slaves in the towns, and like dingoes in the bush - who drivel about 'democracy,' and yet haven't any more spunk than to graft for a few cockney dudes that razzle-dazzle most of the time in Paris. Why, the Australians haven't even got the grit to claim enough of their own money to throw a few dams across their watercourses, and so make some of the interior fit to live in.”
The character expressing this contempt toward the author’s beloved homeland is a fellow Australian who had since long ago exiled himself. Upon return after seeing the world and having something to compare it with, he is more than prepared to point out the flaws of the land. Lawson’s intent is sinister, however: this is merely a gambit. By the end of the story, there mere sight of gum trees leaves the same character speaking here almost speechless with the return of love he feels for Australia.
"I'd been away from home for eight years. I hadn't written a letter--kept putting it off, and a blundering fool of a fellow that got down the day before me told the old folks that he'd heard I was dead."
The laconic traveler Jack Mitchell is one of Lawson’s most popular recurring characters. His life—as suggesting here—is itinerant and bohemian and most of this stories, including this one, are more sketch than fully developed story. That is the point of Mitchell, however. He is perhaps best described as the author’s fictional alter ego; a traveler relating stories of about the people and places marking the Australian outback.
The rising Australian generation is represented by a thin, lanky youth of about fifteen. He is milking. The cow-yard is next the house, and is mostly ankle-deep in slush. The boy drives a dusty, discouraged-looking cow into the bail, and pins her head there; then he gets tackle on to her right hind leg, hauls it back, and makes it fast to the fence. There are eleven cows, but not one of them can be milked out of the bail-chiefly because their teats are sore.
On occasion, Lawson writes in the present tense. It is a rare, but effective means of conveying immediacy and there is purpose in that choice. In attempting to create a national literature of Australia, Lawson makes a purposeful effort to show the specificity of what daily life in the outback, especially, is like. The use of present tense lends this purpose great power.
She never saw Old Jack again with fourteen shillings, but she got even with Harry Chatswood, and—— But I’ll tell you about that some other time. Time for a last smoke before we turn in.
The ending of this story is not unique. Much of Lawson’s short fiction could easily be connected together to create a much longer and more complex narrative. Lawson is uppermost a storyteller, relating tales much in the same way that his characters do, as if they were sharing tall tales or gossip. It is the literature of inclusion and identification; the loose structure subtly invites the reader into the narrative almost as a co-conspirator in this gossip.
“‘Why, that rooster’s a ventriloquist!’
“‘A what?’
“‘A ventriloquist!’
“‘Go along with yer!’
“‘But he is. I’ve heard of cases like this before; but this is the first I’ve come across. Bill’s a ventriloquist right enough.’
This snatch of dialogue near the beginning of this story is a perfect example of the way that Lawson engages dialogue. His characters are simple, rural, generally straightforward and colloquial. As a result, most sentences spoken by his characters are short, but manage to contain just enough information to forward the narrative and create a sense of personality.
