And the Yeah, Welcome back everyone to

one, the one thousand one classic short stories and tales. This is your host

John Hagadorn. Time for a story from one of my favorite authors, Australian

author Henry Lawson.

The title of this one, No Place for a Woman.

He had a selection on a long box scrub sighting of the ridges, about half a mile back and up from the Coge Road.

There were no neighbors that I ever heard of and the nearest town was 30 miles away.

He grew wheat among the stumps of his clearing, sold the crop standing to a cocky who lived 10 miles away, and had some surplus sons, or some seasons he ripped it by hand, had it thrashed by traveling steamer, which was a portable steam engine and machine,

and carried the grain a few bags at a time into the mill on his rickety dre.

He had lived alone for upwards of 15 years and was known to those who knew him as Raddy Howlett.

Travelers and strangers failed to see anything uncommonly Raddy about him.

It was known, or at least it was believed, without question, that while at work he kept his horse saddled and bridled and hung up to the fence or grazing about with the saddle on. Or anyway, close handy for a moment's notice and whenever

he caught sight over the scrub and through the quarter-mile break in it of a

traveler in the road he would jump on his horse and make after him.

If it was a horseman, he usually pulled him up inside of a mile.

Stories were told of unsuccessful chases, misunderstandings, and complications arising out of Howlett's

mania for running down and bailing up travelers. Sometimes he caught one every

day for a week, sometimes not one for weeks. was a lonely track the explanation was simple

sufficient and perfectly natural from a bushman's point of view

Raddy only wanted to have a yarn.

He and the traveler would camp in the shade for half an hour or so in yarn and smoke.

The old man would find out where the traveler came from and how long he'd been there and where he was

...