Village books

April, 1861. It is Sunday. We rose later than usual. There are
five of us sleeping in the hut. I sleep in a bunk on one side of
the fire; Mr. Haast, {22} a German who is making a geological
survey of the province, sleeps upon the opposite one; my bullock-
driver and hut-keeper have two bunks at the far end of the hut,
along the wall, while my shepherd lies in the loft among the tea
and sugar and flour. It was a fine morning, and we turned out
about seven o'clock.
The usual mutton and bread for breakfast with a pudding made of
flour and water baked in the camp oven after a joint of meat--
Yorkshire pudding, but without eggs. While we were at breakfast
a robin perched on the table and sat there a good while pecking
at the sugar. We went on breakfasting with little heed to the
robin, and the robin went on pecking with little heed to us.
After breakfast Pey, my bullock-driver, went to fetch the horses
up from a spot about two miles down the river, where they often
run; we wanted to go pig-hunting.


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