of a shanty-keeper that lived on a back creek. He'd been there
as he came by and had a glass or two. He had a regular savage temper,
father had, though he was quiet enough and not bad to us when he was right.
But the grog always spoiled him.

He gave poor mother a shove which sent her reeling against the wall,
where she fell down and hit her head against the stool, and lay there.
Aileen, sitting down in the corner, turned white, and began to cry,
while father catches me a box on the ear which sends me kicking,
picks up the brand out of the corner, and walks out, with me after him.

I think if I'd been another year or so older I'd have struck back --
I felt that savage about poor mother that I could have gone at him myself --
but we had been too long used to do everything he told us; and somehow,
even if a chap's father's a bad one, he don't seem like other men to him.
So, as Jim had lighted the fire, we branded the little red heifer calf first
-- a fine fat six-months-old nugget she was -- and then three bull calves,
all strangers, and then Polly's calf, I suppose just for a blind.
Jim and I knew the four calves were all strangers, but we didn't know
the brands of the mothers; they all seemed different.

After this all was made right to kill a beast. The gallows was ready rigged
in a corner of the yard; father brought his gun and shot the yellow steer.
The calves were put into our calf-pen -- Polly's and all --
and all the cows turned out to go where they liked.

We helped father to skin and hang up the beast, and pretty late it was
when we finished. Mother had laid us out our tea and gone to bed with Aileen.
We had ours and then went to bed. Father sat outside and smoked
in the starlight. Hours after I woke up and heard mother crying.