hurry
things, and the wife below ties up much in an old allegedly green or red
table-cloth, on the pavement, at the last moment. Van of the "bottle ho"
variety. It is all done very quickly, and nobody takes any notice--they
are never there long enough. Landlord, landlady, or rent collector--or
whatever it is--calls later on; maybe, knocks in a tired, even bored,
way; makes inquiries next door, and goes away, leaving the problem to
take care of itself--all kind of casual. The business people of North
Sydney, especially removers and labourers, are very casual. Down old
Blue's Point Road the folk get so casual that they just exist, but don't
seem to do so.

One thing I never could make out about Skull Terrace is that when one
house becomes vacant from a house agent's point of view--there is a
permanent atmosphere of vacancy about the whole terrace--the people of
another move into it. And there's not the slightest difference between
the houses. It is because the removal is such a small affair, I suppose,
and the change is, the main thing. I always do better for awhile in a
new house--but then I always did seem to get on better somewhere else.

There are many points, or absence of points, about Skull Terrace that
fit in with Jim's casualness as against Bill's character, therefore
Blue's Point Road ought to be James's Street.

But just now, in the heat of summer, the terrace happens to be full,
and all the blinds are decent--the two new-comers are newly come down to
Skull Terrace, and the other blinds are looked up, washed, and fixed up
by force of example or from very shame's sake.

All of which seems to have nothing whatever to do with the story, except
that the scene is down opposite my balcony as I think and smoke, and it
is a blur on one of the most beautiful harbour views in the world.

I had been working hard all day, mending the fence, putting up a
fowl-house and some lattice work and wire netting, and limewashing and
painting. Labours of love. I'd rather build a fowl-house than a "pome"
or story, any day. And when finished--the fowl-house, I mean--I sit and
contemplate my handiwork with pure and unadulterated joy. And I take a
candle out several times, after dark, to look at it again. I never got
such pleasure out of rhyme, story, or first-class London Academy notice.
I find it difficult to drag myself from the fowl-house, or whatever it
is, to meals, and harder to this work, and I lie awake planning next
day