pirations
which torment humanity. Hence the contest--old as human society--between
labour and capital.

This is the first day. According to old-established custom, a kind of
truce obtains. It is before the battle, the "salut," when no hasty word
or too demonstrative action can be suffered by the canons of good
taste. Red Bill, Flash Jack, Jem the Scooper, and other roaring blades,
more famous for expedition than faithful manipulation, are shearing
today with a painstaking precision, as of men to whom character is
everything.

Mr Gordon marches softly up and down, regarding the shearers with a
paternal and gratified expression, occasionally hinting at slight
improvements of style, or expressing unqualified approval as a sheep is
turned out shaven rather than shorn. All goes on well. Nothing is heard
but expressions of goodwill and enthusiasm for the general welfare. It
is a triumph of the dignity of labour.

One o'clock. Mr Gordon moved on to the bell and sounded it. At the
first stroke several men on their way to the pens stopped abruptly and
began to put on their coats. One fellow of an alert nature (Master Jack
Windsor) had just finished his sheep and was sharpening his shears,
when his eye caught Mr Gordon's form in proximity to the final bell.
With a bound like a wild cat, he reached the pen and drew out his sheep
a bare second before the first stroke, amidst the laughter and
congratulations of his comrades. Another man had his hand on the
pen-gate at the same instant, but by the Median law was compelled to
return sheepless. He was cheered, but ironically. Those whose sheep
were in an unfinished stage quietly completed them; the others moving
off to their huts, where their board literally smoked with
abundance.

An hour passed. The meal was concluded; the smoke was over; and the
more careful men were back in the shed sharpening their shears by two
o'clock. Punctually at that hour the bell repeated its summons DE CAPO.
The warm afternoon gradually lengthened its shadows; the shears clicked
in tireless monotone; the pens filled and became empty. The
wool-presses yawned for the mountain of fleeces which filled the bins
in front of them, divided into various grades of excellence, and
continuously disgorged them, neatly and cubically packed and branded.

At six o'clock the bell brought the day's work to a close. The sheep of
each man were counted in his presence, and noted down with scrupulous
care, the record bei