CHAPTER SEVEN



Was E'er a Rose Without Its Thorn?


I arose from bed next morning with three things in my head--a pair of
swollen eyes, a heavy pain, and a fixed determination to write a book.
Nothing less than a book. A few hours' work in the keen air of a late
autumn morning removed the swelling from my eyes and the pain from my
temples, but the idea of relieving my feelings in writing had taken firm
root in my brain. It was not my first attempt in this direction. Two
years previously I had purloined paper and sneaked out of bed every night
at one or two o'clock to write a prodigious novel in point of length and
detail, in which a full-fledged hero and heroine performed the duties of
a hero and heroine in the orthodox manner. Knowing our circumstances, my
grandmother was accustomed, when writing to me, to enclose a stamp to
enable me to reply. These I saved, and with them sent my book to the
leading Sydney publisher. After waiting many weeks I received a polite
memo to the effect that the story showed great ability, but the writer's
inexperience was too much in evidence for publication. The writer was to
study the best works of literature, and would one day, no doubt, take a
place among Australian novelists.

This was a very promising opinion of the work of a child of thirteen,
more encouraging than the great writers got at the start of their