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 ironing, which had been
interrupted some hours before. It was hot unpleasant work on such a day.
We were forced to keep the doors and windows closed on account of the
wind and 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 in 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
the paddocks and piled it against the fences, darkened the air with dust,
and seemed to promise rain, but ever it dispersed whence it came, taking
with it the few clouds it had gathered up; and for weeks and weeks at a
stretch, from horizon to horizon, was never a speck to mar the cruel
dazzling brilliance of the metal sky.

Weariness! Weariness!

I said the one thing many times but, ah, it was a weary thing which took
much repetition that familiarity might wear away a little of its
bitterness!




CHAPTER SIX