From breakfast to the midday meal I shut myself in my bedroom and wrote letters to my mother and grandmother.  I did not rant, rave, or say anything which I ought not to have said to my elders.  I wrote those letters very coolly and carefully, explaining things just as they were, and asked grannie to take me back to Caddagat, as I could never endure life at Barney’s Gap.  I told my mother I had written thus, and asked her if she would not let grannie take me again, would she get me some other situation?  What I did not care, so long as it brought emancipation from the M’Swat’s.  I stamped and addressed these missives, and put them by till a chance of posting should arise.

Mr M’Swat could read a little by spelling the long words and blundering over the shorter ones, and he spent the morning and all the afternoon in perusal of the local paper—­the only literature with which Barney’s Gap was acquainted.  There was a long list of the prices of stock and farm produce in this edition, which perfectly fascinated its reader.  The ecstasy of a man of fine, artistic, mental calibre, when dipping for the first time into the work of some congenial poet, would be completely wiped out in comparison to the utter soul-satisfaction of M’Swat when drinking in the items of that list.

“By damn, pigs was up last Toosday!  Thames the things to make prawfit on,” he would excitedly exclaim; or—­“Wheat’s rose a shillun a bushel!  By dad, I must double my crops this year.”  When he had plodded to the end, he started at the beginning again.

His wife sat the whole afternoon in the one place, saying and doing nothing.  I looked for something to read, but the only books in the house were a Bible, which was never opened, and a diary kept most religiously by M’Swat.  I got permission to read this, and opening it, saw: 

September

1st.  Fine.  Wint to boggie creak for a cow. 2nd.  Fine.  Got the chestnut mair shode. 3rd.  Fine.  On the jury. 4th.  Fine.  Tail the lams 60 yeos 52 wethers. 5th.  Cloudy.  Wint to Duffys. 6th.  Fine.  Dave Duffy called. 7th.  Fine.  Roped the red filly. 8th.  Showery.  Sold the gray mair’s fole. 9th.  Fine.  Wint to the Red hill after a horse. 10th.  Fine, Found tree sheap ded in sqre padick.

I closed the book and put it up with a sigh.  The little record was a perfect picture of the dull narrow life of its writer.  Week after week that diary went on the same—­drearily monotonous account of a drearily monotonous existence.  I felt I would go mad if forced to live such a life for long.

“Pa has lots of diaries.  Would I like to read them?”

They were brought and put before me.  I inquired of Mr M’Swat which was the liveliest time of the year, and being told it was shearing and threshing, I opened one first in November: 

November 1896

1st.  Fine.  Started to muster sheap. 2nd.  Fine.  Counten sheap very dusty 20 short. 3rd.  Fine.  Started shering.  Joe Harris cut his hand bad and wint hoam. 4th.  Showery.  Shering stoped on account of rane.