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like to know? You mark my words " (She was forever at him to mark herwords—but twice down the passage was a fair effort, mother, and Tim's bedcradled him.) "In my day young people didn't moon about under their better'sfeet, they hopped in and helped " glancing at her empty woodbox "or they improved their minds " flinging her hand towards the cherishedold books of her girlhood, those treasures he was always meaning to read" or they went courting. You mark my words, the world mirrors a man'sface. Have you washed yours? Got a clean hanky?" He'd forgotten, of course,"Don't polish your shoes on your cuffs! You never think of me feeding anddressing you all these years and you chasing after that Kate what's-her-nameevery other minute and nothing but a dirt floor in my kitchen! Eh? Eh? Yourfather would turn in his grave." And of course she was right. He could neverargue with her. Seizing an axe he would flee into the gully where a smallcreek ran more swiftly each winter, in order to ring-bark a few more of thestraggling old gums along its banks that in later years he tried to replace withpoplars. Damn her! damn her! as he gashed the sappy wood. It was hisfarm, wasn't it? His life? She wasn't the only one who dreamed of the thinstony hills turning themselves into a parkland. As for Kate, let her sit therein her fine room at the schoolhouse with her gloves and her parasol and herbest hat! She had no hold over him. And if she fancied that he owed her anexplanation—"But of course I understand how it is on a farm, love!" cried hisdearest Kate. "And my afternoon wasn't wasted a bit—look I made you ascarf."Oh wonderful, perfect Kate! She called the road "the street" till the dayshe died. He had been lucky. "Of course you're too busy to put a floor in thekitchen," she soothed. "Though I do think it's horrid of Will Klepl to insistyou and he net your boundary fence when everyone knows rabbits are partof a farm. Now I've heard of a carpenter who could do the whole floor oneweekend. I'm amazed at your mother—But if he's too expensive ""No of course not," Paterson lied."And then I'll repaint the kitchen. And throw out all those old saucepans.Oh I have such wonderful plans!"So much energy . . . Memories flew against the old man like moths . . .His boots thrown off in her kitchen. New bread. Kate kneeling in her garden,her hand suspended above the soil and a seedling limp in her fingers. Himseffleaning over the back gate, watching her. He wasn't too keen on gardeninghimself, fiddfing about with seedlings he had to get in before the rootsdried out and then chasing after weeds that sprang up thicker and fasterthan whatever he'd planted, especially after that time he dug in barrow-loadsof rich rotted-down sheep manure from under the shearing shed. Poor Katecould hardly bring herself to touch the soil after that.He smiled wryly at other memories . . . Kate creeping out at daybreak tothe cold stove. Himself opening his eyes one time just as she slipped hernightdress over her head, so that, although he wasn't in the habit of staringat her as she dressed, her gaze held his until he was sure that when shemoved she would run to him, falling back into the warm bed as though shehad all the morning to give him. And why not, he argued. Why should shecome only at night, the last thing after setting for breakfast, shutting thestove, chaining the dogs, like some sort of sleeping draught? He stirred im-WESTERLY, No. 1 of 1967 23