CHAPTER III

Inda and Pilla took off the black hide of Kuperee, and pegged it out

carefully with sharp sticks. Then they came back to the body, and

their eyes glistened with satisfaction. Meat is the best thing in the

world to a blackfellow, and never before had either seen so much meat.

It was almost staggering to think that it was theirs, and to be eaten.

All they had feared and suffered became as nothing in the prospect of

that tremendous feast.

"Yakai!" mourned Pilla. "We shall never finish it all before it goes

bad, not though we eat day and night without ceasing--as I mean to do."

"And I also," agreed Inda. "Let us make ovens before we begin to cut

him up--we shall waste less time that way. Some of him will certainly

go bad, but we will do our best."

They were turning aside to gather sticks when Pilla suddenly caught at

his brother's arm. He happened to seize a bruised part, and Inda was

justly annoyed.

"Take care, blockhead!" he said, shaking him off roughly. "I ache all

over--is it not enough for you?"

Pilla took no notice. He was staring at the skinned body of Kuperee,

with eyes that were almost starting from his head.

"Look!" he gasped. "Look! He moves!"

Inda leaped to one side.

"Moves!" he uttered. "Are you mad?"

"I saw his side move," Pilla repeated. "See--there it is again!"

Something bulged under the stripped skin of the monster. The brothers

leaped backward.

"But he is certainly dead," gasped Inda. "Have we not skinned him?

Can a skinned animal move--even if he be Kuperee?"

"Let us leave him and go home," muttered Pilla. "He is very bad Magic."

But that was more than Inda could bring himself to do.

"Leave him!" he exclaimed. "Leave the most wonderful feast ever heard

of in all the Bush! No, I will not. Magic or no Magic, he is dead,

and I will see what moves."

He sprang forward, knife in hand, and with a quick movement slit open

the body. Out popped a head--a black head, with fear and pain and

bewilderment on its features. Inda sprang back, raising his knife to

defend himself.

"Let me out!" begged the head. "It is horrible in here--no air, no

light, nothing but dead men! Let me out, I say!"

"Are you Magic?" gasped Inda.

"Magic? I?" The wild eyes rolled in astonishment. "I am Kanalka, of

the Crow Tribe, But an hour ago Kuperee swallowed me at a gulp, when he

came upon me in the forest. I do not know why I am not dead--but I

live yet, though I was wishing to die when suddenly you let the light

in to my prison. Make your hole larger, friend, and let me out."

"Do you say there are dead men there?" demanded Pilla.

"He is full of them. I only am alive, I suppose because I was the last

eaten. Be quick! be quick!"

Half doubting, half afraid, Inda opened the great body, and helped

Kanalka out. He staggered and fell helplessly to the ground. Pilla

and Inda did not trouble about him. One after another, they took from

Kuperee ten black hunters, laying them in a row upon the grass. Last

of all they took out Kon-garn and three others of their own tribe, and

they wailed over them.

Kanalka, who had somewhat recovered, came and looked curiously at the

row of men.

"Would you not say that they were alive?" he asked. "They do not look

as though they were anything but asleep."

"I think it is Magic," said Inda, very much afraid. "Two moons have

gone by since Kon-garn, who lies there, was eaten, and yet he looks as

though asleep. Kuperee was a strange host, truly, to keep you all in

such good condition!"

The gaze of Kanalka wandered to the stone axe of Burkamukk, which lay

on the grass near Kuperee. Instantly he became interested. He had

seen many dead men, but no such axe as this had come his way.

"Is that the mighty axe of which all the tribes have heard?" he asked

eagerly. "Ky! what a beauty! Never have I seen such a one! I should

like to handle it."

He picked it up and tested its weight, while Pilla and Inda watched him

carefully, for they knew that the axe was a treasure beyond anything in

the Bush, and that a man would risk almost anything to possess it.

They need not, however, have feared Kanalka. He was a simple-minded

fellow, and was merely lost in admiration.

"A beauty, indeed!" he exclaimed. "It will be something to tell my

people, that in the one day I escaped from the body of Kuperee and

handled the stone axe of Burkamukk! Was it with this that you killed

the monster?"

"Ay," said Inda. "It clove his skull--one blow was enough, though our

spears had fallen blunted from his hide."

"A marvel, indeed!" cried Kanalka. "It would be a mighty weapon at

close quarters in a fight. One would swing it round--thus--and bring

it down upon the enemy's head----"

He illustrated his meaning, swinging the axe aloft and bringing it down

over the head of the silent form of Kon-garn. Just before it reached

the head he checked it, letting it do no more than touch Kon-garn--a

touch no heavier than the sweep of a butterfly's wing.

Kon-garn yawned, sneezed, and sat up.

With a yell of terror the three blacks started backwards, tripped over

each other, and fell in a heap. Kon-garn surveyed the struggling mass

calmly.

"Where am I?" he asked. "And what is all this about? Is it you, Pilla

and Inda?"

They struggled to their feet and looked at him distrustfully.

"You are dead," said Pilla firmly. "Why do you talk?"

"I do not know why, indeed, since it is evident that I am talking to

fools," said Kon-garn rudely. "What has happened to you, that you and

this stranger have suddenly gone mad? Ky! how hungry I am! Have you

food?"

The brothers suddenly began to laugh helplessly.

"Food!" said Inda. "There is more food than ever you saw before,

Kon-garn, and a few minutes ago you were part of it."

"That is a riddle I am too tired to guess," said Kon-garn crossly. "I

only wish that any food were part of me, for I feel as though I had

never eaten in my life."

"It is certainly two moons at least since last you ate," Pilla told him.

"I said already that you were mad, and I grow more sure of it every

minute," said poor Kon-garn. "Who are these who lie beside me?"

"They are dead men; and a moment ago you too were dead," Inda said.

Kon-garn became afraid, as well as cross. It was clear that everybody

was mad, and he had heard that it was wise to humour mad people, or

they might do you an injury. So he hid his feelings and looked at the

brothers as kindly as his bewilderment and hunger would let him.

"Dead, was I?" he said. "Then how did I come to life?"

"This man touched you with the stone axe of Burkamukk," Inda answered.

"Dear me, how simple!" said Kon-garn. "None of our Meki-gar know

anything half so easy. But why does he not go on, and bring all these

other dead men to life too?"

"Indeed," said Kanalka suddenly, "I do not know."

He flung himself upon the stone axe, which he had let fall in his

terror, and touched another still form with it. Instantly the black

hunter came to life. Kanalka uttered a wild yell of amazement and

triumph. Then Inda snatched the axe from him and ran along the line,

touching one man after another; and when he had come to the end there

were ten blackfellows sitting up and rubbing their eyes, and most of

them were asking eagerly for food. The brothers drew back a few paces

and looked at them.

"It is clear," said Pilla, "that Kuperee was Magic, and that when our

father's stone axe entered his skull it became Magic too. More than

ever we must guard it carefully, since it seems to have the power of

life and death." He lowered his voice, speaking to Inda. "I will lash

it to your shoulders, brother--we are among strangers, and it will be

safer so."

He lashed the axe to Inda's shoulders firmly, and the other men looked

on. Each knew exactly why he was doing it, and respected him for his

caution, since each knew that had chance thrown in his way the mighty

stone axe he would not have been proof against the temptation of trying

to get possession of it. Then they all talked together, and were very

amazed at what had happened to them; but since they were able to put

everything down to Magic, nothing worried them much, and they were

quite relieved to find themselves alive, and to think of seeing their

wives and children again. More than anything, they were overjoyed at

the magnificent feast that awaited them.

And what a feast it was! Never again in all their lives did such a

chance come to them. The wild black never asked for any trimmings with

his food: he would, indeed, eat anything that came his way, but meat,

meat only, and still more meat, was what his soul most desired. And

now meat awaited them, in a huge mountain; and they were hungry beyond

belief.

"We will cut up Kuperee," said Pilla and Inda, "since we alone have

knives. The rest of you must make fire, and prepare ovens."

The men scattered to their tasks. Some gathered sticks; others scooped

out holes in the ground for the ovens; others teased dry messmate bark

for tinder for the man who was making the fire. This was Kon-garn, and

he did it very quickly. Pilla lent him one of his most useful

household necessaries, which he always carried with him--a piece of dry

grass-tree cane, having a hole bored through to the pith on its upper

side, and a pointed piece of soft wood; and these were just as useful

to the blacks as a box of matches would be to you. Kon-garn sat down

on the ground, holding the bit of grass-tree firmly down with his feet,

and pressed the point of the soft wood into the little hole. Then he

held it upright between his palms and twirled it rapidly. Within two

minutes smoke began to curl round the twirling point, and another man

carefully put some teased bark, soft and dry, round the hole and blew

on it. A moment more and a thin tongue of flame licked through the

tinder; more and more was fed to it, and then leaves and twigs; and in

five minutes there was a blazing fire, while Kon-garn restored to Pilla

his two flame-making sticks, very little the worse for wear.

The blacks did not usually light a large fire, after the fashion of

white men, who like to make a campfire so big that they roast their

faces while their backs remain cold. The way the blacks preferred was

to make two little fires, and to sit between them, so that they were

kept warm on both sides. But on this occasion they made a very big

blaze, so that they should quickly have enough fire to heat the ovens;

and then they made the big fire long and narrow, so that they could sit

on each side of it and cook. While the ovens were getting hot they

took small pieces of the Kangaroo meat and speared them on green

sticks, holding them before the coals. They were all so desperately

hungry that they did not care much whether the meat was properly

cooked--as soon as the first pieces were warmed through they stuffed

them into their mouths, and then ran to Pilla and Inda for more. Pilla

and Inda were working hard at cutting up Kuperee, and though they did

not mind the hungry men beginning without them, they became annoyed

when they came again and again for fragments.

"Do not forget that we are hungry too," Pilla growled. "We have

travelled far before we killed Kuperee and let you all out, and now we

are cutting up your meat for you. If you do not bring us some cooked

pieces we must go and cook for ourselves."

That made the others afraid, for the cutting-up of so huge an animal as

Kuperee was no light work, and none of them had knives. So they fed

the brothers with toothsome morsels as they worked, and the cutting

went on unchecked, until the ovens were hot and there was a pile of

joints ready to be put in. This was done, wrapping the joints in green

leaves. Then they carried to the fire the great heap of small pieces

of meat left from the cutting-up, and cooked and ate, and ate and

cooked, all through the night.

Even in ordinary life it would have astonished you to see how much meat

a black could eat--a well-fed blackfellow, with a wife who kept his

wurley well supplied with roots and grubs and all the other pleasant

things they loved. But these blacks had had no food, some of them for

weeks, and it seemed that they would never stop. The great pile of

pieces dwindled until there were none left, and then they hacked more

off, and cooked and ate until the ovens were ready and the smoking

joints came out. They were so hot that you would not have cared to

touch them without a knife and fork; but the blacks seized them and

tore them to pieces and gnawed them, until nothing remained but

well-picked bones. And then they cooked more.

Pilla and Inda were the first to give in, and they had eaten enough for

twenty white men. They waddled off to a thicket and flung themselves

under a bush, sleeping back to back, so that the stone axe of Burkamukk

was safe between them. But the others had no thought for anything but

Kangaroo, and even the mighty axe could not have tempted them from that

tremendous gorge. They ate on, all through the day. Towards night

some of them gave in; then, one by one, they could eat no more, and

most of them went to sleep where they sat before the fire. But dawn on

the next day showed the steadfast Kon-garn, rotund beyond belief, and

eating still. And by that time Pilla and Inda had slept off their

light repast, and were ready to begin all over again.

They camped for more than a week by the carcass of Kuperee, and ate it

until it was no longer pleasant to eat, even for a blackfellow. Then

they began to think it was time to return to their tribes. So they

greased their bodies comfortably all over, and set off through the

forest, a peaceful and happy band, far too well-fed to think of

quarrelling. When they came near the head-quarters of each tribe they

marched to its camp in a proud procession, returning the warriors who

had been mourned as dead: and great were the rejoicings throughout the

country, and rich rewards of furs and weapons and food were showered

upon Inda and Pilla. The stone axe of Burkamukk became more famous

than ever, and every one wanted to look at the wonderful weapon that

had slain Kuperee. Songs were made about the two heroes, and for ages

afterwards mothers used to tell their children about them, and hope

that their boys would be as brave as Burkamukk's sons.

At last they drew near to their own camp. They halted the night before

a few hours' journey away, and by good luck they met a couple of boys

out hunting, and sent them in to tell the tribe that they were coming.

They had no idea of coming in unheralded, for they knew they had done a

great deed, and they meant to return in state. Besides, although the

rescued men were with them, the load of presents they had received was

far too heavy to be carried comfortably.

They got up early and painted themselves in stripes and put on their

finest feathers and furs. Inda carried the stone axe of Burkamukk, and

Pilla had only a spear. Long before they were ready to start they were

met by some of the men of the tribe who had come out to welcome them.

These loaded themselves with the gifts, and with Pilla and Inda

stalking in front, and the rescued men behind, they formed themselves

into a procession and marched for home.

Near the camp another procession came out to meet them: Burkamukk,

their father, marching at the head of all his tribe. First came the

Meki-gar, very solemn, and inwardly very disgusted that the honour of

slaying Kuperee had not fallen to them; then came all the warriors and

the old men, then the boys, and lastly the women and children. They

were shouting greetings and praises and singing songs of welcome.

Burkamukk halted as his sons drew near. They came up to him and knelt

before him and Inda laid the stone axe at his feet.

"We bring you back your mighty weapon, my father," he said. "It has

slain your enemy."

Then all the tribe shouted afresh, and the warriors leaped in the air,

and the whole country was filled with the sound of their rejoicings.

And they bore Pilla and Inda home in triumph, naming them the most

famous heroes of all the tribes of the Bush.

But the Magic of Kuperee was not done with them yet.

They feasted late that night, and the sun was high overhead before they

woke next day. They were in a wurley by themselves, but outside the

boys of the tribe were clustered, peeping in to see the mighty

warriors. Pilla stretched himself, and flung out an arm, which struck

Inda.

"Take care!" Inda said, angrily, waking up. "You hurt me."

"Why, I hardly touched you," Pilla answered. "You must have been

dreaming."

"Well, it is no dream that I am very sore," said Inda. "All my body

seems covered with bruises, just as it was after our fight under the

tree of Kuperee."

"That is queer," said Pilla, "for my nose also feels terribly sore.

That must have been a mighty blow that you dealt it." He felt it

tenderly. "It feels queer, too. Does it look curious?"

"There is a furrow down it, but then there always has been, since our

fight," said Inda. "You look not much worse than usual. But I--see,

is there anything wrong with me?"

He flung off his wallaby-skin rug, and sat up. Pilla uttered a cry.

"Ky! you are all over spots! Did I really hit you in all those places?"

"You must have done so," said Inda, crossly. "Lucky for me that the

spears were blunt!"

"I feel most extraordinary," said Pilla, suddenly "It is just as though

I were shrinking--and indeed, I have no cause to shrink, seeing how

much I ate last night. But my skin is getting all loose."

"And mine too!" cried Inda, faintly. "There is Magic at work upon us,

my brother!"

Then a mist drifted over the wurley, and strange cries came out of it.

The boys, watching outside, clutched at each other in fear. And

presently, when the mist blew away, Pilla and Inda were not to be seen,

nor were they ever seen more. Instead, within the wurley crouched two

little animals, new to the blacks, which uttered faint squeaks and

scurried away through the camp into the Bush.

There they live now, and through them are the sons of Burkamukk

remembered. Pilla is the plump 'possum, who has always a furrow down

his nose; and Inda is the native-cat, whose skin is covered all over

with spots. For the Magic of Kuperee lived after him, so that the

blunt weapons that had struck him had strange power, just as there was

power of life in the stone axe that had killed him. But though they

lived no longer as men, the names of Pilla and Inda were always held in

great honour, since through their courage and wisdom the tribes lived

in security, free from the wickedness of Kuperee.

II

WAUNG, THE CROW

CHAPTER I

Very long ago--so long that the oldest blacks could not remember

anything about it themselves--there was a legend of the first coming of

Fire.

Fire came with a group of seven strange women, the Kar-ak-ar-ook, who

brought it from some unknown country. They dwelt with the blacks, and

showed them how to use the new and wonderful thing: but they were very

selfish, and would give none away. Instead, they kept it in the end of

their yam-sticks, and when the people begged for it, they only laughed

at them. They alone knew how to make it, and they never told the

secret to anyone.

So the blacks took counsel together.

"We might as well have never learned that there was Fire at all," said

one.

"Better," said another. "Before it came, we were content: but now,

every one is sighing for it, and cannot get it."

"My wife is a weariness to me," said a third. "Always she pesters me

to bring Fire to her, and makes my mouth water by telling me of the

beautiful food she could cook if she had it. It is almost enough to

make a man lose his appetite!"

"But who that has once tasted cooked food can ever forget it?" another

said, licking his lips. "Such flavour! Such juiciness! Twice the

Kar-ak-ar-ook gave Fire to my wife, and let her roast wallaby and

snipe--and since those glorious meals it is hard to eat them raw."

"Ay, that is so," said one. "To my woman also, they gave Fire twice,

and she cooked me wombat and iguana. Ky! how much I ate, and how sick

I was afterwards! But it was worth it."

"And fish!" said another. "No one who eats raw fish can imagine what a

difference Fire makes to it. It is indeed a wonderful thing. The

first time I saw it, I picked it up, admiring its pretty colour, and it

stung me severely. In my wrath I kicked it, but its sting was still

there, and it gave me a very sore foot. Now I know that it is Magic,

and must not be touched, save with a stick--and then the stick becomes

part of it. It is all very curious."

"It is worse than curious that such a thing should be, and be held only

by the power of women," said an old man, angrily. "If we had fire, the

winter cold would not strike so keenly to old bones. Why should we

submit to these women, the Kar-ak-ar-ook? Let us kill them, if

necessary, and take it from them for ourselves."

But no one moved, and all looked uneasy.

"The women are Magic," said one, at length. "The magic-men know that."

"Yes, and the women's Magic is stronger than theirs," another answered.

"They have weaved spells, but what good have they done?"

"Now, they say that unless they let some Fire drop by accident, we can

never get it from them: and if they do let it fall, then they will be

just like other women, and have no power at all. I would like to see

that!" said a big fellow, eagerly. "It would be very good for them,

and they would make useful wives for some of us, for they know all

about cooking food. I would not mind marrying one of them myself!" he

added, in a patronizing tone, at which everybody laughed.

Another big man spoke. His name was Waung, and he was tall and

powerful.

"It is all very ridiculous," he said. "No woman lives in the world who

can get the better of a man. I have half a mind to get Fire from them

myself."

"You!" said the others, and they all joined in roars of laughter. For

Waung was a lazy man, and had never done much good for himself. "You!

You would go to sleep instead of finding a way to get the better of the

Kar-ak-ar-ook!"

This made Waung very angry.

"You are all fools!" he said, rudely. "I will certainly take the

trouble to get Fire, and will make one of the women my wife, and she

shall cook in my wurley. But then I will have their Magic, and none of

you will get any Fire from me, of that you may be sure. Then you will

all be sorry!" But this only made the men laugh more, and the noise of

their mirth set the laughing-jackasses shouting in the trees. Very

seldom had the camp heard so fine a joke.

Waung was filled with fury. He strode away from them, with his head in

the air, shouting fierce threats. No one took the least notice of

them, because he was known to be a boaster and a talker; but it was

very amusing to see him go, and the blacks were always glad of a chance

for laughter. Even after Waung had gone into his wurley, he could hear

the echo of their merriment; and whenever two or three went past, they

were still talking about him and laughing. "A pity Waung is such a

fool!" they said. "But perhaps it is as well, for if there were no

fools we would not have such good jokes!" And that did not make Waung

feel any better.

Next day he went to the Kar-ak-ar-ook's wurley, and met them going out

to dig for yams. Their dilly-bags were on their shoulders; and they

held their yam-sticks, and he could see Fire gleaming in the hollow

tops. Waung looked at the digging ends of the sticks, and saw that

they were very blunt. He said: "I will sharpen your yam-sticks for

you."

The Kar-ak-ar-ook thanked him, with a twinkle in their eyes. They knew

there was some reason for such politeness from Waung. So they held the

yam-sticks for him to cut, and though once or twice he tried to make

them fall, as if by accident, so long as they had even a finger upon

them they did not move. So Waung realized that Fire was not to be

obtained in that way. When he had finished the points, he stood up.

"I am sick of the tribe," he said, angrily. "They are silly people,

and they turn me into a joke. If you like, I will come out and help

you to get food--and, I can tell you, I know where to hunt. Will you

hunt with me?"

Now the Kar-ak-ar-ook were suspicious of Waung, but they were lazy

women. It did not amuse them at all to go hunting by themselves every

day, for they were not clever at it, and it took them a long time to

find enough game to cook. Moreover, they were fond of food, and never

had enough. They knew that no one could take away their yam-sticks so

long as they held them; and so they were not afraid of Waung.

"Perhaps what you say is true," one answered slowly. "At any rate, I

do not care. You may come with me if you wish, and sometimes we will

give you some cooked food."

So the camp got used to the sight of Waung and the women going out to

hunt together; and after a while they forgot that they used to laugh at

them, and they had to find another joke. They envied Waung very much

if they saw him eating scraps of cooked meat given him by the women:

and you may be sure that Waung did not give any scraps away. He became

quite good friends with the women, though they were always suspicious

of him, and gave him no chance of handling their yam-sticks. The fire

in the hollow tops never went out. Waung could not guess how they

managed to keep it alive there, and it puzzled him very much. But he

never forgot that he had vowed to take it from them, and he made many

plans that came to nothing, because the Kar-ak-ar-ook were always

watchful.

At last Waung hit upon an idea. Out in the scrub he found a nest of

young snakes, and these he managed to tame, for he was a very cunning

man. Even when they were nearly full-grown they would do his bidding,

and he taught them many queer tricks. Then he went in search of an

ant-hill, and sought until he found a very large one. For the

Kar-ak-ar-ook had told him that they loved ants' eggs more than any

kind of food.

One night, Waung took his snakes, and buried them in the ant-hill,

saying, "Stay there until I send to let you out." They looked at him

with their fierce, beady eyes, and wriggled round until they made

themselves nests in the soft earth, which caused the ants very great

inconvenience and alarm. Then Waung covered them up and went home,

taking the Kar-ak-ar-ook a little kangaroo-rat that he had killed.

The women were hungry, and the sight of Waung's offering did not please

them.

"It is very small," they said, discontentedly. "What is the matter

with you? You have brought us scarcely any food for three days."

Waung laughed, swinging his spear.

"Hunting has been bad," he said, carelessly. "I have been lazy,

perhaps--or the game was scarce. But I have a treat for you to-morrow."

"What is that?" they asked, eagerly, looking up from skinning the

kangaroo-rat.

"What would you say to ants' eggs?"

"We like them more than anything else," they cried. "Have you found

some?"

"I have found a very big hill," Waung said. "It should be full of

eggs."

"And you will take us there?"

Waung did not want to seem too eager. He hesitated.

"I do not want the eggs," he said, at length. "A man wants something

he can bite--eggs are for women. But will you cook me a wallaby if I

take you there?"

"Where is the wallaby?" asked the Kar-ak-ar-ook.

"I have not caught it yet. But I have set a snare in a track I

know--and while you dig ants' eggs I have no doubt I can get one. That

does not matter, however--I can get one some time. Will you cook it

for me, if I show you the ants' nest?"

The Kar-ak-ar-ook promised, for the temptation of the ants' eggs was

very strong. They ate all the kangaroo-rat, and found it quite too

small for their appetites: so they went to sleep hungry, and were still

hungrier when they awoke in the morning. They had only a few yams for

breakfast, and so they were very eager to start when Waung sauntered up

to their wurley.

They all went a little way into the Bush, and then came upon the great

ant-hill. At the sight, the Kar-ak-ar-ook ran forward, with their

sticks ready to dig.

Waung said:

"I will go on to my snare, and come back to you."

But he went slowly. The women had not taken any notice of what he

said. They plunged their yam-sticks into the hill, and began throwing

out the earth quickly. Then they uttered a loud scream, for the snakes

came tumbling out of the loosened earth and ran this way and that,

hissing fiercely--and some ran at them.

Waung turned back at their cries.

"Hit them with your sticks!" he shouted. "Kill them."

The Kar-ak-ar-ook hit furiously at the snakes with the pointed end of

their yam-sticks. But a stiff, pointed stick is not much use for

killing snakes, as Waung well knew, and he called to them roughly:

"That is no good--use the thick ends!"

The women swung their sticks round at his cry, and brought the thick

ends down across the snakes' backs. The blows were so strong that many

of the snakes were killed at once--but that was not the only thing that

happened. Fire flew out of the hollow ends of the sticks, and, in

great coals, rolled down the side of the ant-hill. The coals met and

joined, so that they were all one very large coal.

Waung had been watching like a cat. He had picked up two flat pieces

of green stringy-bark; and now he leaped forward, snapped up Fire

between them, and fled. Behind him came the Kar-ak-ar-ook, screaming.

But as Waung stole the Fire, their Magic left them, and they were

helpless.

Then Bellin-Bellin, the Musk-Crow, who carries the whirlwind in his

bag, heard the voice of Pund-jel speaking to him out of the clouds,

commanding him to let loose his burden. So Bellin-Bellin, obedient,

but greatly afraid, untied the strings of his bag, and the whirlwind

leapt out with a wild rush. It caught the Kar-ak-ar-ook, and whirled

them up into the sky, where you may still see them, clustered together,

for they were turned into stars. Now they are called the Pleiades, or

Seven Sisters. But the blacks know that they are the Kar-ak-ar-ook

women, and that they live together in the sky, still carrying Fire on

the ends of their yam-sticks.

[Illustration: "It caught the Kar-ak-ar-ook and whirled them up into

the sky."]

CHAPTER II

Waung went proudly back to the tribe, and when they saw that he had

actually stolen Fire from the women, they were both glad and

astonished, and clustered round him, calling him many pleasant things.

Waung was quite ready to listen to them; but he had no intention of

being generous now that he had brought Fire with him. He saw his way

to a lazy life, and he was not the man to lose such a good chance.

So after they had praised him very loudly and sung loud songs about his

bravery and wit, he went off into his wurley, and put Fire in a hole in

the ground. Then he sat in the doorway and carved a boomerang.

The people looked at each other, not knowing what to do next.

"How is this?" they said. "Will he not give Fire to us all?"

No one could answer this question. They chattered together for a

while. Then one said, "What is worth having is worth asking for"; and

he went up to Waung's wurley and greeted him civilly.

"Good-day, Waung," he said. "Will you give me some fire to do my

cooking?"

"I have only enough for myself," said Waung, and went on with his

carving.

"But Fire grows, if you will let it," said the man. "Will you not make

it grow, so that each of us may have some?"

"I cannot spare any," was all that Waung would answer. So the man went

back to his friends, and told them what Waung said. Then one after

another came to Waung, and begged him for a little bit of Fire. But

the reply was always the same, and they went away, very sorry that they

had ever laughed at Waung. For now he remembered the laughter, and he

determined to have his revenge.

In the morning, when the tribe was astir they found that Waung had made

a very large oven in front of his wurley, and had hid Fire there. Also

he had caught a wallaby in his snare, and all the air was full of the

fragrant smell of cooking. It made all the people's mouths water, and

they hated Waung exceedingly. But they feared that with the

Kar-ak-ar-ook's Fire Waung had also captured their Magic, and so they

did not dare to attack him.

So they held a council together, and all talked very fast and angrily:

but at the end of it, there was nothing accomplished. Talking did not

mend the matter at all, and against Magic, what could anyone do? Then

a woman came running, and said she had a message, and though women were

not supposed to speak in council, she was told to deliver it at once.

"Waung says he will cook our food!" said she, and stopped for breath.

A great shout of joy went up from the men.

"But he will not do it for nothing," went on the woman. At this all

their faces lengthened suddenly. The blacks stopped in the middle of

their joyful shout, and waited with their mouths wide open to hear what

was to follow.

"He says he will cook for us. But we are to supply him with food, and

firewood, and all that he wants, and he will keep for himself all the

food he likes best. And if we do not perform all that he tells us to

do, he will take Fire away altogether."

There was silence when the woman had finished speaking, and then a deep

groan of anger went up from the people. They all talked very fast

again, each trying to speak more loudly than the others, all except the

husband of the woman who had brought the news, and he was busy beating

her with his waddy because she had brought so insolent a message, and

had allowed them to think at first that it was good news. The poor

lubra tried to say that they had not given her time to say it all at

once, but the husband was too busy to listen. But neither talking nor

beating made the matter any better.

So Waung became the real ruler of the tribe, in everything but name,

since food is the most important thing in the world to the blacks, and

the greater part of their food became dependent upon him. Nothing

could be cooked unless Waung would do it, and they soon found that

unless he were in a good temper he would not do it at all. He took the

best parts of all that they brought to him to cook, so that no man knew

what he would get back; and when one took a fat young wallaby or a

black duck it was quite likely that Waung would give him something

tough and stringy when he went back for his cooked meal, declaring that

it was what he had left in his oven. Neither would he take any trouble

over the cooking. The people brought their food, and put it in the

oven themselves, and Waung took it out when it pleased him. Sometimes

he did not take it out until it was burned black and tasteless, while

at others they would find it only half-cooked, and cold. But no amount

of talking would make Waung alter his ways, and at last he became so

proud that if anyone argued with him he would refuse to cook for a

week, except for himself. This naturally stopped all argument in the

camp, but it did not make the people love Waung any better.

He grew very fat and lazy, for he ate huge quantities of food, and very

seldom went out of his wurley. When he did, he carried Fire with him

in a little hollow stick, and no one dared go near him, or near his

wurley, for fear of his enchantments. As a matter of fact, Waung had

no enchantments at all, and no Magic. But he was very cunning, and he

knew how easy it was to make the blacks think he had amazing powers.

The magic-men, too, found that none of their spells had any effect upon

Waung, and so they told the tribe that he certainly had magic help. It

was very convenient to be able to say this when they were beaten, for

Magic was a thing that could not possibly be argued about.

The months went by, and the people became very unhappy. Waung's evil

temper made them all miserable and afraid. There have been many bad

kings in history, but only Waung ever had the power of depriving all

his people of their dinner, if they failed to please him. It is a very

terrible punishment when it is inflicted often, especially when dinner

is the only meal of the day. Now that the people had grown used to

cooked food, they did not like raw meat; so they depended on Waung's

mercy. And Waung had very little mercy. It amused him greatly to see

the people hungry and to have them come begging to him to cook their

food. He would laugh loud and long, reminding them of the time when

they had jeered at him about Fire. Afterwards, he would go into his

wurley and sleep, saying, "Fire is asleep to-day, and I cannot wake it."

At last, Pund-jel, Maker of Men, looked down at the world and saw how

unhappy the blacks were under the cruelties of Waung. It made him very

angry. He was stern and hard himself, but he saw no reason why this

fellow, lazy and ill-natured, should make his people hungry and

miserable. So he sent a message to the ear of each man in the tribe,

telling him what to do.

The blacks thought they had dreamed the message. They woke in the

morning, confused and angry, they hardly knew why; and each man said to

his neighbour, "I have dreamed about Waung," and the other would

answer, "I, too, have dreamed about him." They gathered into groups,

talking about Waung and about the dream that had come to them; and then

the groups began to drift towards Waung's wurley.

Waung looked out, and saw them coming. At once he became uneasy, for

he knew that he had never seen such threatening faces and angry eyes.

It made him afraid, and he began to put Fire to heat his oven, which

had been cold for five days.

The blacks came close to the wurley, growling and muttering. They

circled round, still half-afraid. Then one, suddenly becoming brave,

shouted a word of angry abuse at Waung; and that was all the others

wanted. They joined the first man in loud and threatening shouts and

fierce abuse, casting at him every evil name they could think of, and

saying that the time had come for him to answer for his bad deeds.

Then one picked up a stone and flung it at him, hitting him on the

shoulder.

Waung had no weapons outside his wurley. He became terrified, gazing

round him with hopeless eyes that saw no way of escape. Then he

stooped to his oven, and saw that Fire lay there in a mass of red coals.

"I will give you back Fire!" he shouted.

He thrust a flat stone into the coals, and with it flung Fire far and

wide among the blacks. Some of it hit the men and burned them, as he

hoped, but others picked it up and ran with it to their wurleys, so

that they might never again be without it in their homes. To and fro

in the air the burning pieces flew as Waung hurled them from him. So

fast they fell that the people were almost afraid again. It seemed as

though Waung were making Fire, so that he might fight them with it.

And then a strange thing happened.

All the coals that had fallen in the dry grass nearest the wurley

turned and began to burn back towards Waung. They met in a circle of

flame. Gradually it burned until it came to the wurley, and there it

wrapped Waung, and his oven, and all that belonged to him, in a sheet

of flame. Out of it came Waung's dreadful cries for help; but no man

dared go near the fire, nor would anyone have lifted a finger to help

Waung.

The people huddled together, watching, in great fear. Soon the cries

ceased, and then the smoke and flame died away, so that they saw the

body of Waung, lying across the stones of his oven. He was quite

black, like a cinder. The tribe uttered a long shout of triumph, for

they knew that he could trouble them no more.

Then they heard the voice of Pund-jel, speaking to the thing that lay

across the stones.

"Fire has made you black," said the voice. "Now you shall be black for

ever, and no longer a man. Instead, you shall be a crow, to fly about

for ever and utter cries, so that when the people see you they will

remember how they were foolishly in bondage to you and your cruelties."

The people cast themselves down, in terror at the voice. A drifting

cloud of smoke floated from the smouldering ashes of the wurley and

blotted everything out.

When they looked again, it had lifted, and blown away into the skies.

The thing that had lain on the stones was no longer there. But from

the limb of a boobyalla tree close by came a harsh croak and, looking,

they saw a big black crow that flapped its wings, and looked at them

with sullen eyes. Then it said, "Waa-a-a! Waa-a-a-a!" and, rising

from the tree, it flew lazily across to a great blackbutt, where it

perched on the topmost bough, still croaking evilly. And the people,

glad, yet afraid, clustered together, muttering, "See! It is Waung!"

III

THE EMU WHO WOULD DANCE

Long ago, Kari, the Emu, was superior to all other birds. She was so

superior that she would not live on the earth. Instead, she had a home

up in the clouds, and from there she used to look down at the earth and

the queer antics of all the things that lived there. It gave her much

food for thought.

At that time there were no human beings at all. All the earth was

inhabited by animals, birds, and reptiles, and they lived very happily

together, as a rule. There were no wars, and every one had enough to

eat. While there were no men, Fear did not live on earth either. All

the world was a big feeding-ground, where even the smallest and weakest

could find a peaceful home.

Kari, sitting in her great nest up in the clouds, watched the animals

below, both night and day. She thought them strange creatures, and

wondered very much how they could be so contented with so many other

creatures about them. She was so used to living alone that it seemed

to her rather unpleasant to have one's solitude broken upon by others,

all of whom might be peculiar enough to think their little affairs as

interesting as one's own. Kari thought that nothing could possibly be

so interesting as her great lonely nest in the clouds. In reality, it

was a very dull old nest, and she was a big, dull bird. She knew no

one, and spoke to no one, and thought only her own queer thoughts. But

she did not know she was dull, and so she was quite happy.

One day she sat in her nest, watching the cloud-masses drift about

between her and the world. They cleared away after a while, and she

looked down upon a great forest over which she found herself, for, as

her nest was in a cloud, it used to float about, and so she never knew

what country she might see when she looked down. Sometimes it was a

lake, sometimes a mountain, and sometimes the great, rolling sea, which

always made her feel rather giddy, because it would not keep still for

a moment.

But on this day it was a wide forest, green and peaceful. Kari's sight

was very keen, and she looked through the tree-tops to the ground below

and saw all the animals. It was really almost as good as a circus, but

then Kari knew nothing about such a thing as a circus. She watched

them with great interest, leaning her long neck over the edge of the

cloud in which her nest was built.

Suddenly she saw a sight that made her lean forward so far that she

very nearly overbalanced and fell out. Far below her was an open space

near a bright spot that she knew was water in a little swampy place in

a hollow. The grass there was green and soft; there were trees all

round it, and it was a very secluded place, except for anyone looking

from above, like the inquisitive Kari.

But Kari was not looking only at green grass and shining water. She

saw a little group of birds that had come out of the swamp, where they

had been wading, and had begun to dance. They were Native

Companions--Puralkas--but Kari did not know that. All she knew was

that they were very beautiful creatures, the most beautiful, she

thought, that she had ever seen: and they were doing the most

interesting things.

Very gracefully they danced to and fro on the patch of green grass.

They were tall, slim birds, looking a kind of dim grey colour when seen

so far away. Their legs were very long and thin, for they belonged to

the tribe of birds called Waders, who get their food by walking in

swamps and morasses, and they had neat bodies, not fluffy like some of

Kari's own feathers--with which she immediately felt very dissatisfied.

Their queer thin heads, with long beaks, were carried on long necks,

which twisted about as they danced. They pranced up and down, giving

little runs backwards and forwards, marching and stepping in the most

curious manner. Never had Kari seen so charming a sight. It made her

suddenly envious. Until now, she had regarded all the animals and

birds as so much beneath her in every way that it never occurred to her

to wish to be like them, or to do anything that they did. But this was

the first time that she had seen the Native Companions dance.

Kari's cloud drifted away presently, and she could no longer see the

queer grey company of long-legged birds prancing on the green spot in

the forest. But nothing that now came within her sight interested her

at all. She saw the lyre-birds building their mounds in the Bush, and

making them gay with all sorts of odd things: bright stones, bits of

quartz, gay feathers; and they also danced on their mounds, but it did

not please Kari as much as the dance of the Puralkas. The moon showed

her the animals that come out at night--wombat, wallaby, wild dogs, and

opossums; native bears climbing up the highest trees, and flying-foxes

that trailed like clouds between her and the tree-tops. She saw the

lizards that live in rocks and on the ground, and the hideous iguanas

that run up the trees. Great flocks of screaming cockatoos made the

air white, as they flew, the sun gleaming on their yellow crests.

There were snakes, too, in the Bush: great carpet-snakes, evil-looking

brown and black fellows, and the wicked tiger-snake, with its

yellow-patterned back and its quick cruel movements. Once it had

amused Kari very much to see the jackass, Merkein, swoop down upon a

snake and carry it, struggling, back into a tree. The jackass was a

silent bird then, and never made any fuss over his captures: still, it

was exciting to see him catch snakes. But now Kari found that none of

these things interested or amused her any more. All she wanted to see

again was the Puralkas come out of their swamp and dance upon the grass.

She watched for a long time, hoping always to catch sight of them

again; but though her cloud drifted over all kinds of country, she

could not find the Puralkas until at last, one day, as she leaned out,

to her great joy the little green space came below her again; and there

were the long-legged birds, dancing backwards and forwards as they had

done before.

She watched them breathlessly, until her cloud began to float away; and

then she decided in her mind that she could not bear to let them go

again. Indeed, she knew now that unless she could do as they did, she

would never feel happy any more. "I have seen all there is in the

world," she said, "and nothing is half so beautiful as dancing. I know

I could dance far better than the Puralkas, if I only knew the way. I

will go down and get them to teach me how to dance. Then I can fly

back to my cloud, and for ever after I shall not need to look at the

world, for I shall be too happy dancing on the clouds."

So Kari spread her great wings and floated down the sky until she came

over the little green space among the trees. Then she dropped gently,

and finally landed in the swamp, which she did not like at all, because

she had never before had her feet wet, nor were they made for wading in

the soft mud of a swamp. She scrambled out as quickly as she could,

folding her wings over her back.

The Puralkas had run back to the edge of their little dancing-ground

when they saw the great brown bird coming down from the sky. At first

they were inclined to fly away, but they were inquisitive birds, and

they waited to see what she would do, though they were quite prepared

for flight if she proved to be alarming. But the Emu looked so simple

and meek, and she was so comically upset at getting her feet wet, that

the Puralkas saw at once that there was no cause for fear. As they

were not afraid, they became rather angry, for they did not like

strangers to see them dancing. So they clustered together and watched

her with unfriendly eyes as she struggled out of the mud and wiped her

feet upon the grass.

"How are you?" she said, rather breathlessly. "I have been watching

you all from my home in the clouds, and I think you are nice little

birds!"

Now, this made the Puralkas exactly seventeen times more angry than

before. They believed that they were quite the most beautiful birds

that ever wore feathers, and it made them furious to be addressed in

this patronizing manner. Who was this awkward brown monster of a bird,

to drop out of nowhere and talk to them as if she were a Queen? They

chattered among themselves in a whisper.

"She is as ugly as a Jew-lizard," said one.

"Did ever anyone see such great coarse feet?" another whispered. "And

her legs!--he-he! Why, they are as thick as the trunk of a tree-fern!"

"And what a great silly head!"

"She is larger than a big rock, but she is more foolish than a coot,"

said another. "One look at her will tell you that she has no sense."

"And what is that ridiculous thing she said about a home in the

clouds?" one asked. "As if we did not know that there is nothing in

the clouds except rain!"

"Why, the big Eagle flew up nearly to the sun the other day; and yet he

saw nothing of nests in the clouds," said another. "She must think we

are very simple, to come to us with such a tale."

"No one could possibly think us simple, unless she were mad," said

another. "Every one knows that we are the wisest birds in all the

Bush. She means to insult us!" And they all glared at the Emu, much

as if she were a tiger-snake.

Poor Kari felt very puzzled and unhappy. She felt that she had done a

kind and condescending thing in coming down to earth and talking so

sweetly to these smaller birds; and she could not make out why they

should look at her with such angry eyes. She rubbed her muddy feet on

the grass, and began to wish that she had never left her nest in the

cloud.

"Do you not speak my language?" she asked at last. "Why do you not

answer me?"

The Puralkas put their heads together again, and whispered. Finally an

old Puralka stepped forward with mincing steps and looked her up and

down, so that Kari actually blushed.

"We know what you say, but we do not know why you say it," said the old

Puralka. "Why should you want to know how we are? and how dare you

call us nice little birds? We do not know what you are--you are

something like a bird, to be sure, but in most ways you are a kind of

freak. At any rate, we have no love for strangers."

The unfortunate Kari moved her big head from side to side, and looked

at the bad-tempered old Puralka in amazement. Her beak opened slowly,

but she was too surprised to speak. Nothing like this had ever

occurred to her when she lived in the sky.

"As for your extraordinary remark about a home in the clouds, we would

like to remind you that we were not hatched yesterday," went on the old

Puralka. "Not even the swallows nest in the clouds. You are only

wasting your time, and we have none to waste on you. Would you mind

going away? We want to get on with our dancing."

Kari did not know what to say. Her bewildered eyes glanced from one

Puralka to another, and, finding no friendly face, came back to the old

bird who stood waiting for her to answer or go away. She had never

dreamed of anything like this, among her drifting clouds, and her first

instinct was to spread her wings and fly back until she found her own

peaceful nest. But the Puralka's mention of dancing reminded her of

what had brought her to earth, and she felt again all the old longing

to watch the grey birds dance. So she summoned up her courage, of

which she possessed surprisingly little, considering her size.

"I'm sure I don't know why you should be so annoyed," she said meekly.

"I mean well, and it grieves me that I have offended you. It was

because I thought you _were_ nice little birds that I called you so,

but of course I do not think so now--that is, I mean, I----" She broke

off, for the old Puralka had uttered something like a snort, and was

regarding her with a fixed expression of wrath, and all the other

Puralkas had bristled alarmingly. "Oh, I don't know what I really _do_

mean!" said poor Kari helplessly. "You all look at me so unpleasantly.

And it is quite true that I have a nest in the clouds--if you will come

up, I will show it to you. I live there always, and I have only come

down because I hoped that you would teach me to dance!"

There was silence for a moment, and then all the Puralkas began to

laugh. They laughed so much that they could not stand--they went

reeling round the little green patch, and at last they sat down, with

their legs sticking out straight in front of them, and laughed more and

more. Meanwhile, Kari stood looking at them stupidly. She felt that

it was not pleasant laughter.

At last they ceased to laugh, and, putting all their heads together,

began to whisper. This went on so long that after a while Kari grew

tired of standing, and so she sat down and watched them, feeling very

unhappy. Overhead a jackass perched on a big gum-tree, and looked at

the group, with his wise old head on one side.

When they had whispered for a long time, the Puralkas got up and stood

in a row, with their wings tightly folded over their backs. The old

Puralka came forward.

"You must excuse us for laughing," she said. Her voice was not rude

now, but there was something in it that made Kari feel as uncomfortable

as she had felt when she had been rude before. "We did not mean to

hurt your feelings--but we all thought of something funny we saw last

month, and so we had to laugh."

If Kari had been less simple, she would have known that this was only

said out of politeness, but she was very anxious to make friends, so

she looked gratefully at the old Puralka and said, timidly, that she

was glad they were so merry.

"Quite so," said the Puralka. "It is a poor heart that never rejoices.

But about dancing--that is a different matter. You see, you have

wings."

"Eh?" said the Emu stupidly. "Why, of course, I have wings. Why not?"

"Well, that is the difficulty," said the Puralka. "Dancing like ours

is the most beautiful thing in the world, of course. But no one with

wings can learn it. You see, we have none ourselves."

The Emu gave a quick look at the Puralkas, standing in a row. They had

folded their wings so tightly over their neat bodies that it looked as

though they had really none at all; and she looked so hard at their

bodies that she did not notice how cunning their eyes were.

"Why, I never noticed that yours were gone," she said. "Dear me! how

sad! Do you not find it very uncomfortable and awkward?"

"No; why should we?" snapped the Puralka. "Wings are really not much

use when you once get accustomed to doing without them. Dancing is

much better."

"But why cannot one have both?" asked Kari.

"Simply _because_," said the old Puralka crossly. "We do not know why

these things are, and we never ask foolish questions about them. But

if you wish to learn our beautiful dancing, you must give up your wings

first."

"Give up my wings! I could never do that," cried Kari.

"Well, dancing is better. But it is for you to say," said the old

Puralka.

As she spoke, she made a sign to the others, and they began to dance,

swaying forward until they almost touched Kari, and then backwards

again. Then the line broke up into circles and figures, and they

danced round the Emu until her head grew dizzy with their movements,

and she felt that to dance so well was even better than to have wings.

To and fro they went, faster and faster, until she could scarcely

distinguish one from another, and their long thin legs she could hardly

see at all. Then, quite suddenly, they all stopped; and Kari blinked

at them, and could not speak.

"Well?" asked the old Puralka, watching her closely. "Do you not think

that wings are only a small price to pay for such dancing?"

"Could you teach me?" Kari asked.

"Easily, if you give up your wings."

Kari gave a great sigh.

"Very well," she said. "I cannot live without knowing how to dance as

you do."

"Then, spread your wings out on this stone," said the Puralka.

So Kari spread her great wings across the stone, and the Puralkas cut

them off quite close to her body with their sharp beaks.

Then they said,

"Stand up."

Kari stood up, feeling very naked and queer without her wings. Then

the Puralkas began to dance again, faster and faster; and they danced

upon her wing-feathers that had been cut off, scattering them with

their feet until there were not two left together, and the wind came

and took the feathers, so that they floated away over the tops of the

trees and mounted out of sight. Then the Puralkas laughed again, just

as they had laughed before, until Kari's head rang with the noise of it.

"When will you teach me?" she asked timidly.

"Teach you!" cried the Puralkas. "What a joke! What a joke!" They

burst out laughing again. Then, to Kari's amazement, they unfolded

their wings and shook them in her face. The whole green patch of grass

was full of the fluttering of the long grey wings.

"You said you had none!" she cried.

"What a joke! What a joke!" screamed the Puralkas, flapping her with

their wings. They spun round and round her, their long legs dancing

madly, and their wings quivering and fluttering. Then they suddenly

mounted into the air, circled about her once or twice, and flew away

through the trees. The sound of their wicked laughter grew fainter and

fainter until it died away.

Kari sat down and put her head down on the ground. After a while she

got up and tried to fly, but the little stumps of her wings would not

raise her an inch from the earth, and very soon she ceased to try. She

sat down again.

Later on, she stood up and began to try to dance as the Puralkas had

done. She moved her great feet in the same way, and tried to sway

about; but it was useless. She looked so comical, hopping round on her

thick legs, that the Jackass, which had all the time sat in the

gum-tree overhead, broke into a great shout of laughter, and all the

Bush rang with the sound. "Ha-ha-ha-ha!--ho-ho-ho-ho!" screamed the

Jackass. "Kari is trying to dance--look at her! There never was

anything half so funny--ha-ha-ha! ho-ho-ho!"

Then Kari knew that she had lost her wings for nothing; that she could

never dance like the Puralkas, and that--worst of all--she could never

go back to her nest in the clouds. She could not bear the harsh

laughter of the Jackass, and so she ran away, her long legs taking

great strides, crashing into the undergrowth of the Bush. Then the

Jackass flew away, still chuckling to himself that anyone could be so

stupid. Soon the little green patch of grass was quite deserted; until

the sun set, when the cruel Puralkas came flying back to it and danced

again. But Kari never came to it.

So the Emu lives on earth, and has forgotten all about the nest she

once had in the drifting clouds. She has no friends among the birds,

for though she is a bird herself, she has no wings, and cannot fly.

She has taught herself to run very fast, and to kick with her big feet,

so that it is not wise to make her angry. Because she used to live in

the clouds and had no proper training, she will eat the most

extraordinary things--stones, and nails, and pieces of iron and glass,

which the blacks have brought into the Bush--but they never seem to

disagree with her. She is not a very happy bird, for all the time she

keeps hoping that her wings will grow long again and that she will be

able to fly back to find her cloud-nest. But they never grow.

Always since then, Merkein, the Jackass, has been able to laugh. He is

called the Laughing Jackass, because of this. He has been a merry

fellow ever since he sat on the gum-tree and watched Kari trying to

dance, after the cruel Puralkas had robbed her of her wings and left

her far away from her nest in the white clouds.

IV

BOORAN, THE PELICAN

CHAPTER I

Long ago, black people were scattered all over the earth, and the

forests and plains were full of them. But a great flood came. For

weeks it rained all day and all night, until nearly all the plains were

great swamps. Then the snow was washed from the hills, and the rivers

and creeks overflowed their banks, and swept over the country. There

was scarcely anything to be seen except the tops of the tallest trees

sticking out of the waters that covered the land. All the camps were

washed away, and nearly all the people were drowned.

In one tribe, the only people left alive were a man and three women.

Their camp was near a river; and when the flood came and the river rose

and washed away the wurleys, they clung to a great log that lay upon

the bank. It was so huge a log that they did not think any flood would

ever move it. But they had seen only little floods, and they did not

know what the river could do when it rose in its wrath.

The water crept higher and higher as they clung to the log, and at

length they felt its great length give a little shiver beneath them.

Presently it shifted a little, and the water slipped below it; and soon

it swung right round until one end pointed over the bank. Still the

flood came rising and rising, and presently a wave flowed right over

the log and washed off some of the people who were clinging to it. But

the man and the three women dug their fingers into knot-holes and

cracks, and held on desperately.

Then a fresh rush of water took the log, and it bumped heavily three

times on the bank and slid off into the water. At first, its weight

took it under the surface, and the four blacks, feeling the cold dark

water close over their heads, made sure that Death had come for them.

Still they gripped the log, and presently it rose, and the current

whirled it round and sent it off downstream. It bumped heavily on a

snag, and one of the women fell off, crying for help as she went. The

man leaned over quickly and by good chance gripped her by the hair.

Somehow, half pulled, half climbing, she managed to scramble back, and

got another grip upon the sodden wood. Then the flood carried them

into the darkness.

All through the cold blackness of the night they held to their rocking

place of refuge. Sometimes it went aground, with a jar that shook it

through its great length, and hung awhile before a fresh spurt of water

washed it off again, to float away into the storm-riven night once

more. Then there would come bends in the river, when the current would

fail to take the log round quickly enough, because it was so long; and

it would sail on and ram its nose into the bank, running so far into

the soft mud that perhaps an hour would creep past before the washing

of the water worked it loose again. Then the log would swing right

round, shaking in the eddies, until it seemed that numbed fingers could

hold no longer. But still the terrified blacks held on, while their

raft spun down the stream once more, with the cold waves splashing over

their shivering bodies.

Dawn broke slowly, in the mist of driving rain, and showed them a

country covered as far as they could see with water. On either side of

the river, the topmost ridge of the high banks still could be seen: but

soon these were almost submerged and the log floated in the midst of a

great brown sea.

About two hours after sunrise a sudden swirl of water took the log and

floated it out upon the top of the left-hand bank. It came to rest

with a shock, and one of the women loosened her grip and fell off, with

a mournful little cry that she could hold on no more. But to her

surprise, the water was only up to her knees, and the log lay at rest

beside her, its voyage over.

The man, whose name was Karwin, grunted as he straightened his

stiffened limbs, slipping down into the water beside the woman.

"That was good luck for you, Murla," he said. "If the water had been

any deeper you would have gone for ever, for there is no strength left

in me to pull you out."

"I thought it was the end," said Murla, her teeth chattering with cold.

"And, as far as I can see, it might as well have been the end, for it

is better to die quickly than slowly, and we shall never get out of

this dreary place."

"That is very likely," said Karwin. "But still I am glad to be able to

let go of that shaking log and stand upright once more."

The other women had scrambled to a sitting position on the log, and

were rubbing their stiffened limbs.

"I think those who stayed in camp will have died more comfortably than

we shall," said one. "How are we to get any food?"

"Oh, there will be no food," Karwin answered. "Unless the flood goes

down very quickly, we shall certainly starve. I do not even know where

we are, and I have no weapons. Ky! none of our forefathers ever knew

such a flood! It is something to have seen it!"

[Illustration: "'Oh, there will be no food,' Karwin answered."]

"That will not do us much good when we are lying dead in the mud," said

Murla shortly. "I would rather have a piece of kangaroo now than see

the biggest flood that ever was in the world. I have had enough of

floods! Do you think the water will come any higher?"

"How can I tell?" answered Karwin shortly. Then, because they were all

tired, and frozen, and hungry, they quarrelled about it, and became

almost warm in the discussion. After awhile, Karwin laughed.

"If I had a waddy I would give all three of you something to argue

over," he said. "What is the use of becoming angry when there is

nothing to be gained by it? It will not take us off this bank, that is

certain."

"No, but it keeps us from thinking," Murla said. "When I was angry

just now I quite forgot that I was hungry."

"All women are a little mad," said Karwin scornfully. "No amount of

talking could ever make me forget that I was hungry. It is the most

important thing in the world."

He looked about him. Behind the ridge of the river bank, on which

their log lay, the current of the flooded stream swept by, deep and

swift. Before, the sea of brown water stretched as far as he could

see, broken only by clusters of storm-washed leaves, that were the tops

of submerged trees. There, no current ran; but the wind fled along the

surface of the water and blew it into ripples and little waves.

"I wonder how deep that is," said Karwin thoughtfully. "I will go and

see."

He took a few careful steps forward. Then his foot slipped, and he

slid off the mud of the crest of the bank, and immediately disappeared

with a loud splash. The women set up a dreadful screaming, crying

"Come back!"--which, under the circumstances, was a very stupid thing

to say. For a long moment the world seemed empty before them.

Then Karwin's head suddenly popped up out of the water, with his face

very wet and angry. He swam to the ridge, but it was not easy to get

upon it, for the crest was sharp, and very slippery, as Karwin already

knew to his cost. Several times he clawed at it, only to slide back

into the deep water, spluttering and wrathful.

"Hold on to the log," said Murla, quickly, to one of the women. "Then

give your sister your other hand, and she can hold mine."

The three formed a chain and found that, by stretching as far as they

could reach, Murla could just touch Karwin with her hand. He made a

great effort and caught it in a firm grip, and then they pulled all

together, and so managed to tug him over the edge of the ridge.

Karwin was very angry, and not at all grateful to them.

"You might have thought of that sooner," he growled. "Ky! the water is

cold, and I sank down into a clump of prickly bushes, so that I am

stuck with prickles all over. There is no getting away from this bank,

that is certain."

"We had suspected that," said Murla, laughing. At this Karwin became

worse-tempered than ever, for a blackfellow does not like to be laughed

at by a woman, any more than a white man likes it. He threatened to

beat them all, and even struck out at one of the women who was

grinning, but Murla spoke to him severely.

"Don't do that!" she said boldly. "We are all in the same fix

together, and we will not be beaten by you. If you strike one of us we

will all push you off into the deep water--and this time we will not

pull you back. Therefore, you had better be warned."

Murla looked so fierce as she spoke that Karwin stopped the hand he was

lifting to strike the woman, and scratched his head with it instead.

It was quite a new experience for a blackfellow to be ordered about by

a lubra, and you can fancy that he did not like it. Still, the other

women were clearly prepared to back up Murla; and he did not forget how

he had struggled in the water at the edge of the bank before they

pulled him in. So, instead of hitting the woman, he growled

unpleasantly and waded to one end of the log, where he sat down and

gave himself up to very bad temper. This time, however, he kept it

inside him, and so it did not hurt anyone.

The sisters looked at Murla with great respect, but Murla only laughed

at them. She was a pretty woman, for a lubra. Her hair was long and

very black and curly, and she was much fairer than most of her tribe,

with a fine flat nose and a merry smile. None of her teeth had been

knocked out, which happens to many lubras, and so there were no holes

in her smile. She was little more than a girl, but she was tall and

strong, and very clever. And she was not at all afraid of Karwin.

For two days the four castaways sat on their log and watched the flood.

Once it rose higher, when a fresh mass of snow was washed from the

distant hill-tops, and came down to swell the river; and they thought

their log was again about to be carried down-stream, and gave

themselves up for lost, for they knew that now they were too weak to

hold on for very long. But the log held firm upon the bank, and the

danger passed. It was very cold. They plastered themselves all over

with a thick coating of mud, hoping that when it dried it would keep

them warmer; and this helped them against the cold wind, though it was

not at all comfortable in other ways.

But worst of all was hunger. On the second day they began to break

pieces off the log and chew them, and that, as you can imagine, did

very little good. Karwin became more and more bad-tempered, and looked

at the women as if it was their fault. Also, he was very sore from the

prickles, and the two sisters and Murla spent quite a long time in

picking them out of his back, though he was only a little grateful to

them.

On the second day, the water began to go down. The river still roared

and raced past them, bearing on its breast all kinds of things: trees,

logs, bushes, interlaced fragments of ruined wurleys, drowned animals,

and even dead blacks; but its water slipped back from the bank where

their log lay, until it left them on a little mud island, with the

brown sea still rippling about them in every direction. The tops of

the trees came farther and farther out of the water, and new tree-tops

came into view, with their boughs laden with mud. Often they saw

little living animals in the brushwood that went drifting by them in

the river; and nearly all the floating rubbish was alive with snakes

that had taken refuge from the flood. Sometimes the brushwood would

break up in the current, and they would see the snakes swimming wildly

until the river carried them out of sight. Two came ashore on their

island, and Karwin killed them with a stick he had taken out of the

river. They ate them, and felt a little better. But they knew that

they must soon die if they did not get more food. They watched the

river anxiously, hoping that it might bring them something else.

Towards evening, they were gazing up-stream, when Murla cried out

suddenly.

"What is that?" she said, pointing to a dark spot on the water.

"It is a bush," said one of the women, in a dull voice.

"No, I am certain it is an animal," Murla said. "It is floating

towards us. Let us try to get it."

So they held hands, as they had done when Karwin fell in, and Karwin

slipped into the current, holding Murla's hand tightly. He had found a

stick with a sharp hook on one end, where a branch had broken off, and

when the dark object came bobbing down-stream he thrust at it fiercely,

savage with hunger. The hook caught in it, and very carefully they

drew it ashore, and managed to get it on their island. It was a harder

matter to get Karwin back, but they managed that too, and then they all

lay on the mud and panted, and, except for Murla's fair face, they

looked as if they were part of the mud.

Their find was a plump young wombat, and it probably saved their lives.

Of course they had no way of cooking it, but at the moment that

scarcely troubled them; neither did they at all object to the fact that

it had been dead for a good while. They ate it all, and long after the

moon had come out to cast her white light into the flood it showed them

sitting on the log, happily crunching the bones.

CHAPTER II

Booran was a very clever bird. He was bigger than most of the

water-fowl, and very strong. He was also very proud, partly because of

his great wings, which would carry his heavy body skimming over the

lakes and swamps, and partly because of his beautiful white plumage.

All his feathers were perfectly white, and he was so vain about it that

he scorned every bird that had coloured or dark plumage. He used to

look at his reflection in deep pools, and murmur, "How beautiful I am!"

If by any mischance he got a mud-stain on his feathers he was quite

unhappy until he had managed to wash it off. Some people might not

think a pelican a very lovely bird, but Booran was completely satisfied

with himself.

Besides being beautiful and white, Booran at that time owned a bark

canoe. It made him prouder than ever. It was not a very big canoe,

but it was as much as a pelican could comfortably manage. He used to

sit in it and paddle it along with his strong wings. There was really

no reason why he should have had a canoe at all, for he was quite able

to swim about in the water with far less labour than it needed to

paddle his boat with his wings. It was only part of his great pride.

Still, no other bird had ever thought of having a canoe, so it pleased

Booran to think himself superior to them all. No other bird wanted one

at all, but he forgot that. The Emu laughed at him openly, and when

Booran offered him a trip in his canoe he asked rudely what Booran

thought he could do with his long legs in such a cockle shell? That

made Booran more indignant than he had ever been since two black swans

had risen suddenly under the canoe one day and upset both it and Booran

in a very muddy part of a lake. He vowed that no other bird should

ever enter it. Sometimes a meek little bird, such as a honey-eater or

a bell-bird, would perch on the edge of the canoe and ask to be ferried

about; but Booran never would allow it. He used to catch fish, and

when he had stored all he could in his pouch he would put the rest in

the canoe, so that soon it became all one dreadful smell. Not that any

people in the country of the blacks were likely to object to that.

They were brought up on smells.

When the big flood came, Booran enjoyed himself thoroughly. The river

was too swift for him to attempt in his canoe at first, but he paddled

about in the water that covered the plains, and poked into a great many

things that did not concern him in the least. Sometimes he ran

aground, when it was always an easy matter for him to jump overboard

and push the canoe off with his great beak. He found all kinds of new

things to eat, floating round in the flood-water; and some of them gave

him indigestion rather badly. But on the whole it was a very

interesting time, and he was very glad that he had a canoe so that he

could go about in a stylish manner.

It was on the afternoon of the third day after the water had begun to

go down, that Booran was first able to try the canoe on the river. The

current was still swift, but he kept in the quieter water near each

bank, and did not find much difficulty in getting about. He saw a

number of strange blacks on a rise near the water, busily building

wurleys; but they did not see him, for he dodged under cover of the

wattle-trees fringing the bank. Then he pulled down-stream for a

little while, until he came to where the banks were lower, and not many

trees were to be seen out of the water. He rounded a bend, and came

upon Karwin and his companions.

Booran's first instinct was to get out of sight. He was afraid of all

blackfellows, especially when they had spears and throwing-sticks. But

before he could go, the woman Murla saw him, and uttered a great cry of

astonishment. At once they believed that it was Magic--so many strange

things could be explained that way. They watched the big white bird in

his bark canoe, and waited to see what would happen, hoping that he was

not an evil spirit who would do them any harm.

Seeing them so quiet, and realizing that they were unarmed, Booran

allowed his natural curiosity to get the better of him. He paddled

across the river, swept down a little by the current, and stopped his

canoe in a quiet pool near the mud island, where the castaways sat

miserably on their log. They looked so forlorn and unhappy that even

his cold and fishy heart was stirred.

"Good day," he said.

"Good day," Karwin answered.

"This is a big flood," Booran remarked.

"Yes, it is a very big one. All the land has gone away."

"Yes, but it will come back. Fish are scarce, now that the river is

high."

"That is very likely," said Karwin.

Then, having made all these stupid remarks, as all men do before they

come to business, they stopped, and looked at the sky, and Booran said,

"I wonder if more rain will come!"

Murla struck in suddenly.

"Men are very strange," she said. "They are always ready to jabber.

How is it that you go about in that little boat?"

"Because I like it," said Booran shortly, for he did not approve of

women talking so freely, neither did he like the question about his

canoe.

Murla laughed. "You look very funny when you are cross," she said. "I

never saw such a dignified pelican." The other women shuddered, for

they thought that Booran might be an evil spirit, in which case he

would certainly object to such free-and-easy remarks. But Booran

looked at Murla, and saw how pretty she was, and suddenly he did not

wish to be angry. Instead, he smiled at her; and no one who has not

seen it can imagine how peculiar a pelican looks when he smiles.

"It is a very useful canoe," he said. "I have been all over the

flood-waters in it, and have seen many wonderful things."

"Have you any food?" asked Murla eagerly.

"No, for I have eaten it all. But I may come across some at any time.

Would you like it?"

"Like it!" said Murla. "Why, we have only had two snakes and a wombat

between us for four days--and the wombat was only a little one. I

could eat the quills of a porcupine!"

"Dear me," said Booran, looking at her with his foolish little eyes

very wide. "That would be very unpleasant, would it not? I quite

regret that I ate an old fish that I found in the stern of my canoe

this morning. Not that it would have made much of a meal for four

people."

"It would have given me a breakfast," said Karwin rudely. "But as

there is no food, there is no use in talking about it. Tell me,

Pelican, have you seen any of our people? We do not know if there are

any left alive."

"I have seen some blacks, but I do not know if they are your people,"

Booran answered. "They are across the river, where they are building

themselves new huts."

"Can't you go and see if they belong to our tribe?"

Booran shook his big head decidedly.

"Not I," he said. "Most blacks are very uncivil to pelicans, and these

had weapons close at hand. I have no wish to be found with a spear

sticking in my heart, or in any other part of me."

"Did you notice what they were like?" Murla asked eagerly.

"I saw a fat woman, and a thin man," said Booran stupidly. "How should

I know what they were like? They are not beautiful like pelicans. Oh,

and I saw a very tall man, with a red bone through his nose. He was

sitting idly on a stump while the others worked."

"That was my husband!" said Murla with a faint shriek. "Alas, I

thought he was drowned! And the fat woman may be your wife, Goomah,"

she said to Karwin.

"Very likely," said Karwin. "Did you notice if they had food?"

"I do not know. But it is likely, for they had fire, and there was a

pleasant smell."

"If my wife Goomah has food and fire, while I have nothing, there will

be trouble," said Karwin wrathfully.

"That may be, but we will die here without ever knowing," Murla said.

"Long before the water goes down we will have starved to death, and

then nothing will matter." She broke off a bit of wood and flung it

into the swirling river. "I wish we had never tried to save ourselves,

or seen that hateful log!"

Now, Booran had been watching Murla, and he thought she looked very

capable, and he thought that she could be very useful to him if he

could get her away to some place where she could catch fish for him, so

that he might spend all his time admiring himself and paddling about in

his canoe.

But he did not quite know how to manage it.

Karwin and the woman went on wrangling. They had not been happy before

Booran came with his tidings; but now they could only think of their

fellow-blacks feasting and making a warm and comfortable camp, and it

made them feel very much worse than they had felt before. They shouted

long and loudly in the hope of making the others hear; but no answer

came, and the river rushed by them without pity, and they hated their

little mud island.

All the time, Booran gazed at Murla, and at last he made up his mind

that he could not possibly do without her. Whatever happened, he must

get her away, and sail with her in his bark canoe to an island where

the blacks could never find her. The others were talking so fast that

he had time to think out a plan, and when they stopped for lack of

breath, he spoke.

"I think, if you sat very still and got in and out very carefully, that

I could take you across the river, one at a time," he said, speaking in

a great hurry.

"That thing would sink," said Karwin sulkily, looking at the little

canoe with eyes of scorn.

"No, it does not sink easily. You would have to be very careful, but

it would be safe."

Karwin looked at the canoe, and then he looked at the trees that showed

round the bend, when the high banks were quite clear of water. It was

very tempting to think of getting there--such a little way! He thought

hard. Then he said:

"You can take Kari first--she is the lightest, and if the canoe does

not sink with her, perhaps I will go."

Booran did not care which he took first, so long as it was not Murla.

But the woman Kari objected very strongly, and made a great outcry, for

she thought she would be drowned. However, the others were all agreed

that she should go, so there was no use in objecting, and she had to

give in. Crying and trembling, she stepped into the canoe, which

Booran brought close to the bank.

The canoe went down a good deal, but it did not sink, and Booran

paddled gently up the stream, keeping very close to the bank, so that

the current did not sweep him down. He disappeared round the bend, and

for awhile Karwin and the two women who were left watched anxiously,

fearing to see the upturned canoe float back empty. But in about ten

minutes they saw Booran turn the corner and paddle swiftly down,

evidently very pleased with himself. When he got near the mud island

he called out, "All is well! I landed her easily on the bank, and she

has run to the camp."

That made the others eager, and Murla stepped forward to get into the

canoe. But Booran stopped her, saying, "Not now--next time!"--and

before she could argue, Karwin twisted her out of his way, and stepped

into the canoe so hurriedly that it nearly sank, and Booran called out

very angrily to him to mind what he was doing. However, the canoe

righted itself, and presently Booran had paddled it out of sight again.

Murla began to feel a little uneasy, though she scarcely knew why.

There was something wrong about the way that Booran looked at her, with

his cold eyes that were so like a fish's. She felt she would be glad

when she was out of his canoe, and safely on the same side as her

people. She did not want to get into the canoe at all; but as it was

necessary to do so, she decided to get it over as soon as possible. So

she said to the other black woman, "I will go next, Meri."

"All right," said Meri, shivering under her little 'possum rug and her

coat of mud. "But tell the Pelican to hurry back, or I shall certainly

die of cold."

Murla waited impatiently until Booran appeared, and when the canoe came

alongside the bank she was ready. But Booran looked at her queerly,

and said, "Not now--next time!

"Why?" asked Murla angrily. "This is my turn."

"Not now--next time!" was all Booran would say; and he beckoned to

Meri, who was not slow to obey, for she was very tired of waiting. She

stepped in, and the canoe moved away from the mud island.

Suddenly Murla was very much afraid, although as a rule she did not

know what fear meant. She felt that she must not get into Booran's

canoe--that there was danger coming very close to her. In a few

minutes he would be back for her. A quick resolve came to her mind.

Whatever happened, Booran must not find her there when he came back.

She slipped off her 'possum rug and wrapped it round a log that had

come ashore on their island. It was just as long as she was, and when

the rug was wrapped about it, it looked as if she were lying asleep.

Then she slipped into the river, and began to swim across.

Booran and Meri were out of sight round the bend, and what she wanted

to do was to get to the other side before the canoe came back. But it

was not an easy matter. The current was swift, and though she was a

very strong swimmer, it took her down-stream; and once she thought that

she must be drowned. However, just as she was on the point of giving

up, she felt the ground under her feet, and scrambled out upon a bank

that was nearly all under water. Then she waded along it until she got

near the bend.

Just then she heard the noise of Booran's wings brushing in the water.

She flung herself down on her face--just in time, for the canoe came

round the bend, and passed quite close to her. Booran heard the swirl

in the water, and glanced round, seeing the ripples; but just then he

caught sight of what looked like Murla, lying on the mud island, and he

said, "Oh, it was only a water rat!" and paddled on.

Murla lay still in the water, holding her breath, until he had floated

down the stream. Then she got up very quietly and waded, sinking in

the soft mud of the bank until it grew higher, and trees and dry land

could be seen. She ran then, casting her eyes wildly about until she

saw ahead a little drift of smoke; and presently, toiling up a steep

rise in the bank, she came upon the blacks, where already Karwin and

Meri and Kari were jabbering loudly, telling all their experiences and

hearing those of the others at the same time. They cried out with

astonishment when they saw Murla coming along the bank, and asked her

why Booran had not brought her in his canoe.

When she told them she had been afraid of him, they all laughed at her.

But her husband, the tall man with the red bone through his nose, was

very angry because she had left her 'possum rug behind, and asked her

if she thought rugs like that grew on wild cherry-trees. He went off

at once to see if he could get it back, telling her as he went that if

he failed, she need not think she was going to have his. Of course,

Murla had known that already.

Meanwhile, Booran had paddled down to the mud island, and, seeing the

form in the 'possum rug, lying under the shelter of the great log, he

called to it several times, saying, "Come on, now. It is your turn."

But no movement came, and at last he grew angry, and hopped out of the

canoe and went on to the island, still calling. There was no answer,

and he lost his temper and kicked the figure very hard--with the result

that he hurt his foot very much. Then he pulled the rug off roughly,

and found only a log underneath.

Booran became furious. He had been made to look a fool. For awhile he

stamped about the island, screaming in his rage, and when the blacks

got to the opposite bank that is how they saw him. Then Booran made up

his mind that he would "look out fight," as the blacks do, and kill the

husband of the woman.

So he took some mud and smeared it on himself in long lines, so that he

might be striped as the blacks are when they go fighting: for a

blackfellow does not consider himself dressed for battle until he has

painted himself in long white streaks with pipeclay. He was so busy

painting, and planning how he would slay Murla's husband, that he did

not see a black shadow in the sky. It was another pelican, and he came

nearer, puzzled to know what could be this strange thing, so like a

pelican and yet striped like a fighting man. He could not make it out,

but he decided it could not be right; and so he drove at Booran and

struck him in the throat with his great beak, killing him. Then he

flew away.

Now the blacks say, there are no black pelicans any more. They are all

black and white, just as Booran was when his Death came to him suddenly

out of the sky.

The blacks across the river were very much amazed. But when the great

black Pelican had sailed away, Murla's husband swam across and got her

'possum rug, which he brought back, tied on top of his head. He gave

it back to Murla, and then beat her with his waddy for having been so

careless as to leave it behind. So they lived happily ever after.

But the river took Booran's little canoe and whisked it away. It

bobbed upon the brown water like a walnut shell, spinning in the

eddies, and sailing proudly where the water was clear and free. At

each mile the river grew wider and fuller, and the little canoe sped

onwards on its breast. Then ahead came a long line of gleaming silver,

and the river sang that it had nearly reached the sea. The light canoe

rocked over the waters of the bar, but came safely through them; and

then it floated away westward, into the sunset.

But the tide brought it back to shore, and the breakers took it and

flung it on the rocks, pounding it on their sharp edges until it was no

longer a canoe, but only a twisted bit of bark. The waves went back

and left it lying on the beach; and some blacks who came along, hungry

and cold, were very glad to find it and use it to start their fire,

when it was dry. So Booran's canoe was useful to the blacks until the

very end.

V

THE STORY OF THE STARS

Pund-jel, who was Maker of Men, sat in his high place one day and

looked at the world. The blacks believed that in the very long ago he

had made the first men and women out of clay; and from there they had

spread over all the earth. Pund-jel had made them to be good and

happy, and for a long while he had been satisfied with them. But now

it was different, and he was angry.

All over the world he could see his black people. They had grown tall

and strong, and he thought them beautiful. They were skilled in

hunting, and fierce in battle: the women were clever at making rugs of

skins, at cooking, at weaving curious mats and baskets of pliant

rushes. The forests were full of game for them---birds, beasts and

reptiles, all good to eat: there were fish in the lakes and rivers, fat

mud-eels in the creeks and swamps, and gum and manna to be found on

every hill-side. The world was a good, green world, and there should

have been only happiness. But the people themselves had grown wicked.

Pund-jel bent his brows with anger as he looked down upon them.

Instead of being peaceful and content, his people had grown fierce and

savage. They thought only of fighting and conquest, and were too lazy

to work. The laws that he had made for them were as naught in their

eyes. They said, "Oh, Pund-jel is very far away. He will never come

down into our world to see what we do. Why should we obey him?" So

they did just as they pleased, and all the world was evil because of

their wickedness.

Pund-jel thought gravely as he looked down into his world, and all the

sky was dark with the blackness of his frown.

"My people have grown too many," he said. "When they were few, each

helped the other: there was no time for feuds or fighting, for all had

to work together in order to live. Now all is changed. They are many

and powerful, and they over-run the world, and each man hates his

brother. It were better if I made them fewer, and scattered them far

and wide. I will send my whirlwinds upon the earth."

So Pund-jel caused storms and fierce winds to arise often, and they

swept across the world. In the flat lands there came suddenly

whirlwinds of great force, that twisted and eddied through the plains,

carrying men aloft in their choking embrace, and letting them fall,

broken and dead, miles away from the places where they had lived. On

the mountains great hurricanes blew shrieking from peak to peak,

tearing up the largest trees by their roots, and tossing them down into

the fern-strewn gullies far below. Huge boulders were loosened and

went crashing down; and often a landslip followed them, when all the

soil would be stripped from a hill-side and fall, thundering, carrying

with it hundreds of people and leaving the bare rock behind it, like a

scar upon the side of the mountain. Thunder and lightning came and

shook the world with terror: mighty trees were riven and shattered, and

fires swept through forest and plain, leaving blackness and desolation

behind. Then came floods, that covered the low-lying parts of the

earth, and made of the rivers roaring torrents, that ran madly to the

sea. The world trembled in the terror of the wrath of Pund-jel.

And yet, men had grown so wise and cunning that not very many died.

When the whirlwinds and hurricanes came, they crept into holes in the

hill-sides, or sheltered themselves in deep gullies. They strengthened

their houses, so that the wind should not blow them away. Sometimes

they floated down the rivers in bark canoes; and a great number found

refuge in caves. Those who were killed were the careless ones, who

would not take the trouble to protect themselves against the fury of

the storms, thinking that they would only be ordinary gales; but though

they died, innumerable people were left.

Just for a little while, they were afraid. They knew they were wicked,

and that Pund-jel must be angry with them; and the thought that

possibly the storms were the message of his wrath made them careful for

awhile. But as time passed they forgot the storms and whirlwinds, and

the fate of their brothers and sisters who had been killed; and they

went back to their wickedness, becoming worse than they had been before.

And then there came a day when Pund-jel's anger broke anew.

One morning a blackness came out of the sky, and in the blackness a

flame of gleaming fire. The people clustered together, in terror, and

there were cries of "Pund-jel! Pund-jel is coming!" Then the

magic-men began to chatter and make Magic, hoping to turn the wrath of

the Maker of Men; and the people flung themselves upon the ground,

crying aloud, and calling upon the good Spirits to save them.

The blackness swooped down upon the earth. In the air were strange

whisperings and mutterings, as if even the rustling leaves and the

boughs of the trees were crying, "Pund-jel is coming!" And then, out

of the glowing heart of the cloud came Pund-jel himself, that he might

see these men and women that he had made. He spoke no word. His

glance was like lightnings, playing about the stricken eyes of those

that gazed. But he trod among the black multitudes, and the noise of

the trampling of his feet shook the earth.

In his hand he carried his great stone knife, and the sight of it was

very terrible. Those who looked upon it fell back blindly. But as he

walked on he cut his way among the people, with great sweeps of the

cruel weapon, sparing none that came in his way, and cutting them into

small fragments. And then the blackness of the cloud received him

again, and hid him from the people of the world.

But the pieces of the slain were not dead. Each fragment moved, as

Tur-ror, the worm, moves; and from them rose a cry. It came from the

fragments of those who had been good men and good women, yet who had

met Death at the knife of Pund-jel with the guilty ones.

Then a great and terrible storm came out of the sky, sweeping over the

places where Pund-jel had trod; and with it a whirlwind, that gathered

up the pieces of those who had been men, women and children, and they

became like flakes of snow, white and whirling in the blackness of the

air. They were carried away into the clouds.

And when they came to where Pund-jel sat, once more looking down upon

the world, he took the flakes that had been bad men and women, and with

his hand scattered them so far over the earth that no man could say

where they fell. So they passed for ever from the sight of man, and

now they lie in the waste places of the world, where there is neither

light nor day.

But Pund-jel took the snowflakes that had been good men and women, and

he made them into stars. Right up into the blue sky he flung them; and

the sky caught them and held them fast, and the light of the sun fell

upon them so that they caught some of his brightness. There they stay

for ever, and you would not know that they are in any way different

from the other stars that twinkle at you on a frosty night when the sky

is all blue and silver. Only the magic-men, who know everything, can

tell you which among the stars were once good men, women and children,

before Pund-jel left his high seat to punish the wickedness of the

world.

VI

HOW LIGHT CAME

The blacks believed that the earth was quite flat, with the sky arched

above it. They had an idea that if anyone could get beyond the edge of

the sky he would come to another country, with rivers and trees, where

live the ghosts of all the people who have died. Some thought that

there was water all round the edge of the earth. They were taught that

at first the sky had lain flat on the ground, so that neither sun,

moon, nor stars could move, but the magpies came along and propped it

up with long sticks, resting some parts on the mountains near the edge.

And sometimes word was sent from tribe to tribe, saying that the props

were growing rotten, and unless the people sent up tomahawks to cut new

props, the sky would fall. In its falling it would burst, and all the

people would be drowned. This used to alarm the blacks greatly, and

they would make the magic-men weave charms so that the sky should not

fall.

At first, all the earth was in darkness; and at that time there lived

among the blacks a man called Dityi. In his tribe was a very beautiful

woman whose name was Mitjen; and she became Dityi's wife.