20th.—The weather is still very fine, the temperature delightful. At this moment I am very much annoyed, and am actually writing from my bed to tell you how uncomfortable I am from an incursion of blow-flies, which have taken a fancy to my new blankets, that have been so covered by them as to require fumigation with brimstone to effect their dislodgment, and I am now bewailing the absence of my comfortable clothing.
22nd.—Dined after church service yesterday on delicious kangaroo soup, a fine haunch of ditto, lamb, a pair of fowls, ham and sausages, turnips, lettuce, onions, fruit-pies, and plum and custard puddings. Just think of such fare on the Swan River, and confess whether your organs of taste can resist an extra humidity "from bare imagination of the feast." You know, however, that I care little for these things, and detail them merely to show that we have not always hard fare.
It falls frequently to my lot to settle disputes about boundaries: the Dii Termini are very troublesome divinities to me; this day I have been arbitrator in a case of this nature, besides one on a disputed point concerning a sale of horses.
I have to finish a certain memorial to the Home Government, to attend an agricultural meeting on the second of next month, and to prepare for an exploring expedition over the mountains on the fourth, and have just written
