at which it springs with unerring aim, twittering out every now and then, by way of interlude or for the sake of good digestion, some of its sweetest notes.
9th.—Had a harvest-home, or churn, as it is here termed, this roasting day—I fear there is little butter in the churn for me. I shall have nearly as much produce from about twenty square yards in the garden, as from the tillage farm of two acres. One of our most experienced farmers has assured me, that it will not answer to cultivate on an extended scale, under the existing circumstances of the colony, from the dearness of labour, &c.: three acres altogether, will be the maximum of my tillage. Summer is our worst season, as vegetation on the dry grounds is then at a stand, and there are few facilities for irrigation. Nine months of our year are like your best summers, and the remaining three are very warm; a land breeze, however, springs up every night at about ten o'clock, and blows very fresh, making a grand roaring in the trees. Thermometer now (nine o'clock P.M.) 84°—was 94° at two.
10th—Pigs, pigs, pigs—an addition of six—total, twenty-eight.
I wrote shortly after my arrival here, recommending a speculation in slop clothes, Irish pork, and butter; if a cargo of it had arrived here about or before this time, it would have been
