I borrowed something to read, but all that I could get in the way of books were a few Young Ladies’ Journals, which I devoured ravenously, so to speak.

When Lizer’s back would be turned, the girls would ask me how I managed to live at Barney’s Gap, and expressed themselves of the opinion that it was the most horrible hole in the world, and Mrs M’Swat the dirtiest creature living, and that they would not go there for 50 pounds a week.  I made a point of never saying anything against Mrs M’Swat; but I fumed inwardly that this life was forced upon me, when girls with no longings or aspirations beyond being the wife of a Peter M’Swat recoiled from the thought of it.

My mother insisted upon my writing to her regularly, so once a week I headed a letter “Black’s Camp”, and condemned the place, while mother as unfailingly replied that these bad times I should be thankful to God that I was fed and clothed.  I knew this as well as any one, and was aware there were plenty of girls willing to jump at my place; but they were of different temperament to me, and when one is seventeen, that kind of reasoning does not weigh very heavily.

My eldest brother, Horace, twin brother of my sister Gertie, took it upon himself to honour me with the following letter: 

Why the deuce don’t you give up writing those letters to mother?  We get tongue-pie on account of them, and it’s not as if they did you any good.  It only makes mother more determined to leave you where you are.  She says you are that conceited you think you ought to have something better, and you’re not fit for the place you have, and she’s glad it is such a place, and it will do you the world of good and take the nonsense out of you—­that it’s time you got a bit of sense.  Sullivan’s Ginger.  After she gets your letters she does jaw, and wishes she never had a child, and what a good mother she is, and what bad devils we are to her.  You are a fool not to stay where you are.  I wish I could get away to M’Swat or Mack Pot, and I would jump at the chance like a good un.  The boss still sprees and loafs about town till some one has to go and haul him home.  I’m about full of him, and I’m going to leave home before next Christmas, or my name ain’t what it is.  Mother says the kiddies would starve if I leave; but Stanley is coming on like a haystack, I tell him, and he does kick up, and he ought to be able to plough next time.  I ploughed when I was younger than him.  I put in fourteen acres of wheat and oats this year, and I don’t think I’ll cut a wheelbarrow-load of it.  I’m full of the place.  I never have a single penny to my name, and it ain’t father’s drinking that’s all to blame; if he didn’t booze it wouldn’t he much better.  It’s the slowest hole in the world, and I’ll chuck it and go shearing or droving.  I hate this dairying, it’s too slow for a funeral:  there would he more life in trapping ’possums out on Timlinbilly.  Mother always says to have