but I got to love her. I went through all the ups and downs of it.
One day I was having tea in the kitchen, and Mary and another girl,
named Sarah, reached me a clean plate at the same time: I took Sarah's plate
because she was first, and Mary seemed very nasty about it,
and that gave me great hopes. But all next evening she played draughts
with a drover that she'd chummed up with. I pretended to be interested
in Sarah's talk, but it didn't seem to work.

A few days later a Sydney Jackaroo visited the station.
He had a good pea-rifle, and one afternoon he started to teach Mary
to shoot at a target. They seemed to get very chummy.
I had a nice time for three or four days, I can tell you.
I was worse than a wall-eyed bullock with the pleuro.
The other chaps had a shot out of the rifle. Mary called `Mr Wilson'
to have a shot, and I made a worse fool of myself by sulking.
If it hadn't been a blooming Jackaroo I wouldn't have minded so much.

Next evening the Jackaroo and one or two other chaps and the girls
went out 'possum-shooting. Mary went. I could have gone, but I didn't.
I mooched round all the evening like an orphan bandicoot on a burnt ridge,
and then I went up to the pub and filled myself with beer,
and damned the world, and came home and went to bed. I think that evening
was the only time I ever wrote poetry down on a piece of paper.
I got so miserable that I enjoyed it.

I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was cured.
I ran against Mary accidentally and had to say something.

`How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Brand?' I asked.