Well, we were all born at the hut by the creek, I suppose,
for I remember it as soon as I could remember anything.
It was a snug hut enough, for father was a good bush carpenter,
and didn't turn his back to any one for splitting and fencing,
hut-building and shingle-splitting; he had had a year or two at sawing, too,
but after he was married he dropped that. But I've heard mother say
that he took great pride in the hut when he brought her to it first,
and said it was the best-built hut within fifty miles.
He split every slab, cut every post and wallplate and rafter himself,
with a man to help him at odd times; and after the frame was up,
and the bark on the roof, he camped underneath and finished every bit of it
-- chimney, flooring, doors, windows, and partitions -- by himself.
Then he dug up a little garden in front, and planted a dozen or two
peaches and quinces in it; put a couple of roses -- a red and a white one --
by the posts of the verandah, and it was all ready for his pretty Norah,
as she says he used to call her then. If I've heard her tell
about the garden and the quince trees and the two roses once,
I've heard her tell it a hundred times. Poor mother! we used to get round her
-- Aileen, and Jim, and I -- and say, `Tell us about the garden, mother.'
She'd never refuse; those were her happy days, she always said.
She used to cry afterwards -- nearly always.

The first thing almost that I can remember was riding the old pony, 'Possum,
out to bring in the milkers. Father was away somewhere,
so mother took us all out and put me on the pony, and let me have a whip.
Aileen walked alongside, and very proud I was. My legs stuck out straight
on the old pony's fat back. Mother had ridden him up when she came --
the first horse she ever rode, she said. He was a quiet little old roan,
with a bright eye and legs like gate-posts, but he never fell down with
us boys, for all that. If we fell off he stopped still and began to feed,