"It's only fancy," Mother went on. "And you've been brooding and brooding
till it seems far worse than it really is."

"It's no fancy, Ellen." Then, after a pause--"Was the thirty acres of
wheat that did n't come up fancy? Is it only fancy that we've lost nearly
every beast in the paddock? Was the drought itself a fancy? No--no."
And he shook his head sadly and stared again into the fire.


Dad's inclination was to leave the selection, but Mother pleaded for
another trial of it--just one more. She had wonderful faith in the
selection, had Mother. She pleaded until the fire burned low, then Dad
rose and said: "Well, we'll try it once more with corn, and if nothing
comes of it why then we MUST give it up." Then he took the spade and raked
the fire together and covered it with ashes--we always covered the fire
over before going to bed so as to keep it alight. Some mornings, though,
it would be out, when one of us would have to go across to Anderson's and
borrow a fire-stick. Any of us but Joe--he was sent only once, and on
that occasion he stayed at Anderson's to breakfast, and on his way back
successfully burnt out two grass paddocks belonging to a J.P.

So we began to prepare the soil for another crop of corn, and Dad started
over the same old ground with the same old plough. How I remember that
old, screwed and twisted plough! The land was very hard, and the horses
out of condition. We wanted a furrow-horse. Smith had one--a good one.
"Put him in the furrow," he said to Dad, "and you can't PULL him out of
it." Dad wished to have such a horse. Smith offered to exchange for our
roan saddle mare--one we found running in the lane, and advertised as
being in our paddock, and no one claimed it. Dad exchanged.