2nd.—Ducks swimming into the parlour—moved to the first floor for safety—Musical Tom (my youngest) splashing about bare-legged in the kitchen, and shouting "four feet water in the hold." A leak sprung in the next onion field—all my land under water. Dick, perched on window-sill, angling for roach in the garden. Isaac says we shall get used to it, and the waters always go off again. Daughter Julia tells me the people of Egypt would think it quite a blessing—beg to differ.
7th.—Can just see land.—House left rather slimy.—Isaac and I commence gardening in earnest.—Distrained on for forty odd pounds, taxes left unpaid by Mr. Grabbit.—To keep my goods, parted with the money, and started to town for an explanation—found Grabbit sailed last week for Swan River. Isaac says he was a worthy gentleman, but had a bad memory—begin to be of the same opinion.
9th.—Buried an old hen at the foot of a plum-tree by the light of the full moon—am told it will then bear egg-plums.
19th.—Potato eyes always an eye-sore, so have planted a bed with every eye nicely cut away, by which I hope to grow a crop as smooth as my hand and as blind as moles.—Look for the Horticultural Society's gold medal for this bright idea.
27th.—Wondered my ranunculuses did not come up; just tried one, found I had planted them all bottom topmost, and they were shooting away down to what Dick says is the centre of gravity.
May 3.—Grubbing for grubs among the rose-trees—cucumbers in full flower—Mrs. Giblet and Julia come to help me—all busy setting the blossoms—puzzled to tell the male flowers, till Mrs. G. discovered it all by the book.
12th.—Tulips splendid yesterday, but flagged this morning; and after dinner all napping with their heads on the bed—Isaac said it was the east wind. Thought there might be a grub at the roots, so drew one up—found no bulb—all the rest the same—somebody had taken away the roots and stuck the flowers into the ground again.
13th.—Finished my new hot-water pipes for the conservatory, all heated by the kitchen fire—a scheme of my own—Cook had a regular flare-up with so much company yesterday, so the water was boiling hot all day—by night the plants looked like scalded goose-berries. This morning, all my pipes united in a joint-run on the cistern, which answered their draughts to the last, and the spare water from the green-house floor was soaking into the breakfast parlour. The inventor just arrived—says it's all quite regular—the cracked joints will close of themselves in time—I wonder when.
23rd.—Wrote to the editor of The Gardener's Journal an account of my plan for growing potatoes without eyes, and the experiments for making an egg-plum tree.
June 2.—Vines cut last month, all bled to death.—Surprised that my new potatoes without eyes have not seen daylight yet.—My letter to the magazine in print.—Encouraging notice by editor, "Thanks S. G. for communicating his ingenious discoveries; hopes to hear from him again, with samples of the new potato and egg-plum." Think I shall disclose myself, and name the new sort, the Cherub Giblet potato. Most of the neighbours spoke to me coming out of church yesterday, but little thought who S. G. was.