 Preface an introduction of my brilliant career. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin Preface. A few months before I left Australia, I got a letter from the bush signed Miles Franklin, saying that the writer had written a novel, but knew nothing of editors and publishers, and asking me to read and advise. Something about the letter, which was written in a strong original hand, attracted me, so I sent for the manuscript. And one dull afternoon I started to read it. I hadn't read three pages when I saw what you will no doubt see at once, that the story had been written by a girl. And as I went on, I saw that the work was Australian, born of the bush. I don't know about the girlishly emotional parts of the book. I leave that to girl readers to judge. But the descriptions of bush life and scenery came startlingly painfully real to me. And I know that as far as they are concerned, the book is true to Australia, the truest I ever read. I wrote to Miles Franklin, and she confessed that she was a girl. I saw her before leaving Sydney. She is just a little bush girl, barely twenty-one yet, and has scarcely ever been out of the bush in her life. She has lived her book, and I feel proud of it for the sake of the country I came from, where people toil and bake and suffer, and are kind, where every second sunburnt bushman is a sympathetic humorist, with the sadness of the bush deep in his eyes and a brave grin for the worst of times, and where every third bushman is a poet with a big heart that keeps his pockets empty. Henry Lawson, England, April 1901 Introduction Possum Gully, near Goldman, New South Wales, Australia, the 1st of March, 1899 My dear fellow Australians, just a few lines to tell you that this story is all about myself. For no other purpose do I write it. I make no apologies for being egotistical. In this particular I attempt an improvement on other autobiographies. Other autobiographies weary one with excuses for their egotism. What matters it to you if I am egotistical? What matters it to you, though it should matter, that I am egotistical? This is not a romance. I have too often faced the music of life to the tune of hardship, to waste time in snivelling and gushing over fancies and dreams. Neither is it a novel, but simply a yarn, a real yarn. Oh, as real as really real, provided life itself is anything beyond a heartless little chimera, it is as real in its weariest and bitter heartache as the tall gum trees among which I first saw the light are real in their stateliness and substantiality. My spear in life is not congenial to me. Oh, how I hate this living death which has swallowed all my teens, which is greedily devouring my youth, which will set my prime, and which my old age, if I am cursed with any, will be worn away. As my life creeps on forever through the long tour-laden days with its agonising monotony, narrowness and absolute uncongeniality, how my spirit frets and champs its unbreakable fetters all in vain. Special notice. You can dive into this story head-first, as it were. Do not fear encountering such trash as descriptions of beautiful sunsets and whispering of wind. We, 999 out of every 1,000, can see nought in sunsets savor signs and tokens, whether we may expect rain on the morrow or the contrary. So we will leave such vain and foolish imagining to those poets and painters poor fools. Let us rejoice that we are not of their temperament. Better be born a slave than a poet, better be born a black, better be born a cripple. For a poet must be companionless, alone, fearfully alone, in the midst of his fellows whom he loves. Alone, because his soul is as far above common mortals, as common mortals are above monkeys. There is no plot in this story, because there has been none in my life or in any other life which has come under my notice. I am one of a class, the individuals of which have not time for plots in their life, but have all they can do to get their work done without indulging in such lecturing. End of introduction. Chapter 1 of My Brilliant Career. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Magdalena Cook. My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin. Chapter 1. I remember, I remember. Buh-hoo! Ow! Ow! Oh! He'll die! Buh-hoo! The pain! The pain! Buh-hoo! Come, come now. That little mate isn't going to turn turk like that, is she? I'll put some fat out of the dinner bag on it and tie it up in my hanky. Don't cry any more now. Hush! You must not cry. You'll make old, dark buck if you kick up a rail like that. That is my first recollection of life. I was barely three. I can remember the majestic gum tree surrounding us, the sun glinting on their straight white trunks and falling on the gurgling fern bank stream, which disappeared beneath a steep, scrubby hill on our left. It was an hour past noon on a long, clear summer day. We were on a distant part of the run where my father had come to deposit salt. He had left home early in the dewy morning and carrying me in front of him on a little brown pillow which my mother had made for the purpose. We had put lumps of rock salt in the troughs on the other side of the creek, the stringy bark roof of the salt shed which protected the troughs from rain peeped out, picturesquely from the musk and peppercorn shrubs by which it was densely surrounded and was visible from where we lunched. I refilled the quart pot in which we had boiled our tea with water from the creek. Father doused our fire out with it and then tied the quart to the D of his saddle with a piece of green hide. The green hide bags in which the salt had been carried were hanging out on the hooks of the pack saddle, which encumbered the bay pack horse. Father Saddle and the brown pillow were on dart. The big grey horse on which he generally carried me. And we were on the point of making tracks for home. Preparatory to starting, Father was muscling the dogs which had just finished what lunch we had left. The process to which the dog strongly objected was rendered necessary by a cogent reason. Father had brought his strict known flask with him that day and in hopes of coursing the death of a few dingoes had put strong doses of its contents in several dead beasts which we had come across. Whilst the dogs were being muscled I busied myself in plucking ferns and flowers. This disturbed a big black snake which was curled at the butt of the tree fern. Bitey bitey! I yelled, and Father came to my rescue dispatching the reptile with his stock whip. He had been smoking and dropped his pipe on the ferns. I picked it up and the glowing embers which fell from it burnt my dirty little fat fists. Hence the noise with which my story commences. In all probability it was the burning of my fingers which so indelibly impressed the incident on my infantile mind. My father was accustomed to take me with him but that is the only jaunt at that date which I remember. And that is all I remember of it. We were twelve miles from home but how we reached there I do not know. My father was a swell in those days. Hell Bruggebong, Binbin East and Binbin West which three stations total close on 200,000 acres. Father was admitted into Sweldo merely by right of his position. His pedigree included nothing beyond the grandfather. My mother however was a full-fledged aristocrat. She was one of the bossiest of Categette who numbered among their ancestry at one of the depraved old pirates who pillaged England with William the Conqueror. Dick Melvin was as renowned for his hospitality as joviality and a comfortable, wide verandahed, irregular-built slab house in its sheltered nook amid the Tim Limbilly ranges was ever full to overflowing. Doctors, lawyers, squatters, commercial travellers, bankers, journalists, tourists and men of all kinds and classes crowded our well-spread board but seldom a female face, except mothers, was to be seen there. Bruggebong being a very out-of-the-way place. I was both the terror and the amusement of the station. Old boundary riders and drovers inquire after me with interest to this day. I knew everyone's business and was ever in danger of publishing it at an inopportune moment. In flowery language selected from slang used by the station hands and long words picked up from our visitors, I propounded unanswerable questions which brought blushes to the cheeks of even tough old wine bibbers. Nothing would induce me to show more respect to an appraiser of the runs than to a boundary rider than to a clergyman than a driver. I am the same to this day. My organ of veneration must be flatter than a pancake because to venerate a person simply for his position I never did or will. To me the Prince of Wales will be no more than a shearer unless when I meet him he displays some personality apart from his friendship, otherwise he can go hang. Authentic record of the date when I first had a horse to myself has not been kept, but it must have been early as at eight I was fit to ride anything on the place. Side-saddle, man-saddle, no-saddle or astride were all the same to me. I rode among the musters as gamely as any of the big sun-burnt bushmen. My mother remonstrated a pint I would be a great unwormonly tomboy. My father pooed the idea. Let her alone Lucy, he said, let her alone. The rubbishing conventionalities which are the curse of her sex will bother her soon enough. Let her alone. So smiling and saying, she should have been a boy. My mother let me alone, and I rode, and in comparison to my size made as much noise with my stock whip as anyone. Accidents had no power over me. I came unscathed out of the droves of them. Fear I knew not did a drunken tramp happen to kick up a row. I was always the first to confront him, and from my majestic and roly-poly height of two feet six inches demand what he wanted. A digging started near us and was worked by a scour of two dark brown sons of Italy. They made mother nervous, and she averred they were not to be trusted. But I liked and trusted them. They carried me on their broad shoulders, stuffed me with lollies, and made a general pet of me. Without the quiver of a nerve I swung down their deepest shafts in the big bucket on the end of a rope attached to a rough windlass, which brought up the minus and the mullock. My brothers and sisters contracted mumps, measles, scalatina, and hooping cough. I rolled in bed with them yet came off scot-free. I romped with the dogs, climbed trees after bird's nest, drove the bullocks in the dray under the instructions of Ben, our bullocky, and always accompanied my father when he went swimming in the clear mountain shrub-lined stream which ran deep and lone among the weird gullies, thickly carpeted with maiden hair and numberless other species of ferns. My mother shook her head over me and trampled for my future, but father seemed to consider me nothing unusual. He was my hero, confidant, encyclopedia, mate, and even my religion till I was ten. Since then I have been religion-less. Richard Melvin, you were a fine fellow in those days, a kind and indulgent parent, a chivalrous husband, a capital host, a man full of ambition and gentlemanliness. Amid these scenes and the refinements and pleasure of Cadogan, which lies a hundred miles so far the river inwards, I spent the first years of my childhood. My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin Chapter 2 An Introduction to Possum Gully I was nearly nine summers old when my father conceived the idea that he was wasting his talents by keeping them rolled up in the small napkin of an out-of-the-way place like Brogabrong and the Ben-Ben stations. Therefore he determined to take up his residence in a locality where he would have more scope for his ability. When giving his reason for moving to my mother, he put the matter before her thus. The price of cattle and horses had fallen so of late years that it was impossible to make much of a living by breeding them. Sheep were the only profitable article to have nowadays, and it would be impossible to run them on Brogabrong or either of the Ben-Bens. The Dengos would work havoc among them in no time, and what they left the Duffers would soon dispose of. As for bringing police into the matter, it would be worse than useless. They could not run the offenders to earth, and their efforts to do so would bring down upon their employer the wrath of the Duffers. Result all the fences on the station would be fired for a dead certainty, and the destruction of more than a hundred miles of heavy log fencing on rough country like Brogabrong was no picnic to contemplate. This was the feasible light in which my father shaded his desire to leave. The fact of the matter was that the heartless heriton, discontent, had laid her claw-like hand upon him. His guests were ever assuring him. He was buried and wasted in Timlebelly's gullies. A man of his intelligence, coupled with his wonderful experience among stock, would, they averred, make a name and fortune for himself, dealing, or auctioneering, if he only liked to try. Richard Melvin began to think so too, and desired to try. He did try. He gave up Brogabrong, Benben East, and Benben West, bought Possum Gully, a small farm of one thousand acres, and brought us all to live near Goldburn. Here we arrived one autumn afternoon. Father, mother, and children packed in the buggy. Myself and the one servant-girl who would accompany us on horseback. The one man father had retained in his service was awaiting our arrival. He had proceeded us with a bullock-dreyload of furniture and belongings, which was all father had retained of his household property. Just sufficient for us to get along with until he had time to settle and purchase more, he said. That was ten years ago, and that is the only furniture we possess yet, just enough to get along with. My first impression of Possum Gully was bitter disappointment, an impression which time has failed to soften or wipe away. How flat, common, and monotonous the scenery appeared after the rugged peaks of the Tim-Linbelli Range. Our new house was a ten-roomed wooden structure built on a barren hillside. Crooked, stunted gums, and stringy barks, with a thick underscrup of wild cherry, hop, and hybrid wattle, clothed the spurs which ran up from the back of the detached kitchen. Away from the front of the house were flats bearing evidence of cultivation, but a drop of water was nowhere to be seen. Later we discovered a few round, deep, weedy water-holes down on the flat, which in rainy weather swelled to a stream which swept all before it. Possum Gully is one of the best watered spots in the district, and in that respect had stood to its guns in the bitterest drought. Use and knowledge have taught us the full value of its fairly clear and beautifully soft water. Just then, however, coming from the mountains where every Gully had its limpid creek, we turned and discussed from the idea of having to drink this water. I felt cramped on our new run. It was only three miles wide at its broadest point. Was I always, always, always to live here and never, never, never to go back to Brogobron? That was the burden of the grief with which I sobbed myself to sleep on the first night after our arrival. Mother felt dubious of her husband's ability to make a living off of a thousand acres, half of which were fit to run nothing but wallabies, but father was full of plans and very sanguine concerning his future. He was not going to squat hen-like on his place as the cockies around him did. He meant to deal in stock-making of Possum Gully merely a depot on which to run some of his bargains until reselling. Dear, oh, dear, it was terrible to think he had wasted the greater part of his life among the hills where the mail came but once a week and where the nearest town of 650 inhabitants was 46 miles distant, and the road had been impassable for vehicles. Here only 17 miles from a city like Goldburn with splendid roads, mail, thrice weekly, and a railway platform only eight miles away. Why, man, my fortune is made! Such were the sentiments to which he gave birth out of the fullness of his hopeful heart. Air the Diggings had broken out on Bruggebron, our nearest neighbor, excepting, of course, boundary riders, was 17 miles distant. Possum Gully was a thickly populated district, and here we were surrounded by homes ranging from half a mile to two and three miles away. This was a new experience for us, and it took us some time to become accustomed to the advantage and disadvantage of the situation. Did we require an article? We found it handy, but decidedly the reverse when our neighbors borrowed from us, and in the greater percentage of cases fell to return the loan. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of My Brilliant Career This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin. Chapter 3 A Lifeless Life Possum Gully was stagnant, stagnant with the narrow stagnation prevalent in all old country places. Its residents were principally married folk and children under sixteen. The boys, as they attained manhood, drifted out back to sheer, drove, or to take up land. They found it too slow at home, and besides there was not room enough for them there when they passed childhood. Nothing ever happened there, time was no object, and the days slid quietly into the river of years distinguished one from another by name alone. An occasional birth or death was a big event, and the biggest event of all was the advent of a new resident. When such a thing occurred, it was customary for all the male heads of families to pay a visit of inspection to judge if the newcomers were worthy of admittance into the bosom of the society of the neighborhood. Should their report prove favorable, then their wives finished the ceremony of inauguration by paying a friendly visit. After his arrival at Possum Gully, father was much away on business, and so on my mother fell the ordeal of receiving the callers male and female. The men were honest, good-natured, respectable, common bushman farmers, too friendly to pay a short call, they came and sat for hours jarning about nothing in particular. This bored my gentle mother excessively. She attempted to entertain them with conversations of current literature and subjects of the day, but her efforts fell flat. She might as well have spoken in French. They conversed for hours and hours about daring, interspersed with pointless anecdotes of the man who had lived there before us. I found them very tame. After graphic descriptions of life on big stations outback and the dashing snake-yarns told by our kitchen folk at Bruggebrang and the anecdotes of African hunting, travel and society life, which had often formed our guest subject of conversation, this endless fiddle-faddle of the price of farm produce and the state of crops was very fatuous. Those men, like everyone else, only talked shop. I say nothing in condemnation of it, but merely point out that it did not then interest us as we were not living in that shop just then. Mrs. Melvin must have found favor in the eyes of the specimens of the Lords of Creation resident at Possum Gully as all the matrons of the community hastened a call on her and vied with each other in a display of friendliness and good nature. They brought presents of poultry, jam, butter, and such like. They came at two o'clock and stayed till dark. They inventoried the furniture, gave mother cookery recipes, described minutely the unsurpassable talents of each of their children, and discounted volubly upon the best way of setting turkey hens. On taking their departure they cordially invited us all to return their visits and begged mother to allow her children to spend a day with theirs. We had been resident in our new quarters nearly a month when my parents received an intimation from the teacher of the public school two miles distant to the effect that the law demanded that they should send their children to school. It upset my mother greatly. What was she to do? Do. Bundle the nippers off to school as quickly as possible, of course, said my father. My mother objected. She proposed a governess now and a good boarding school later on. She had heard such dreadful stories of public schools. It was terrible to be compelled to send her darlings to one. They would be roined in a week. Not they, said father. Run them off for a week or two or a month at the outside. They can't come to any harm in that time. After that we will get a governess. You are in no state of health to worry about one just now and it is utterly impossible that I can see about the matter at present. I have several specs on foot that I must attend to. Send the youngsters to school down here for the present. We went to school and in our dainty refilled penifors and light shoes were regarded as great swells by the other scholars. They for the most part were the children of very poor farmers whose farm earnings were augmented by road work, wood carting, or any such labor which came within their grasp. All the boys went barefooted, also a moiety of the girls. The school was situated on a wild scrubby hill and the teacher boarded with the resident a mile from it. He was a man addicted to drink and the parents of his scholars lived in day the expectation of seeing his dismissal from the service. It is nearly ten years since the twins, who came next to me and I were enrolled as pupils of the Tiger Swamp Public School. My education was completed there, so was that of the twins who were eleven months younger than I. Also my other brothers and sisters are quickly getting finished words but that is the only school any of us have seen or known. There was even a time when fathers spoke of filling in the free forms for our attendance there, but mother, a woman's pride bears more wear than a man's would never allow us to come to that. All our neighbors were very friendly but one in particular, a James Blackshaw, proved himself most desirous of being comradely with us. He was a sort of self-constituted shake of the community. It was usual for him to take all newcomers under his wing and with officious good nature and ever to make them feel at home. He called on us daily, tied his horse to the pailing fence beneath the shade of a sally tree in the back yard and when mother was unable to see him he was content to yarn for an hour or two with Jane Hazelip, our servant girl. Jane disliked Possum Gully as much as I did, her feeling being much more defined. It was amusing to hear the flat-out opinions she expressed to Mr. Blackshaw, whom by the way she turned a mooching hen of a chap. I suppose, Jane, you like being here near Gulburn better than that out-of-the-way place you came from? He said one morning as he comfortably settled himself on an old sofa in the kitchen. No jolly fear. Out-of-the-way place, there was more life at Bruggebron in a day than new crawlers would see here all your lives. She retorted with vigor, energetically pommeling a batch of bread which she was mixing. Why, at Brugge, it was as good as a show every week. On Saturday evening all the coves used to come in for their mail. They'd stay till Sunday evening. Splitters, boundary riders, dog trappers, every man jack of them. The bus was always good for a tune on the concertina and the rest would dance. We had fun to no end. A girl could have a fly round and a lark or two there, I tell you. But here—and she emitted a snort of contempt. There ain't one bloomin' feller to do a mash with. I'm full of the place. Only I promise to stick to the Mrs. awhile. I'd scoot to Marrher. It's the dead and the livest hole I ever seen. You'll get used to it by and by, said Blackshaw. Used to it? A person have to be brought up under a hen to get used to the dullness of this hole. You wasn't brought up under a hen, or it must have been a big-braimer pooter if you were, replied he, noting the liberal proportions of her figure as she hauled a couple of heavy pots off the fire. He did not offer to help her. Etiquette of that sort was beyond his kin. You ought her go out more and then you wouldn't find it so dull, he said, after she had placed the pots on the floor. Go out. Where'd I go to, pray? Drop in and see my Mrs. again when you get time. You're always welcome. Thanks, but I had plenty of going to see your Mrs. last time. How's that? Why, I wasn't there half an hour when she had to strip off her clean duds and go and milk. I don't think much of any of the men around here. They let the women work too hard. I never see such a tired war-out set of women. It puts me in mind of the time when the Blackfellers made the gins do all the work. While on Bruggebron the women never had to do no outside work, only on a great pinch when all the men were away at a fire or a muster. Down here they do everything. They do all the milking and pig-feeding and potty-raring. It makes me feel fit to wretch. I don't know whether it's because the men is crawlers or whether it's Darien. I don't think much of Darien. It's Slaven and Delvin and scraping your eyeballs out from morning to night and nothing to show for your pains. And now you'll oblige me, Mr. Blackshaw, if you'll lull up somewhere else for a minute or two. I want to sweep under that sofa. This had the effect of making him depart. He said good morning and went off, not sure whether he was most amused or insulted. End of Chapter 3 Recording by Leanne Howlett Chapter 4 of My Brilliant Career This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin Chapter 4 A Career Which Soon Careered to an End While Mother Jane Hazelipp and I found the days long and life slow, Father was enjoying himself immensely. He had embarked upon a lively career, that gambling trade known as Dealing in Stock. When he was not away in Riverina inspecting a flock of sheep, he was attending the homebush fat stock sales, rushing out to Bork, or tearing off down the Shoal Haven to buy some dairy heifers. He was a familiar figure at the Galburn Sailyards every Wednesday, always going into town the day before, and not returning till a day and often two days afterwards. He was in great demand among drovers and auctioneers, and in the stock news his name was always mentioned in connection with all the principal sales in the colony. It takes an astute, clear-headed man to keep himself offshore in stock dealing. I never yet heard of a dealer who occasionally did not temporarily, if not totally, go to the wall. He need not necessarily be downright unscrupulous, but if he wishes to profit, he must not be overburdened with niceties in the point of honor. That is where Richard Melvin fell through. He was crippled with too many utopian ideas of honesty, and was too soft ever to come off anything but second best in a deal. He might as well have attempted to make his fortune by scraping a fiddle up and down Auburn Street, Galburn. His dealing career was short and merry, his vanity to be considered a socialistic fellow who was as ready to take a glass with a swaggy as a swell, and the lavish shouting which this principal incurred made great inroads on his means. Losing money every time he sold a beast, wasting stamps galore on letters to endless auctioneers, frequently remaining in town half a week at a stretch, and being hell-fellow to all the spongers to be found on the trail of such as he, quickly left him on the verge of bankruptcy. Some of his contemporaries say it was grog that did it all. Had he kept clear-headed he was a smart fellow and gave promise of doing well, but his head would not stand alcohol, and by it he was undermined in no time. In considerably less than a twelve-month, all the spare capital in his coffers, from the disposal of Brogobrong and the Bend-Bens, had been squandered. He had become so hard up that to pay the drovers in his last venture he was forced to sell the calves of the few Milch cows retained for household uses. At this time it came to my father's knowledge that one of our bishops had money held in trust for the church. On good security he was giving this out for usury, the same as condemned in the big Bible, out of which he took the text of the dry-hash sermons with which he bored his fashionable congregations in his cathedral on Sundays. Father took advantage of this reverence and consistency and mortgaged possum gully. With the money thus obtained he started once more and managed to make a scant livelihood and pay the interest on the bishop's loan. In four or five years he had again reached loggerheads. The price of stock had fallen so that there was nothing to be made out of dealing in them. Richard Melvin resolved to live as those around him, start a dairy, run it with his family who would also rear poultry for sale. As instruments of the dairying trade he procured fifty Milch cows, the calves of which had to be potted, and a hand cream separator. I was in my fifteenth year when we began dairying. The twins Horace and Gertie were, as you already know, eleven months younger. Horace, had there been anyone to train him, contained the makings of a splendid man. But having no one to bring him up in the way he should go he was a churlish and trying bully and the issue of his character doubtful. Gertie milked thirteen cows and I eighteen morning and evening. Horace and mother between them milked the remaining seventeen. Among the dairying fraternity little toddlers ere they are big enough to hold a bucket learn to milk. Thus their hands become enured to the motion and it does not affect them. With us it was different. Being almost full grown when we started to milk and then plunging heavily into the exercise it had a painful effect upon us. Our hands and arms as far as the elbows swelled so that our sleep at night was often disturbed by pain. Mother made the butter. She had to rise at two and three o'clock in the morning in order that it would be cool and firm enough to print for market. Jane Hazelop had left us a year previously and we could afford no one to take her place. The heavy work told upon my gentle refined mother. She grew thin and care-worn and often cross. My father's share of the work was to break in the wild cows, separate the milk, and take the butter into town to the grocer's establishment and re-obtained our supplies. Dick Melvin of Bruggebrang was not recognizable in Dick Melvin, 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 fulfill 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 is often brought upon me the threat of immediate extermination for volunteering, scathing, and undesired opinions on his conduct. The part of the daring 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 neighbors. 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 neighbors, 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 honored 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 conceded 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, went under the influence of liquor, would allow no one but himself to handle the rains, 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 honor my parents, whether they were deserving of honor or not. Dick Melvin, 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 honor, 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. Seeing my father beside me, and thinking of his infant with its mother, eating her heart out with anxiety at home, this was the reasoning which took possession of me. Among other such inexpressible thoughts I got lost, grudizzy, and drew back appalled at the spirit which was maturing within me. It was a grim lonely one, which I vainly tried to hide in a bosom which was not big or strong enough for its comfortable habitation. It was as a climbing plant without a pole. It groped about the ground, bruised itself, and became hungry searching for something strong to which to cling. Needing a master hand to train and prune, it was becoming rank and sour. End of Chapter 4. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 5 of my brilliant career. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ray Smith. My brilliant career but miles Franklin. Chapter 5. Disjointed sketches and grumbles. It was my duty to rare the potties. This is the most godless occupation in which there has been my lot to engage. I did a great amount of thinking while feeding them for, by the way, I am afflicted with the power of thought, which is a heavy curse. The lesser person thinks and inquires regarding the way and wherefore, and the justice of things, when dragging along through life, the happier it is for him and undoubtedly, trebly so, for her. Poor little calves. Slave to the greed of man, prophet of the mothers with which nature has provided them, and compelled to exist on milk from the separator, often thick, sour, and icy cold. Besides the milking I did, before I went to school every morning for which I had to prepare myself and the younger children, to which we had to walk two miles, I had to feed 30 calves and wash the breakfast dishes. On returning from school in the afternoon, often in a state of exhaustion from walking in the sun, I had the same duties over again, and in addition, boots to clean and home lessons to prepare for the morrow. I had to relinquish my piano practice for one of time. Those short, short nights of rest and long, long days of toil. It seems to me that daring means slavery in the hands of poor people who cannot afford higher labor. I am not writing of dairy farming, the gentile and aristocratic profession as eulogized in leading articles of agricultural newspapers and as taught in agricultural colleges. I am depicting practical daring as I have lived it and seen it lived by dozens of families around me. It takes a great deal of work to produce even one pound of butter fit for market. At the time I mentioned it was three pence and four pence per pound, so it was much work and small pay. It was slaving and delving from morning to night, Sundays, weekdays, holidays, all alike were work days for us. Hard graft is a great leveler. Household drudgery, wood cutting, milking and gardening soon roughened the hands and dimmed the outside polish. When the body is wearing with much toil the desire to cultivate the mind or the cultivation it has already received is gradually wiped out. Thus it was with my parents. They had dropped from Swelldom to Peasantism. They were among and of the peasantry. None of their former acquaintances came within their circle now for the iron and godly hand of class distinction was settled surely down upon Australian society. Australia's democracy is only a tradition of the past. I say not against the lower life. The peasantry are the bulwark of every nation. The life of a peasant is to a peasant who is a peasant with a peasant soul when times are good and when seasons smile a grand life. It is honest, clean and wholesome. But the life of a peasant to me is purgatory. Those around me worked from morning till night and then enjoyed their well-earned sleep. They had but two states of existence, work and sleep. There was a third part in me which cried out to be fed. I longed for the arts. Music was a passion with me. I borrowed every book in the neighbourhood and stole hours from rest to read them. This told upon me and made my physical burdens harder for me than for other children of my years around me. That third was the strongest part of me. In it I lived a dream life with writers, artists and musicians. Hope, sweet, cruel, delusive hope, whispered in my ear that life was long with much by and by and in that by and by my dream life would be real. So on I went with that gleaming lake in the distance beckoned me to come and sail on its silver waters. An inexperienced, conceited blind inexperienced failed to show the impassable pit between it and me to return to the derringing. Old and young alike we earned our scant livelihood by the heavy sweat of our brows. Still we did gain an honest living. We were not ashamed to look day in the face and fought our way against all odds with the stubborn independence of our British ancestors. But when 1894 went out without rain and 95 hot drive pitiless 95 succeeded it, there came a time when it was impossible to make a living. The scorched, furnished breath winds shriveled every blade of grass dust and the moan of starving stock filled the air. The vegetables became a thing of the past. The calves I had reared died one by one and the cows followed in their footsteps. I had left school by then and my mother and father and I spent the days in lifting our cows. When our strength proved inadequate the hope of neighbors had to be called in and father would give his service in return. Only a few of our more well-to-do neighbors had been able to send their stock away or had any better place to which to transfer them. The majority of them were in as tight a plate as ourselves. This cow lifting became quite a trade, the whole day being spent in it and discussing the bad prospect ahead if the drought continued. Many an extra line of care furrowed the brows of the disheartened bushmen then. Not only was their living taken from them by the drought but there is nothing more heart-rending than to have poor beasts, especially dairy cows, so familiar, valued, and loved, pleading for food day after day in their pitiless dumb way when one has it not to give. We show ourselves of all but the better necessities of life but even they for a family of ten are considerable and it was a mighty tussle to get both ends within cover of meeting. We felt the full force of the heavy hand of poverty the most stinging kind of poverty too. That which still holds up its head and keeps an outside appearance. Far more grinding is this than the poverty inherited from generations which is not ashamed of itself and has not the competent, the wounded pride and humiliation which attacked us. Some there are who argue the poverty does not mean unhappiness but those try what it is to be destitute of even one a companionable friend what it means to be forced to exist in an alien sphere of society what it is like to be unable to afford a stamp to write to a friend let them long as passionately as I have longed for reading and music and be unable to procure it because of poverty that poverty forced them into doing work against which every fiber of their being revolts as it has forced me and then see if their lives will be happy. My school life has been dull and uneventful the one incident of any note which has been this day that the teacher better known as Old Harris stood up to the inspector the latter was a precise collar and cuffs sort of little man he won the impression of having all his ideas on the subject he thought worthy of attention carefully cold and packed in his brain pan and neatly labeled so that he might without fluster pounce upon any of them at a moment's warning he was gentlemanly and respectable and discharged his duty precariously in a manner of reflecting credit on himself and his position but comparing the mind of philanthropist to the murmur and bidgey in breath his incomparison might be liking to the flow of a bucket of water in a draider up on a day in question a precise hot one it was he had finished examining us in most subject and was looking at our copy books he looked up from them and fastidiously straightened his waistcoat Mr. Harris yes sir comparisons are odious but unfortunately I am forced to draw one now yes sir this writing is much inferior to that of our town scholars it is very shaky and irregular so I notice that the children seem stupid and dull I don't like putting it so plainly but in fact they seem to be possessed with the proverbial stupidity of country people how do you account for this poor ol' Harris in spite of his drunken habits and inability to properly discharge his duties he had a warm heart much fellowshiply he understood and loved his pupils and would not have had aspirations cast upon them it's as if he had taken to brace himself to meet the inspector had been two or three and they robbed him of the discussion which otherwise might have kept him silent sir I can and will account for it look you at every one of these children everyone right down to this little tot indicating a little girl of five has to milk and work hard before and after school besides a walk on an average two miles two and from school in this infernal heat most of the elder boys and girls milk on an average fourteen cows morning and evening you try that treatment for a week or two my fine gentlemen and then see if your fist doesn't ache and shake so that you can't ride at all see if you won't look a trifle dosy stupidity of country people be hanged if you had to work from morning till night in the heat and dust and get precious little for it to I bet you wouldn't have much time to scrape your fingernails read science notes and look smart look off his coat and shaped up to his superior the inspector drew back in constration Mr. Harris you forgot yourself at this juncture they went outside together what happened there was we never knew that is all we heard of the matter except the numerous garbling accounts which were carried home that afternoon I drought ideal Sibyl what are you doing where is your mother I'm ironing I'm down at the file house seeing after some chickens what do you want it was my father who addressed me time 2 o'clock p.m thermometer hung in the shade of the brand registering 105 and a half degrees I see black shaw coming across the flat call your mother you bring the leg ropes I've got the dog leg come at once we'll give the cows another lift poor devils might as well knock them in the head at once but there might be rain next moon this drought can't last forever I called mother got the leg ropes and set off pulling my son bonnet closely over my face to protect my eyes from the dust which was driving from the west and blinding clouds the dog leg to which father was referring was three poles about 8 or 10 feet long strapped together so they could be stood up it was an arrangement father had devised to facilitate our labor in lifting the cows a fourth and longer pole was placed across the fork formed by the three one and there was tied a couple leg ropes after being placed around the beast one beneath the flank and one around the girth on the other end of this pole we put our weight while one man would lift the tail and another with the horns newtium cows would sulk and we would have great work with them but those used to the performance would help themselves and that they'd go as nice as a daisy the only art needed was draw the pole back quickly before the cows could move or the leg ropes would pull them over again on this afternoon we had six cows to lift we struggled manfully and got five on their feet and then proceeded to where the last one was lying back downwards on a shade the stony spot on the side of the hill the men slewed her around by the tail while mother and I fixed the dog leg and adjusted the ropes we got the cow up but the poor beast was so weak it knocked about that she immediately fell down again we resolved to let her have a few minutes spell before making another attempt at lifting there was not a blade of grass to be seen and the ground was too dusty to sit on we were too overdone to make more than one word utterances so waiting silently in the basing sun closing our eyes against the dust weariness, weariness a few light wind smitten clouds made wand streaks across the white sky haggard with the fierce, relentless glare of the afternoon sun weariness was written across my mother's delicate, care-worn features and found expression in my father's nid, brows, and dusty face black shadow was weary and said so as he wiped the dust made mud with perspiration off his cheek I was weary, my limbs ate with the heat and work, the poor beast stretched at our feet was weary all nature was weary and seemed to sing a dirge to that effect in the fervent's breath wind which roared along the trees on the low ranges at our back and smote the parts in thirsty ground all were weary, all but the sun he seemed to glory in his power relentless and untiring as he swung boldly in the sky triumphantly leering down upon his helpless victims weariness, weariness this was my life my life, my career my brilliant career I was fifteen fifteen! a few fleeting hours and I would be old as those around me I looked at them as they stood there weary and turning down the other side of the hill of life no doubt they had hoped for and dreamed of better things had even known them but here they were this had been their life, this was their career it was and in all probability would be mine too my life, my career my brilliant career weariness, weariness the summer sun danced on summer is finished and life is a curse I said to my heart what a great dull hard rock the world was on it were the few bearing narrow ledges and on those by exerting ourselves so that the force wears off her fingernails it allows us to hang for a year or two and then hurls us off into outer darkness and oblivion perhaps to endure a worse torture than this the poor beast moaned the lifting had strained her and there were patches of hide-worn offer the size of breakfast plates sore and more harrowing to look at it takes great suffering to ring the moan from the patience of a cow it turned my head away and with the impatience of one side reasoning common to fifteen ask god what he meant by this it is well enough to heap suffering on human beings seeing it is supposed to be merely a probation for a better world but animals poor innocent animals why are they tortured so come now we'll lift her once more said my father at it we went again it is surprising that weight there in the poorest cow with great struggling we got her to her feet once more and were carefully this time to hold her till she got steady on her legs father and mother at the tail and blackshaw and I on the horns we marched her home and gave her a brand mash then we turned to our work in the house while the men sat and smoked and spat on the veranda discussing the drought for an hour at the end of which time they went to help someone else with their stock I made up the fire and we continued our irony which had been interrupted some hours before it was hot and pleasant work on such a day we were forced to keep the doors and windows closed on account of the wind and the dust we were hot and tired and our feet ached so that we could scarcely stand on them weariness weariness summer is fiendish and life is a curse I said to my heart day after day the drought continued now and again there would be a few days of the raging wind before mentioned which carried the dry grass off paddocks and piled it against the fence darkened the air with dust and seemed to promise rain but even it dispersed once it came taking with it the few clouds it had gathered up and four weeks and weeks set a stretch from horizon to horizon was never expect tomorrow the cruel dazzling brilliance of the mental sky weariness weariness I said the one thing many times but ah it was a weary thing that took much repetition that familiarity might wear away a little of its bitterness End of Chapter 5 Recording by Ray Smith, Phoenix, Arizona In spite of our pottering and lifting with the exception of five all our cows eventually died and even these and a couple of horses had as much as they could do to live on the whole of the thousand acres which without reserve were at their disposal they had hardly any grass it was merely the warmth and water which kept them alive needless to say we were on our beam ends financially however with a little help from more fortunate relatives and with the money obtained from the sale of the cow hides and mother's poultry we managed to pay the interest on the money borrowed from the bishop and keep bread in our mouths unfortunately for us at this time the bishop's agent proved a scoundrel and absconded my father held receipts to show that to his agent he had regularly paid the interest of the money borrowed but through some finicking point of law because we had not money to contend with him his lordship the bishop now refused to acknowledge his agent and one time pillar of the cathedral and having law on his side served a writ on us in the face of our misfortunes this was too much we begged for time which plea he answered by putting in the bailiff and selling everything we possessed our five cows, two horses our milk separator, plow, cart dre, buggy even our cooking utensils books, pictures, furniture my father's watch, our very beds pillows and blankets not a thing besides what we stood up in was left us and this was money for the payment of which my father held receipts but for the generosity of our relatives who would have been in a pretty plight they sent us sufficient means to buy everything and our neighbors came to our rescue with enthusiasm and warm hearted genuine sympathy the bailiff a gentleman to the core when the matter stood helped us to the utmost of his power our goods were disposed of on the premises and the neighbors arranged a mock sale at which the bailiff winked our friends had sent the money and the neighbors did the bidding none bidding against each other and thus our belongings went for a mere trifle every cloud has its silver lining and the black cloud of poverty has a very bright silver lining to get at the real heart of people as you can never do if rich people are your friends from pure friendship and love not from sponging self-interestedness it is worth being poor once or twice in a lifetime just to experience the blessing and heart restfulness of a little genuine reality in the way of love and friendship not that it is impossible for opulence to have genuine friends but rich people I fear must ever have at their heart and their friendship and love lavished upon them is merely self-interestedness and sham the implements of trade used by the fawning toadies who swarm around wealth in conjunction with the bishop's name the approaching sale of our goods had been duly advertised in the local papers and my father received several letters of sympathy from the clergy deploring the conduct of the bishop these letters were from men unknown to father who were unaware that Richard Melvin pulled off for a debt already paid by the generosity of relatives and the goodness of neighbors as kind as ever breathed, our furniture was our own again but what were we to do for a living our crops were withering in the fields for want of rain and we had but five cows not an over-bright outlook as I was getting to bed one night my mother came into my room and said seriously Sibylla, I want to have a talk with you talk away I responded rather sullenly for I expected a long sing-song about my good-for-nothingness in general a subject of which I was heartily tired Sibylla I've been studying the matter over a lot lately it's no use we cannot afford to keep you at home you'll have to get something to do I made no reply and my mother continued I'm afraid we'll have to break up the home altogether it's no use my mother has no idea of making a living I regret the day I ever saw him since he is taken to drink he has no more idea of how to make a living than a cat I will have to give the little ones to some of the relatives the bigger ones will have to go out to service and so will your father and I that's all I can see ahead of us poor little Gertie is too young to go out in the world she was not twelve months younger than I she must go to your grandmother, I think I still made no reply so my mother inquired well, Sibylla, what do you think of the matter? do you think it absolutely necessary to break up the home? I said well, you suggest something better if you are so clever, said Mother Crossley that is always the way if I suggest a thing it is immediately put down yet there is never anyone to think of things but me what would you do? I suppose you think you could make a living on the place for us yourself why can't we live at home? Blackshawn, Jansen have no bigger places than we and families just as large and yet they make a living it would be terrible for the little ones to grow up separated they would be no more to each other than strangers yes it is all very well for you to talk like that but how is your father to start again with only five cows in the world? it's no use, you never talk sense you'll find my way is always the best in the end would it not be easier? I replied for our relations to each give a little towards setting us up again than to be burdened with the whole responsibility of rearing a child I'm sure they'd much prefer it yes perhaps it would be better but I think you will have to get your own living what would they say about having to support such a big girl as you are I will go and earn my own living and when you get me weeded out of the family you will have a perfect paradise having no evil to copy that children will grow up saints I said bitterly now, Sibylla, it is foolish to talk like that for you know that you take no interest in your work if you turn to and help me rear poultry and make dresses and why don't you take to cooking take to cooking I retorted with scorn the fire that a fellow has to endure on that old oven would kill a horse and the grit and dirt of clearing it up depends on my very nerves besides if I ever do want to do any extra fancy cooking we either can't afford the butter or the currants or else the eggs are too scarce cook be granied Sibylla, Sibylla you are getting very vulgar yes I was once foolish enough to try and be polite but I've given it up my style of talk is quite good enough for my company what on earth does it matter whether I'm vulgar or not I can feed calves and milk and grind out my days here just as well vulgar as un-vulgar I answered savagely there you see you are always discontented about your home it's no use the only thing is for you to earn your own living I will earn my own living what will you do will you be examined for a pupil teacher that is a very nice occupation for girls what chance would I have in a competitive exam against Goldburn girls they all have good teachers and give up their time to study I only have old Harris and he is the most idiotic old animal alive besides I loathe the very idea of teaching I'd as soon go on the wallaby you're not old enough to be a general servant or cook you have not experienced enough to be a housemaid you don't take to sewing and there is no chance of being accepted as a hospital nurse you must confess there is nothing you can do you are really a very useless girl for your age there are heaps of things I could do tell me a few of them I was silent the professions at which I felt I had the latent power to excel were I but given a chance were in a sphere far above us and to mention my feelings and ambitions to my matter of fact practical mother would bring upon me worse ridicule than I was already forced to endure day by day mention a few of the things that you could do I might as well have named flying as the professions I was thinking of music was the least unmentionable of them so I brought it forward music but it would take years of training and great expense before you could earn anything at that it is quite out of the question the only thing for you to do is to settle down and take interest in your work and help make a living at home or else go out as a nurse girl if you have any ability in you it would soon show if you think you could do such strokes and the homework is not good enough for you go out and show the world what a wonderful creature you are mother you are unjust and cruel I exclaimed you do not understand one at all I never thought I could do strokes I cannot help being constituted so that grimy manual labor is hateful to me for it is hateful to me and I hate it more and more every day and you can preach and preach till you go black in the face and still I'll hate it more than ever if I have to do it all my life and if I'm cursed with a long life I'll hate it just as much at the end as I do now I'm sure it's not any wish of mine that I'm born with inclinations for better things if I could be born again and had the designing of myself I'd be born the lowest and coarsest minded person imaginable so that I could find plenty of companionship or I'd be born an idiot which would be better still Sibylla said my mother in a shocked tone it is a wonder God doesn't strike you dead I never heard I don't believe there is a God I said fiercely and if there is he's not the merciful being he's always depicted or he wouldn't be always torturing me for his own amusement Sibylla Sibylla that I should have ever nurtured a child to grow up like this I know that I only know that I hate this life I hate it I hate it I hate it I said vehemently talk about going out to earn your own living while there's not a woman living would have you in her house above a day you are a perfect she devil oh God and my mother began to cry what have I done to be cursed with such a child there is not another woman in the district with such a burden put upon her I can only trust that my prayers to God for you will soften your evil heart if your prayers are answered as more than mine ever were I retorted your prayers said my mother with scorn the horror of a child not yet 16 being so hardened I don't know what to make of you you never cry or ask forgiveness there's dear little Girdy now she is often naughty but when I correct her she asks herself to be a human being and not a fiend so saying my mother went out of the room I've asked forgiveness once too often to be sad upon for my pains I called out I believe you are mad that is the only feasible excuse I can make for your conduct she said as a parting shot why the deuce don't you two get to bed and not wrangle like a pair of cats in the middle of the night disturbing a man's rest in my father's voice from amid the bed-clothes my mother is a good woman a very good woman and I am, I think, not quite all criminality but we do not pull together I am a piece of machinery which, not understanding my mother winds up the wrong way setting all the wheels of my composition going and creaking discord she wondered why I did not cry and beg forgiveness and thereby give evidence of being human I was too wrought up for tears ha, that tears might have come to relieve my overburdened heart I took up the homemade tallow candle in its tin stick and looked at my pretty sleeping sister, Gertie she and I shared the one bed it was as mother had said if Gertie was scolded for any of her shortcomings she immediately took refuge in tears said she was sorry obtained forgiveness for the whole matter she came within the range of mother's understanding I did not she had feelings, mother thought I had none did my mother understand me she would know that I am capable of more depths of agony and more exquisite heights of joy in one day than Gertie will experience in her whole life was I mad, as mother had said a fear took possession of me that I might be I certainly was utterly different to any girl I had seen or known what was the hot wild spirit which surged within me ah, that I might weep I threw myself in my bed and moaned why was I not like other girls why was I not like Gertie why were not a new dress everyday work and an occasional picnic sufficient to fill my mind my movements awakened Gertie what is the matter, dear Sibylla come to bed mother has been scolding you she's always scolding someone that doesn't matter you say you are sorry and she won't scold anymore that's what I always do do get into bed you'll be tired in the morning what does it matter if I will be I wish I would be dead what's the good of a hateful thing like I am being alive no one wants or cares for me I love you, Sibylla better than all the rest I could not do without you and she put her pretty face next to mine and kissed me what a balm to the tempest-tossed soul is a little love though it may be fleeting and fickle I was able to weep now with hot wild tears and with my sister's arms around me I fell asleep without undressing further End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 of My Brilliant Career This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Elizabeth Clutt My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin Chapter 7 Was error rose without its thorn I arose from bed next morning with three things in my head a swollen eyes, a heavy pain and a fixed determination to write a book nothing less than a book A few hours work in the keen air of a late autumn morning removed the swelling from my eyes and the pain from my temples but the idea of relieving my feelings in writing had taken firm root in my brain it was not my first attempt in this direction Two years previously I had perloined paper and sneaked out of bed every night at one or two o'clock to write a prodigious novel in point of length and detail in which a full-fledged hero and heroine performed the duties of a hero and heroine in the orthodox manner Knowing our circumstances my grandmother was accustomed when writing to me to enclose a stamp to enable me to reply These I saved and with them sent my book to the leading Sydney publisher After waiting many weeks I received a polite memo to the effect that the story showed great ability and experience was too much in evidence for publication The writer was to study the best works of literature and would one day, no doubt, take a place among Australian novelists This was a very promising opinion of the work of a child of thirteen more encouraging than the great writers got at the start of their literary career but it seemed to even my childish intelligence that the memo was a stereotype to fare that the publisher sent an answer to all the manuscripts of famous writers submitted to him and sent in all probability without reading as much as the name of the story After that I wrote a few short stories and essays, but now the spirit moved me to write another book not with any hope of success as it was impossible for me to study literature as advised I seldom saw a book and could only spare time in tiny scraps to read them when I did However the few shillings I had obtained at odd times I spent on paper and in secret robbed from much needed rest a few hours a weekly wear-in to write This made me very weary and slow in the day time and a sore trial to my mother I was always forgetting things I should not have forgotten because my thoughts were engaged in working out my story the want of rest told upon me I continually complained of weariness and my work was a drag to me my mother knew not what to make of it at first she thought I was lazy and bad and punished me in various ways but while my book occupied my mind my boss gave her no impudence and did not flare up then she began to fear I must be ill and took me to a doctor who said I was much too precocious for my years and would be better when the weather got warmer he gave me a tonic which I threw out the window I heard no more of going out as a nurse-girl father had joined a neighbor who had taken a road-contract and by this means the pot was kept if not quite at least pretty near boiling and as far as I could see gave promise of going to the last slip-brails without a canter until one day in July 1896 my mother received a letter from her mother which made a pleasant change in my life though like all sweets that letter had its bitter drop it ran as follows my dear daughter Lucy only a short letter this time I am pressed for time as four or five strangers have just come and asked to stay for the night and as one of the girls is away to get them beds I am writing about Sibylla I am truly grieved to hear she is such a source of grief and annoyance to you the girl must surely be ill or she would never act as you describe she is young yet and may settle down better by and by we can only entrust her to the good god who is ever near send her up to me as soon as you can I will pay all expenses the change will do her good and if her conduct improves I will keep her as long as you like for a year she will be as old as I was when I married and it might be the makings of her if she married early at any rate she will be better away from Possum Golly now that she is growing into womanhood or she may be in danger of forming ties beneath her she might do something good for herself up here not that I would ever be a matchmaker in the least degree but Gertie will soon be coming on and Sibylla being so very plain will need all the time she can get your loving mother, El Bossier my mother gave me this letter to read and when I had finished perusing it asked if I would go I replied coldly yes, poppers and beggars cannot be choosers and grandmother might as well keep me at Categette's at Possum Golly for my grandmother contributed greatly to the support of our family as regards scenery the one bit of beauty Possum Golly possessed was its wattles bowers of groan and scrubs of young ones adorned the hills and gullies in close proximity to the house of different species graced the flats being Sunday on this afternoon I was at Liberty for a few hours and on receiving the intelligence contained in the letter I walked out of the house over a low hill at the back into a gully where I threw myself at the foot of a wattle in a favourite clump and gave way to my thoughts so my mother had been telling my grandmother of my faults my grandmother whom I loved so dearly mother might have had enough honour and motherly protection have kept the tale to herself though this intelligence angered it did not surprise me being accustomed to mother telling every neighbour what a great trial I was to her how discontented I was and what little interest I took in my work it was the last part of the letter which finished up my feelings oh heavens! surely if my mother understood the wild pain the days and hours of agony pure and complete I have suffered on account of my appearance she would never have shown me that letter I was to be given more time on account of being ugly I was not a valuable article in the marriage market sweet thought my grandmother is one of the good old school who believed that a girl's only proper sphere in life was marriage so knowing her sentiments her purpose to get me married neither surprised nor annoyed me but I was plain oh, Bosch oh, I cannot express what kind of a feeling that fact gave me it sank into my heart and cut like a cruel jagged knife not because it would be a drawback to me in the marriage line before I had an antipathy to the very thought of marriage marriage to me appeared the most horribly tied down an unfair to women existence going it would be from fair to middling if there was love but I laughed at the idea of love and determined never, never, never to marry the other side of the letter the part which gave me joy from the perspective going to Categet Categet the place where I was born Categet where I unfolded in grandmotherly love and the petting which accrued therefrom I spent some of my few sweet childish days Categet the place my heart fondly enshrines as home Categet draped by nature in a dream of beauty Categet Categet too engrossed with my thoughts to feel the cold of the dull winter day I remained in my position against the wattle tree until Gertie came to inform me that tea was ready you know, Sibylla it was your turn to get the tea ready but I set the table to save you from getting into a row mother was looking for you and said she supposed you were in one of your tantrums again pretty little peacemaker she often did things like that for me very well, Gertie thank you I will set it two evenings running to make up for it if I'm here if you're here, what do you mean? I am going away I replied watching her narrowly to see if she cared for I was very hungry for love going to run away because mother is always scolding you no, you little silly I'm going up to Categet to live with Granny always? yes really? yes really and truly and on her bright won't you ever come back again I don't know about never coming back again but I'm going up for always as far as a person can lay out ahead of her do you care yes, she cared the childish mouth quivered the pretty blue-eyed face fell the ready tears flowed fast I noticed every detail with savage comfort it was more than I deserved for though I loved her passionately I had ever been too much wrapped in self to have been very kind and lovable to her who will tell me stories now it was a habit of mine to relate stories to her out of my own fertile imagination in return for this she kept secret the fact that I sat up and wrote them when I should have been in bed I was obliged to take some means of inducing her to keep silence as she, even Gertie who firmly believed in me on waking once or twice at unearthly hours and discovering me in pursuit of my nightly task had been so alarmed for my sanity that I had the greatest work to prevent her from yelling to father and mother on the spot but I bound her to secrecy and took a strange delight in bringing to her face with my stories the laughter the wide-eyed wonder or the tears just as my humor dictated you'll easily get someone else to tell you stories not like yours and who will take my part when Horace bullies me I pressed her to me Gertie Gertie, promise me you will love me a little always and never, never forget me promise me and with a weakly glint of winter sunshine turning her hair to gold and with her head on my shoulder Gertie promised promised with the soluble promise of a butterfly-natured child self-analysis NB this is dull and egotistical M as a tiny child I was filled with dreams of the great things I was to do when grown up my ambition was as boundless as the mighty bush in which I have always lived as I grew it dawned upon me that I was a girl, the makings of a woman only a girl, merely this and nothing more it came home to me as a great blow that it was only men who could take the world by its ears and conquer their fate while women metaphorically speaking were forced to sit with tied hands and suffer as the waves of fate toss them hither and thither battering and bruising without mercy familiarity made me used to this yoke I recovered from the disappointment of being a girl and was reconciled to that part of my fate in fact I found that being a girl was quite pleasant until a hideous truth dawned upon me I was ugly that truth has embittered my whole existence it gives me nights and days of agony it is a sensitive sore that will never heal a grim hobgoblin that not can scare away in conjunction with this brand of hell I developed a reputation of cleverness worse and worse girls, girls, those of you who have hearts and therefore wish for happiness homes and husbands by and by never develop a reputation for being clever it will put you out of the matrimonial running as effectually as though it had been circulated that you had leprosy so if you feel that you are afflicted with an ordinary intelligence and especially if you are plain with it hide your brains, cramp your mind study to appear unintellectual it is your only chance provided a woman is beautiful allowance will be made for all her shortcomings she can be unshaced vapid, untruthful, flippant heartless and even clever so long as she is fair to see men will stand by her and as men in this world are the dog on top of her to chuckle to a plain woman will have nothing for given her her fate is such that the parents of un-comely female infant should be compelled to put them to death at their birth the next unpleasant discovery I made in regard to myself was that I was woefully out of my sphere I studied the girls of my age around me and compared myself with them we had been reared side by side they had had equal advantages some indeed had had greater we all moved in the one little dull world but they were not only in their world they were of it I was not their daily tasks and their little pleasures provided sufficient oil for the lamp of their existence mine demanded more than possum gully could supply they were totally ignorant of the outside world Patty, Melba, Irving, Terry Kipling, Kane, Corelli and even the name of Gladstone were only names to them whether they were islands or horses they knew not and cared not with me it was different where I obtained my information unless it was born in me I do not know we took none with the local paper regularly I saw few books had the pleasure of conversing with an educated person from the higher walks of life about once in the twelve month yet I knew of every celebrity in literature, art, music and drama their world was my world and in fancy I lived with them my parents discouraged me they were species of foolishness they had been fond of literature and the higher arts but now having no use for them had lost interest therein I was discontented and restless and longed unendurably to be out in the stream of life action, action give me action was my cry my mother did her best with me according to her lights she energetically preached at me all the old saws and homilies were brought into requisition it was like using common nostrums on a disease which could be treated by none but a special physician I was treated to a great deal of harping on that tiresome old string whatsoever your hand find it to do, do it with all your might it was daily dint into my ears that the little things of life were the noblest and that all the great people I mooned about said the same I usually retorted to the effect that I was well aware that it was noble and that I could write as good an essay on it as any philosopher it was all very well for great people to point out the greatness of the little empty humdrum life why didn't they adopt it themselves the toad beneath the harrow knows exactly where each tooth-point goes the butterfly upon the road preaches contentment to the toad I wasn't anxious to patronize the dull kind of tame nobility of the toad I longed for a few of the triumphs decried though they were as hollow bubbles I desired life while young enough to live and quoted as my motto though the picture that goes to the sparkling rill too oft gets broken at last there are scores of others its place to fill when its earth to the earth is cast peep that picture at home let it never roam but lie like a useless clawd yet sooner or later the hour will come when its chips are thrown to the sod is it wise then say in the waning day when the vessel is cracked and old to cherish the battered potter's clay as though it were virgin gold take care of yourself dull, boorish elf though prudent and sage you seem your picture will break on the musty shelf and mine by the dazzling stream I had sense sufficient to see the uselessness of attempting to be other than I was in these days of fierce competition there was no chance for me opportunity not talent was the main requisite fate had thought fit to deny me even one advantage or opportunity thus I was helpless I set to work to cut my coat according to my cloth I manfully endeavored to squeeze my spirit into that state of life into which it has pleased God to call me I crushed, compressed and bruised but as fast as I managed it on one side it burst out on another and defied me to cram it into the narrow box of possum gully the restless throbbing and burnings that hope unsatisfied brings the weary longings and yearnings for the mystical better things are the sands on which has reflected the pitiless moving lake where the wanderer falls dejected by a thirst he can never slake in a vain endeavor to slake that cruel thirst my soul groped in strange dark places it went out in quest of a God and finding one not grew weary by the unknown way that the atmosphere of the higher life penetrated to me so came a knowledge of the sin and sorrow abroad in the world the cry of the millions oppressed downtrodden, God-forsaken the wheels of social mechanism needed readjusting, things were awry oh that I might find a cure and give it to my fellows I dizzyed my brain with the problem I was too much for myself a man with these notions is a curse to himself but a woman pity help a woman of that description she is not merely a creature out of her sphere she is a creature without a sphere a lonely being recognizing this I turned and cursed God for casting upon me a burden greater than I could bear cursed him bitterly and from within came a whisper that there was nothing there to curse there was no God I was an unbeliever it was not that I sought after or desired atheism I longed to be a Christian I asked the Christians around me for help unsophisticated fool I might as well have announced that I was a harlot my respectability vanished in one slap some said it was impossible to disbelieve in the existence of a God I was only doing it for notoriety and they washed their hands of me at once not believe in God I was mad if there really was a God but they kindly tell me how to find him pray I prayed often and ardently but ever came that heart-stilling whisper that there was nothing to pray to ah, the bitter, hopeless heart-hunger of Godlessness none but an atheist can understand nothing to live for in life no hope beyond the grave it plunged me into fits of profound melancholy had my father occupied one of the fat positions of the land no doubt as his daughter my life would have been so full of pleasant occupation and pleasure that I would not have developed the spirit which torments me now or had I a friend one who knew, who had suffered and understood one in whom I could lose myself one on whom I could lean I might have grown a nicer character but in all the wide world there was not a soul to hold out a hand to me and I said bitterly there is no good in the world in softer moods I said ah, the tangle of it those who have the heart to help have not the power and those who have the power have not the heart bad, like a too strong opponent in a game of chess is ever at the elbow of good to checkmate it like a weakly managed king I am sadly lacking in self-reliance I needed someone to help me over the rough spots in life and finding them not at the age of sixteen I was as rank a cynic and infidel as could be found in three days' march End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of My Brilliant Career This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Elizabeth Clutt My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin Chapter 8 Possum Gully Left Behind Hurrah! Hurrah! If a Sydney man has friends residing at Goldburn he says they are up the country If a Goldburn man has friends at Yass he says they are up the country If a Yass man has friends at Young he says they are up the country and so on Categette is up the country Bound thither on the second Wednesday in August, 1896 I bought a ticket at the Goldburn railway station and at some time about one a.m. took my seat in a second class carriage of the mail train on its way to Melbourne I had three or four hours to travel in this train when I would have to change to a branch line for two hours longer I was the only one from Goldburn in that carriage. All the other passengers had been in some time and were asleep. One or two of my eyes strugglingly stared glumly at the intruder and then went to sleep again. The motion of the train was a joy to me and sleep never entered my head. I stood up and pressing my forehead to the cold window pane, vainly attempted through the inky blackness of the foggy night to discern the objects which flew by. I was too full of pleasant anticipation of what was ahead of me to think of those I had left behind. I did not regret leaving Possum Gully to reverse. I felt inclined to wave my arms and yell for joy at being freed from it. Home! God forbid that my experiences at Possum Gully should form the only food for my reminiscences of home. I had practically grown up there but my heart refused absolutely to regard it as home. I hated it then. I hate it now with its narrowing stagnant monotony. It has and had not provided me with one solitary fond remembrance only with dreary wing-clipping mind-starving recollections. No, no, I was not leaving home behind. I was flying homeward now. Home! Home to Catagat, home to Ferney Gullies, to the sweet, sad rush of many mountain waters, to the majesty of rugged Borgongs, home to dear old Granny and Uncle and Aunt, to books, to music, refinement, company, pleasure, and the dear old homestead I love so well. All in good time I arrived at the end of my train journey and was taken in charge by a big red-bearded man who informed me he was the driver of the male coach and had received a letter from Mrs. Bossier instructing him to take care of me. He informed me also that he was glad to do what he termed that same and I would be as safe under his care as I would be in God's pocket. My twenty-six miles coach-drive was neither pleasant nor eventful. I was a family passenger and so had my choice of seats. The weather being cold and wet, I preferred being inside the box and curled myself up on the seat to be interrupted every two or three miles by the good-natured driver inquiring if I was all serene. At the half-way house where a change of the team of five horses was affected I had a meal and a warm and so tuned myself up for the remainder of the way. It got colder as we went on to Versailles to see the iron roofs of a ghoul-goul township disclosing to my view. We first went to the post office where the mail bags were delivered and then returned and pulled rain in front of the Woolpack Hotel. A tall young gentleman in a Macintosh and cap who had been standing on the veranda stepped out on the street as the coach stopped and lifting his cap and thrusting his head into the coach inquired, which is Miss Melvin? Seeing I was the only occupant he laughed, the pleasantest of laughs and two wide rows of perfect teeth and turning to the driver said, Is that your only passenger? I suppose it is Miss Melvin. As I wasn't present at her birth I can't swear but I believe her to be that same as sure as eggs is eggs," he replied. My identity being thus established the young gentleman with the greatest of courtesy assisted me to a light ordered the hotel groom to stow my luggage in the catagat buggy and harnessed the horses with all expedition. He then conducted me to the private parlor where a friendly little barmaid had some refreshments on a tray awaiting me and while warming my feet preparatory to eating I read the letter he had given me which was addressed in my grandmother's handwriting. In it she told me that she and my aunt were only just recovering from bad colds and on account of the inclemency of the weather thought it unwise to come to town to meet me but Frank Claudin, the jackaroo would take every care of me settle the hotel bill and tip the coach-driver. Catagat was twenty-four miles distant from Ghoul Ghoul and the latter part of the road was very hilly. It was already past three o'clock and being rainy the short winter afternoon would dose in earlier and so I swallowed my tea and cake with all expedition so as not to delay Mr. Hauden who was waiting to assist me into the buggy where the groom was in charge of the horses in the yard. He struck up a conversation with me immediately. Seeing your name on your bags and knowing you as belonging to the bossiers I asked if you might be a daughter of Dick Melvin of Bruggebron out by Timlin' Billy. Yes, I am. Well, Miss, please remember me most kindly to your pa. He was a good boss, was Dick Melvin. I hope he's doing well. I'm Billy Hazelip, brother to Mary and Jane. You remember Jane, I suppose, Miss? I hadn't time to say more than promise to send his remembrances to my father for Mr. Hauden, saying we would be in the dark, had whipped his horses and was bowling off at a great pace in less than two minutes covering a rise which put ghoul ghoul out of sight. It was raining a little, so I held over us the big umbrella which Granny had sent while we discussed the weather, to the effect that rain was badly needed and was a great novelty nowadays and it was to be hoped that it would continue. There had been but little, but the soil here away was of that rich loamy description which little water turns to mud. It clogged the wheels and loaded the brake blocks and the near side horse had a nasty way of throwing his front feet that he deposited soft red lumps of mud in our laps at every step. But despite these trifling drawbacks it was delightful to be drawn without effort by a pair of fat horses in splendid harness. It was a great contrast to our poor skinny old horse at home crawling along in much broken harness clumsily and much mended with string in bits of hide. Mr. Hauden was not at all averse to talking. After emptying our tongues of the weather there was silence for some time which he broke with. So you are Mrs. Bossier's granddaughter, are you? Not remembering my birth I can't swear but I believe myself to be that same as sure as eggs is eggs," I replied. He laughed, very good imitation of the coach-driver, but Mrs. Bossier's granddaughter well I should smile. What at? You're being Mrs. Bossier's granddaughter. I fear, Mr. Hauden, there is a suspicion reverse of complimentary in your remark. Well I should smile. Would you like to have my opinion of you? Nothing would please me more. I would value your opinion above all things and I'm sure I feel certain that you have formed a true estimate of me. At any other time his conceit would have brought upon himself a fine snubbing but today I was in high feather and accordingly very pleasant and resolved to amuse myself by drawing him out. Well you are not a bit like Mrs. Bossier or Mrs. Bell. They are both so good looking," he continued. Indeed. I was disappointed when I saw you had no pretensions to prettiness as there's not a girl up these parts worth wasting a man's affections on and I was building great hopes on you. But I'm a great admirer of beauty," he twaddled. I am very sorry for you, Mr. Hauden. I'm sure it would take quite a paragon to be worthy of such affection as I'm sure yours would be. I replied sympathetically. Never mind, don't worry about it. I'll sort and think if fellow could have great fun with you. I'm sure Mr. Hauden you do me too much honour. It quite exhilarates me to think that I meet with your approval in the smallest degree. I replied with the utmost deference. You are so gentlemanly and nice that I was alarmed at first lest you might despise me altogether. No fear. You needn't be afraid of me. I'm not a bad sort of fellow," he replied with the greatest encouragement. By his accent and innocent style he was not a colonial. So I got him to relate his history. He was an Englishman by birth but had been to America, Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc. by his own make-out had ever been a man of note and had played old Harry everywhere. I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject unconscious that I had taken the measure of him and was grinning broadly to myself. Then I diverted him by inquiring how long since the wire fence on our right had been put up. It bore evidence of recent erection and had replaced an old cockatoo fence which I remembered in my childhood. Fine fence, is it not? Eight wires, a top rail, and very stout posts. Harry Beecham had that put up by contract this year, twelve miles of it. It cost him a lot, couldn't get any very low tenders, the ground being so hard on account of the drought. Those trees are five bobbed-downs, see, away over against the range, but I suppose you know the places better than I do. We were now within an hour of our destination. How familiar were many landmarks to me, although I had not seen them since I was eight years old. A river ran on our right, occasionally a glimmer of its noisy waters visible through the shrubbery which profusely lined its banks. The short evening was drawing to a close. The white mists brought by the rain were crawling slowly down the hills and settling in the hollows of the ranges on our left. A V-shaped rift in them, known as pheasant gap, came into view. Mr. Hodden said it was well-named as it swarmed with lyre-birds. Night was falling. The screal of a hundred curlews arose from the gullies. How I love their lonely wail! And it was quite dark when we pulled up before the front gate of Categette. A score of dogs rushed yelping to meet us. The front door was thrown open. Lights and voices came streaming out. I alighted from the buggy, feeling rather nervous. I was a pauper with a bad character. How would my grandmother receive me? Dear old soul, I had nothing to fear. She folded me in a great, warm-hearted hug, saying, Dear me, child, your face is cold. I'm glad you've come. It has been a terrible day, but we're glad to have the rain. You must be frozen. Get into the fire, child, as fast as you can. Get into the fire. I hope you forgive me for not going to meet you. And there was my mother's only sister, my tall, graceful aunt, standing beside her, giving me a kiss and cordial hand-clasp, and saying, Welcome, Cebilla. We will be glad to have a young person to brighten up the old home once more. I am sorry I was too unwell to meet you. You must be frozen. Come to the fire. My aunt always spoke very little and very quietly, but there was something in her high-bred style which went right home. I could scarcely believe that they were addressing me. Surely they were making a mistake. This reception was meant for some grand relative honoring them with a visit, and not for the ugly, useless, had little pauper come to live upon their bounty. Their welcome did more than all the sermons I had ever heard put together towards thawing a little of the pitiless cynicism which encrusted my heart. Take the child inside, Helen, as fast as you can," said Granny. While I see that the boy tends to the horses, the plaguey fellow can't be trusted any further than the length of his nose. I told him to tie up these dogs, and here they are, yelp, yelping, fit to deafen a person. I left my wet umbrella on the veranda, and Aunt Helen led me into the dining-room where a spruce maid was making a pleasant clatter in laying the table. Categette was a very old style of house, and all the front rooms opened on to the veranda without any such preliminary as a hall, therefore it was necessary to pass through the dining-room to my bedroom, which was a skillet in at the back. While Auntie paused for a moment to give some orders to the maid, I noticed the heavy silver-serviette rings I remembered so well, and the old-fashioned dinner-plates, and the big fire roaring in the broad white fireplace. But more than all, the beautiful pictures on the walls and a table in a corner strewn with papers, magazines, and several very new-looking books. On the back of one of these I saw, Corelli, and on another, great joy was Trilby. From the adjoining apartment, which was the drawing-room, came the sweet full tones of a beautiful piano. Here were three things for which I had been starving. An impulse to revel in them immediately seized me. I felt like clearing the table at a bound, seizing and beginning to read both books, and rushing into the piano and beginning to play upon it there and then, and examine the pictures all three things at once. Fortunately for the reputation of my sanity, however, Aunt Helen had by this time conducted me to a pretty little bedroom, and saying it was to be mine helped me to doff my cape and hat. While warming my fingers at the fire my eyes were arrested by a beautiful portrait hanging above the mantelpiece. It represented a lovely girl in the prime of youth and beauty, and a tired and floating white dinner draperies. Oh, Aunt Helen, isn't she lovely? It's you, isn't it? No. Do you not recognize it as your mother? It was taken just before her marriage. I must leave you now, but come out as soon as you arrange yourself. Your grandmother will be anxious to see you. When Aunt Helen left me I plastered my hair down in an instant without even a glance in the mirror. I took not a particle of interest in my attire and would go about dressed anyhow. This was one symptom which inclined my mother to the belief of my possible insanity as to most young girls dress as a great delight. I had tried once or twice to make myself look nice by dressing prettily, considering I looked as ugly as ever. I had given it up as a bad job. The time which I should have spent in arranging my toilet past and gazing at my mother's portrait it was one of the loveliest faces imaginable. The features may not have been perfect according to rule of thumb, but the expression was simply angelic, sweet, winning, gentle, and happy. I turned from the contemplation of it to another photograph, one of my father, in a silver frame on the dressing table. The two was a fine countenance, possessed of well-cut features and refined expression. This was the prince who had won Lucy Bossier from her home. I looked around my pretty bedroom. It had been my mother's in the days of her maidenhood. In an exclusive city boarding school and amid the pleasant surroundings of this home, her youth had been spent. I thought of a man and his wife at Possum Gully. The man was blear-eyed, disreputable in appearance, and failed to fulfill his duties as a father and a citizen. The woman was work-ruffened and temper-sourd by endless care and an unavailing struggle against poverty. Could that pair possibly be identical with this? This was life as proved by my parents. What right had I to expect any better yield from it? I shut my eyes and shuddered at the possibilities and probabilities of my future. It was for this that my mother had yielded up her youth, freedom, strength, for this she had sacrificed a woman. Here I made my way to the dining-room where Granny was waiting for me and gave me another hug. Come here, child, and sit beside me near the fire. But first let me have a look at you. And she held me at arm's length. Dear, oh dear, what a little thing you are! And not a bit like any of your relations. I am glad your skin is so nice and clear. All my children had beautiful complexions. Goodness me, I never saw such hair. A plat thicker than my arm and almost to your knees. It is that beautiful bright brown like your aunts. Your mother's was flaxen. I must see your hair loose when you're going to bed. There is nothing I admire so much as a beautiful head of hair. The maid announced that dinner was ready. Granny vigorously rang a little bell. Aunt Helen, a lady and a gentleman appeared from the drawing-room, and Mr. Hoddon came in from the back. I discovered that the lady and gentlemen were a neighbouring squatter and Granny, seeing them pass that afternoon in the rain, had gone out and prevailed upon them to spend the night at Categette. Mr. Hoddon took no notice of me now, but showed off to the others for my benefit. After dinner we had music and singing in the drawing-room. I was enjoying it immensely, but Granny thought I had better go to bed as I had been travelling since about midnight last night. I was neither tired nor sleepy, but knew it useless to protest, so bad everyone good night and marched off. Mr. Hoddon acknowledged my salute with great airs and stiffness, and Aunt Helen whispered that she would soon come and see me by and by if I was awake. Granny escorted me to my room and examined my hair. I shook it out for her inspection. It met with her approval in every way. She pronounced it beautifully fine, silky, and wavy, and the most wondrous head of hair she had seen out of a picture. A noise arose somewhere out on the back premises. Granny went out to ascertain the cause of it and did not return to me, and then she left the lamp and sat thinking in the glow of the fire-light. For the first time my thoughts reverted to my leave-taking from home. My father had kissed me with no more warmth than if I had been leaving for a day only. My mother had kissed me very coldly, saying shortly, it is to be hoped, Isabella, that your behaviour to your grandmother will be an improvement upon what it has ever been to me. Gertie was the only one who had felt any sorrow at parting from me, and I knew that she was of such a disposition that they would never miss me, for I had no place in their affections. True, I was an undutiful child and deserved none. I possessed no qualities that would win either their pride or love, but my heart cried out in love for them. Would Gertie miss me tonight, as I would have missed her had our positions being reversed? Not she. Would my absence from the noisy tea-table cause a blank? I feared not. I thought of poor mother left toiling at home, and my heart grew heavy. I failed to remember my father's faults, but thought of his great patience with me in the years gone, and all my old-time love for him renewed itself. Why? Oh, why would they not love me a little in return? Certainly I had never striven to be lovable, but see the love some have lavished upon them without striving for it. Why was I ugly and nasty and miserable and useless without a place in the world? End of chapter 8