Dick Melvyn of Bruggabrong was not recognizable in Dick Melvyn, dairy farmer and cocky of Possum Gully.  The former had been a man worthy of the name.  The latter was a slave of drink, careless, even dirty and bedraggled in his personal appearance.  He disregarded all manners, and had become far more plebeian and common than the most miserable specimen of humanity around him.  The support of his family, yet not, its support.  The head of his family, yet failing to fulfil the obligations demanded of one in that capacity.  He seemed to lose all love and interest in his family, and grew cross and silent, utterly without pride and pluck.  Formerly so kind and gentle with animals, now he was the reverse.

His cruelty to the young cows and want of patience with them I can never forget.  It has often brought upon me the threat of immediate extermination for volunteering scathing and undesired opinions on his conduct.

The part of the dairying that he positively gloried in was going to town with the butter.  He frequently remained in for two or three days, as often as not spending all the money he got for the butter in a drunken spree.  Then he would return to curse his luck because his dairy did not pay as well as those of some of our neighbours.

The curse of Eve being upon my poor mother in those days, she was unable to follow her husband.  Pride forbade her appealing to her neighbours, so on me devolved the duty of tracking my father from one pub to another and bringing him home.

Had I done justice to my mother’s training I would have honoured my paternal parent in spite of all this, but I am an individual ever doing things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t.

Coming home, often after midnight, with my drunken father talking maudlin conceited nonsense beside me, I developed curious ideas on the fifth commandment.  Those journeys in the spring-cart through the soft faint starlight were conducive to thought.  My father, like most men when under the influence of liquor, would allow no one but himself to handle the reins, and he was often so incapable that he would keep turning the horse round and round in the one place.  It is a marvel we never met with an accident.  I was not nervous, but quite content to take whatever came, and our trusty old horse fulfilled his duty, ever faithfully taking us home along the gum-tree-lined road.

My mother had taught me from the Bible that I should honour my parents, whether they were deserving of honour or not.

Dick Melvyn being my father did not blind me to the fact that he was a despicable, selfish, weak creature, and as such I despised him with the relentlessness of fifteen, which makes no allowance for human frailty and weakness.  Disgust, not honour, was the feeling which possessed me when I studied the matter.

Towards mother I felt differently.  A woman is but the helpless tool of man—­a creature of circumstances.