Mickie Daly's Diary, August 1932

Monday.

New sums to-day.

I don't like them much.

Sister Allerwishes told us a story about the Mission priests amongst the Indians up in the ice and snow of Canada. It was great. But I think I'll stick to the poor old Chows.

Dickie has been away from school.

He had to have his arm X-rayed. But it is doing fine.

We went to see the Canary Lady. Her bird was on her shoulder while she talked to us. She asked us could we sing. We said yes. We are both in the choir. But Dickie is the best. He's the best in the school, and sings solos in the choir and at the concerts, and he wins medals at St. Patrick's Day compe­titions. He sang "Ave Regina Ange­lorum," and she liked it so much he had to sing it three times. I sang my mother's favourite song, "Darling, You Are Growing Old." She didn't ask me to sing it again. I suppose it was sad. We had cakes and milk. The Canary Lady held a piece of cake in her lips and Sweetie pecked at it. A tiny cup, like the little girls have for playing at tea party, was brought in for him. There was water in it. He had three little sips. Dickie and me enjoyed ourselves very much.

Saturday.

It came to-day. The Answer.

Father Mullany says there will be plenty of room for me at St. Colum­ban's if I still want to go there when I am old enough. He said I must work hard. I must try to be cheer­ful always, for the mission priest needs a cheerful spirit. I think I'm cheerful, all right. I must not grumble, no matter what hard things happen to me. Mission priests never grumble. I don't think I grumble. Tom Dacey does. Father Mullany said I must pray hard about it, and work hard, and play hard and grow up a strong, cheery-hearted boy. He said he would pray for me. He sent me a holy picture and a little holy book, and said I could write to him again if I ever felt I wanted to.

I showed Mum the picture and the little holy book, but not the letter. That is Privit. Nobody is going to see it. Mum did not ask a thing about it. She just said:

"Been writing to Father Mullany, Michael?"

"And I just said, "Yesmum," quickly like that.

I put the letter under my pillow and I dreamt about China. I was trying to say the "Our Father" in Chinese for a big class of little Chinese boys, but I couldn't; and they laughed at me, and all chased me with sticks and stones to the river, and I was just drowning in the Han River when I woke. I was glad to wake, I can assure you.

In the morning I put the letter in my Secret Hiding Place, where I keep my money box and the watch grandfather left me. I won't say where the Secret Hiding Place is, in case this dairy should meet the eyes of a Burgler. I think it should be diery, not dairy. I get it mixed. I'll have a look on the milk-car when it comes round; that's easier than the dickshonery. If it's "da" on the milk cart, I'll know that's the place where they keep cows.

Thursday.

Tom Dacey always wants to sharpen the pencils. Sister Pawl has a bonier little gadget on her desk. You put the pencil in and turn a handle and it makes the pen­cils sharp as anything. Why should Dacey always do them? I'd like to. But he buts in and does it. He's a pompous fellow. My father said that about a man he knows, so I'm sure Dacey is it, whatever it is.

I wanted to do the pencils to-day. I asked him, but he wouldn't let me. I tried to grab a handful out of the box, but of course, I spilt the lot; and didn't Sister Pawl go crook on me!

I said: "He always does the pen­cils, Sister."

"Michael Daly," Sister Pawl said in a voice like icy thunder, "go to your desk. Sit down. Let us go on with our work, and don't be always grumbling."

When she said those last words an electric shock went through me. Like red-hot pins and icy-cold pins running all over me - always grumb­ling. Was I? Oh Jiminny! Was I? I sank to my seat as if I had just run up against a steam roller. I was knocked back, and all flattined out like. It was a most miserable and retched sensayshun. I never had it before. Was I that? A grumbler. I never thought I was. I thought I was all right, but that Tom Dacey and a lot of other boys were not much.

I felt miserable all the morning. All my sums were wrong. I would not like to kronikle even in this di-, da, or whatever it is, how many mis­takes I had in my dictation. Sister Pawl handed my dictation book back to me with a withering look and she just said: "Is it possible, Mickie Daly?"

All I could think of was grumble, grumbler, grumbling, grumbled, all singing in my head like.

Did, all the boys and girls think me a grumbler? Did the Sisters and Father Dale, and Mum and Dad? Did Father Mullany? But how would lie think it just by reading my letter? Did God think me a grumb­ler?

I couldn't play at eleven o'clock. I couldn't eat the jam sandwich Mother had put, in my bag. I gave it to a kid in the kindergarten class. And at dinner time I could not eat my dinner, altho Mum had given me three different kinds of sand­wiches – meat and beet-root and dates. There was a cocoanut cake too, and a little jam tart, and a orange. I managed to swallow one sandwich, but it had no taste at all. Some boys near me ate my lunch for me. They were happy, you see, and so had good apertights. Food is not nice when you are unhappy.

I made a visit and I nearly cried.

I tried to play with the other boys, but I played so badly my side lost, and Jim Brennan said, "Oh, run away, Daly, and play with the kin­dergarten."

"Or go over, Grumbler, and play rounders with the girls," Dacey said.

The girls called out : "Oh, we wouldn't have that old grumbler with us. You can keep him, thank you."

I nearly fell to the ground when they said those words, "that old grumbler." I gave no cheek back to any of them. I was dumb - but not deaf. I went out of the game and sat down for awhile. Then, when they were all busy and happy again, I sneaked behind the drink shed and over behind the pepper-trees and got into the church again. I did cry this time. I cried biterly. Not with temper. I wasn't angry with them, but I was dissappointed with myself. Michael Daly, Grumbler, and Growler, sounded in my ears. I was forsaken. I was no good.

In the afternoon I did very badly at all my work. Sister Pawl was cross with me. She said: "What are you dreaming about, Michael Daly?"

I said: "Nothing, Sister."

"Just what I expected," Sister re­plied, sarcastikley.

The girls giggled. They always giggle. But I did not feel angry with them. I was too dead like, to be angry just then.

Sister asked me where was Goon­diwindee, and I said: "China, Sis­ter." Everyone laughed. It was bad manners, and I thought Sister should have told them so. When­ever I laugh in the wrong place, Sis­ter Pawl always gets on to me good and hard. There you are! Grumb­ling again! a voice seemed to say, and that terrible sensayshun came over me again. Father Mullany had warned me. How did he know?

I must try to be cheerful always, and not grumble when hard things happen to me, he said in the letter. Was I a grumbler? A mission priest never grumbles. . . . grow up a cheery-hearted boy . . ..

On the way home I called at Dickie's place. His arm is nearly better.

"Dickie," I said, "tell me the solum truth. Am I - am I -"

"What, Mickie?" Dickie said, and he looked a bit skaired at me.

"Am I a grumbler? Do you think I am?"

Dickie was going to answer, and I stopped him. "True as honour, Dickie. The solum truth. Like an oath, you know."

Dickie turned pale. "Like an oath, Mickie?"

"Yes."

"But-"

"It's most importint. Tell me, am I a grumbler?"

"Well, Mickie, a-a-a-bit of a one! But you are nice as well, and I like you bettern any boy in the school. And you don't grumble as much as you used to."

"Used to?"

"Yes. You used to be somethink awful. But you aren't so bad now. I think it is since Sister Allerwishes took us for instructions, and you brought the `Far East' to school, and we said we'd like to be martirs and made our visit every day. You know. We've tried pretty hard, haven't we?"

I couldn't answer. I moved away.

"Are you mad with me, Mickie?" my poor mate, Dickie, called out. "You said

the solum trooth, you know."

"I'm not mad with you, Dickie." I went home.

"Mum, am I a grumbler?"

"Well, Mickie, darling, you are a little inclined that way. But Father and I are doing our best to cure you."

"Is that why we have mutton and milk puddings so often?"

"Mickie, dear! Whatever do you mean? Mutton and milk puddings! Don't you like them?"

"Oh, they're all right," I said sadly, and went out and climbed up in the gum tree in our back yard. I go there when I want absuloot quiet.

Tom Dacey said I am a grumbler.

Sister Pawl said I am.

The girls said I am.

Dickie said I am-only getting bet­ter.

Mum said I am - and that she and Dad are curing me.

Father. Mullany warned me not to be one.

I sat up in the tree for a long time, and then I heard Mrs. Ryan's dog having a fight with the dog next door, so I got down to watch them. Mrs. Ryan threw a bucket of water over them and that ended the fight.

There was jam tart for tea. But I did, not enjoy it. It didn't taste any nicer than rice pudding. My appertight is gone. I examined my hair in the glass, but there is no grey showing yet. It is dairy on the milk-cart, so a book you write in must be a diery. I thought it was.

I did my homework badly. I didn't try a bit. What's the good?

I didn't say my deckid. I just got into bed. It's no use trying to grow up and be a mission priest. I can't. I'm too much of a grumbler. I'm no good. I'll give it all up. And won't I punch into Tom Dacey to­morrow! I was going to write and tell Father Mullany I was a failure, but I didn't know how to write it.

To be continued.

Read more of Mickie Daly's Diary entries