Welcome back, everyone to one thousand one classic short stories and tales, and part two of Shall We Gather at the River, this one called His Brother's Keeper, by

Henry Lawson.

Hope you enjoy it.

By his paths through the parched desolation, hot rides and the terrible tramps.

By the hunger, the thirst, the privation of his work in the furthermost camps.

By his worth in the light that shall search men and prove, I, and justify each,

I place him in front of all churchmen, who feel not, who know not, but preach, the Christ of the never. Well, I just told you about Peter

McLaughlin, the Bush missionary, and how he preached in the little Slav and Bark schoolhouse in the

scrub on Ross's Creek that blazing hot Sunday afternoon long ago, when the drought was running the

brave farmers all round there and breaking their

hearts. And how hard old Ross, the selector, broke down at the end of the sermon and blubbered

and had to be taken out of church. I left home and drifted to Sydney, and back into the great

northwest where all the rovers go and knocked about the

country for six or seven years before I met Peter McLaughlin again. I was young yet, but felt old at

times, and there were times in the hot, rough, greasy shearing shed on blazing days, or in the bare

men's hut by the flicker of the

stinking slush lamp at night, or the wretched wayside shanty with its drink madness and

blasphemy, or tramping along the dusty, endless track.

There were times when I wished I could fall back with all the experience I'd got,

and sit once more in the little slab and

bark chapel on Ross's Creek and hear Peter McLaughlin and the poor struggling selectors saying,

shall we gather at the river and then go out and start life afresh. My old school chum and bushmate,

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