The days passed at the sheep station of Woolnorth with little flurry, save the harsh storm which fell on us. It was a cruel time to be out of doors, even when the storm was spent. Grey skies spread over the sedgeland covering the hills while the white flocks scattered and huddled under leatherwoods, by lowland heaths, and along the hillsides’ rocky bournes.
The pasture’s tree trunks wore a black-wet belt where the floodplains subsided and the hopeless spray of raindrops from the ferns rose like mist upon the heavy air of the pulsing gales.
“Have you greased those boots, Myko?” said Father.
“Yes,” I said.
“Like I showed you?”
“Yes, just like you showed me – look.” I stopped to show my shining boots.
“Good,” said Father, “you have learnt that lesson well.”
I followed him through the p
