Thus admonished, Tom began to read the following letter from his wild brother, interrupting himself occasionally to explain and comment thereon, and sometimes, despite the adjuration of Bill Bowls, to spell. We give the letter in the writer’s own words:—
“‘My dear mother (it’s to mother, d’ye see; he always writes to her, an’ she sends the letters to me),—My dear mother, here we are all alive and kicking. My sweet wife is worth her weight in gold, though she does not possess more of that precious metal than the wedding-ring on her finger—more’s the pity for we are sadly in want of it just now. The baby, too, is splendid. Fat as a prize pig, capable of roaring like a mad bull, and, it is said, uncommonly like his father. We all send our kind love to you, and father, and Tom. By the way, where is Tom? You did not mention him in your last. I fear he is one of these roving fellows whom the Scotch very appropriately style ne’er-do-weels. A bad lot they are. Humph! you’re one of ’em, Mister Sam, if ever there was, an’ my only hope of ye is that you’ve got some soft places in your heart.’”
“Go on, Tom,” said Ben Bolter; “don’t cut in like that on the thread of any man’s story.”
“Well,” continued Riggles, reading with great difficulty, “Sam goes on for to say—”
“‘We thank you for your good wishes, and trust to be able to send you a good account of our proceedings ere long. (You see Sam was always of a cheery, hopeful natur, he was.) We have now been on the place fifteen days, but have not yet begun the house, as we can get no money. Two builders have, however, got the plans, and we are waiting for their sp–s–p–i–f– oh! spiflication; why, wot can that be?’”
“It ain’t spiflication, anyhow,” said Bolter. “Spell it right through.”
“Oh! I’ve got him, it’s specification,” cried Riggles; “well—”
“‘Specification. Many things will cost more than we anticipated. We had to turn the family out who had squatted here, at two days’ notice, as we could not afford to live at Kinmonday—that’s the nearest town, I s’pose. How they managed to live in the log cabin I do not know, as, when it rained—and it has done so twice since we came, furiously—the whole place was deluged, and we had to put an umbrella up in bed. We have had the roof raised and newly shingled, and are as comfortable as can be expected. Indeed, the hut is admirably adapted for summer weather, as we can shake hands between the logs.
“‘The weather is very hot, although there has been much more rain this season than usual. There can be no doubt that this is a splendid country, both as regards soil and climate, and it seems a pity to see such land lying waste and unimproved for so many years. It far surpasses my expectations, both in natural beauty and capabilities. We have a deal of work to do in the way of fencing, for at present everybody’s livestock is running over a large part of our land; but we haven’t got money to buy fencing! Then we ought to have two horses, for the boy that was sent to me from the Reformatory can plough; but again, we haven’t a rap wherewith to buy them. One reason of this is that in a new place a fellow is not trusted at first, and the last two hundred dollars we had went in tools, household furniture, utensils, etcetera. We have been living on credit for an occasional chicken or duck from our neighbours, which makes but a poor meal for three—not to mention baby, being very small—and George, that’s the boy, having a tremendous appetite!
“‘I walked into town twice to try to get some meat, but although there are ostensibly two butchers, I failed to get any. They actually wanted payment for it! Heigho! how I wish that money grew on the trees—or bread. By the way, that reminds me that there are bread-fruit trees in the South Sea Islands. I think I’ll sell the farm and go there. One day I had the good luck to rescue a fine young chicken from the talons of a big hawk, upon which we all made a good meal. I really don’t know what we should have done had it not been for the great abundance of blackberries here. They are fine and large, and so plentiful that I can gather a bucketful in an hour. We have made them into jam and pies, and are now drying them for winter use. We have also hazel-nuts and plums by the cart-load, and crab-apples in numbers almost beyond the power of figures to express. There is also a fruit about the size of a lime, which they call here the “May apple,” but which I have named “omnifruct,” as it combines the flavour of apples, pears, peaches, pine-apples, gooseberries, strawberries, rasps—in fact, it is hard to tell what it does not resemble. But after all, this is rather light food, and although very Eden-like living—minus the felicity—it does not quite satisfy people who have been used most part of their lives to beefsteak and stout.