Mickie Daly's Diary, December 1935


Those Butlers perserkute me. They pass most personal remarks. Red hair is as good as black or white or yellow. It covers and protects the head, and that is what nachure intended. Culler does not matter. My mother said, that only fine, good skin will freckil, and that if I lived in Ireland, or some other cold country, I would have a butiful complexshin. If my mother heard the insullting things the Butlers say about my appeerince, I believe she would go down and complane them to the Brothers. My father would laugh. But not my mother. I could not stand her going to complane. So I don't tell her all they say. They would not win a Buty Competishin, anyhow.

My grandfather said, that even in his days, the Butlers of Ormond were the hansumest men in Ireland. The Butlers of Australia are not this branch of the family, anyhow. Tom Butler, of Naremburn, N.S.W., is all right. I bet he would not throw off at me. But these hounds. There jokes are flat and stale, too. To-day one said to the other: "Oh - Daly's face is not too bad, You get used to it. It grows on you."

"Glad it did not grow on me," the other Butler said.

"Old as the hills! Flat as a bussted tire!" I yelled, and ran for my life from my ancesstril enemies. My father told me that joke. He heard it 20 years ago.

I'd like to go to the Brothers' School, but I hope the Butlers will be gone on to the universitee or somewhere, when I do. It's hard to put up with people. Suppose I make it hard for others. Sometimes I hope I do. That's revenge, and a very wicked thing. I must try to overcome it. You must try to love your neighbour - no matter who he is or what he does.

I have to try to wish well to the Daceys and the Butlers.

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