By Gilbert Murray
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AN IRISH FAMILY IN AUSTRALIA THE MEMORIES of a small child are like a broken mirror: bright spots and blanks and occasional misarrangements. My own memories of my father, who was born in 1810 and died when I was nine, have been lately re-awakened by looking over some packets of old letters, three volumes of notes and newspaper cuttings, making a sort of commonplace book, a journal of the year 1841, and some odd memoranda. They are eked out again by memories not of things I saw, but of things I was told, mostly no doubt a little shaped and simplified in accepted family tradition.
When once Huby was fully satisfied that the Clown did not hurt the Pantaloon and that babies and cats were not really made into sausages he gave himself up to the most complete enjoyment, as did the other two and all the children present. Their laughter was contagious and I enjoyed their enjoyment. 'We called on Margaret, who was very unwell. She gave Huby five shillings, which she had promised him on his last birthday. ' The last sentence shows, I think, that my brother Hubert was rather an unusual boy.
His obvious duty was to write to the Marine Office and inform them. But he hated writing to Government offices. He hated making a fuss. He thought it would be more fun to mend the buoys himself. So with his two sons he carefully measured the faulty places, got the necessary sheet iron and painted it, and spent many happy evenings doing the government's job for them. In the end someone happened to mention to officials in the Marine Office that they seemed to be having a lot of trouble with the buoys in the harbour.