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 We are lodged in one of the mansions of the town.

It is difficult to raise anything here but "badadoes," "tornips" and cabbage. Each family has a garden, a few sheep and usually a cow.

The stove here is a three-decker, with the oven on top. Heavy iron kettles and pots are used for cooking. Tea and coffee only are known. Houses are clean and fences white-washed.

I could enjoy myself were it not for anxiety about a take-off today, and the disgusting news of publicity. Every few minutes a telegraph operator patters over and hands me a telegram from some one. Some are lovely, and others disturb me greatly. The latest says B. papers carry a story I went to recoup fallen fortunes of family.

A photographer is on the way. The train has just pulled in―it comes twice a week, and the town watches to see who gets off.

(Continued after tea.) The boys have come. All are cheerful. One by one the natives drop in to see us.

I was welcomed at the landing as the first