e is a dear old fellow. You should hear him rave and swear sometimes
when he gets in a rage. It is great fun. He brings me lollies, gloves,
ribbons, or something every time he comes from town. (Two Indian hawkers
have arrived, and I am going out to see their goods. There were nineteen
hawkers here last week. I am sitting on a squatter's chair and writing on
a table in the veranda, and the road goes right by the flower-garden.
That is how I see everyone.) Have you had rain down there this week? They
have great squawking about the drought up here. I wish they could see
Goulburn, and then they'd know what drought means. I don't know what sort
of a bobberie they would kick up. It's pretty dry out on the run, but
everyone calls the paddocks about the house an oasis. You see there are
such splendid facilities for irrigation here. Uncle has put on a lot of
men. They have cut races between the two creeks between which the house
is situated. Every now and again they let the water from these over the
orchard gardens and about a hundred acres of paddock land around the
house. The grass therein is up to the horses' fetlocks. There is any
amount of rhubarb and early vegetables in the garden. Grannie says there
is a splendid promise of fruit in the orchard, and the flower-garden is a
perfect dream. This is the dearest old place in the world. Dozens of
people plague grannie to be let put their horses in the grass--especially
shearers, there are droves of them going home now--but she won't let them;
wants all the grass for her own stock. Uncle has had to put another man
on to mind it, or at night all the wires are cut and the horses put in.
(An agent, I think by the cut of him, is asking for grannie. I'll have to
run and find her.) It is very lively here. Never a night but we have the
house full of agents or travellers of one sort or another, and there are
often a dozen swaggies in the one day.

Harold Beecham is my favourite of all the men hereaway. He is
delightfully big and quiet. He isn't good-looking, but I like his face.
(Been attending to the demands of a couple of impudent swaggies. Being
off the road at Possum Gully, you escape them.) For the love of life,
next time you write, fire into the news at once and don't half-fill your
letter telling me about the pen and your bad writing. I am scribbling at
the rate Of 365 miles an hour, and don't care a jot whether it is good
writing or not.

Auntie, uncle, Frank Hawden and I, are go