THIRTY-EIGHT. A TALE THAT IS TOLD AND A DAY THAT IS DONE




INTRODUCTION



Possum Gully, near Goulburn,
N.S. Wales, Australia, 1st March, 1899


MY DEAR FELLOW AUSTRALIANS,

Just a few lines to tell you that this story is all about myself--for no
other purpose do I write it.

I make no apologies for being egotistical. In this particular I attempt
an improvement on other autobiographies. Other autobiographies weary one
with excuses for their egotism. What matters it to you if I am
egotistical? What matters it to you though it should matter that I am
egotistical?

This is not a romance--I have too often faced the music of life to the
tune of hardship to waste time in snivelling and gushing over fancies and
dreams; neither is it a novel, but simply a yarn--a _real_ yarn. Oh! as
real, as really real--provided life itself is anything beyond a heartless
little chimera--it is as real in its weariness and bitter heartache as the
tall gum-trees, among which I first saw the light, are real in their