For a moment the daughters of Wonkawala were inclined to agree. Then

there came to them suddenly the vision of their father, who had said,

"Go to the east," and they knew they must obey.

"We are not afraid," they said. "Go you back, if you wish."

"We do not wish to leave you," the Wapiya said sadly.

"Nor do we wish to lose you, for we have loved you very much," said the

sisters. "But we must go forward. Will you not come?"

The Wapiya girls shook their heads.

"No," they said. "Something tells us that we must return, and never

see you more. But we will always watch for you, and perhaps some day

we may hear you coming, singing our old songs, and we will run to meet

you."

They embraced each other, weeping, and slowly the Wapiya girls went

back until the rocky promontory hid them from sight. Then Yillin

dashed her tears away.

"Come, my sisters!" she cried.

They took hands and danced together towards the wall of rock that

loomed before them, black, unbroken, forbidding. Yillin was at the

end, and as she reached the rock she raised her Wona, or digging-stick,

and struck the rock. It split open, and they danced through the cleft.

Before them was no more the Sea, but a green country dotted with trees,

and covered with thick grass. A little way from them was a low mound,

towards which they danced. As they drew near, they saw that some one

was sitting on it--a very old man, whose silver beard swept below his

feet. He sat motionless, save that his hands were always busy, pulling

the long silver hairs from his beard and twisting them into a cord.

"It is the old man we met long ago!" whispered the sisters.

Somehow, the fear that they had felt when they met him with the Wapiya

girls was upon them no longer: and the little dog Dulderana, who had

fled from him howling, now ran up to him gaily, frisking round him.

The old man put out his hand and fondled him, and Dulderana snuggled

against him; then, nestling down with his head on his fore-paws, he

looked at Yillin as if to say, "This is my master."

Yillin understood the look in his eyes.

"Do you like him, Master?" she asked. "We bring him to you as a gift."

"That is a good gift," said the old man, looking much pleased. "And

you are welcome, my children. I think that this time I have not met

you too soon. Are you weary with all your wanderings?"

"No, we are never weary," said Yillin. "We have danced, and hunted,

and bathed, and sung; and we have forgotten all our sorrows. Our

father, Wonkawala, bade us come east, and we obeyed him."

"And so you found friends and happiness," said the old man. "Sit down,

and tell me of all that you have seen."

They sat down in a semi-circle before him, and, speaking one after

another, they told him the story of their long journey. He heard them

in silence, nodding now and then: and all the time his fingers moved

ceaselessly, plaiting the silver hairs into a long cord. It lay in

great shining coils at his feet. The little dog nestled beside him,

and sometimes, when he paused to adjust a fresh coil, his fingers

rested for a moment on its head.

He smiled at the sisters when they had finished their story.

"It was indeed a great journey; and the Sea has clothed you in silver,

so that you are more glorious than any chief's daughters have ever been

before," he said. "And now comes the greatest adventure of all."

He rose, as he spoke, pointing to the sky. The sisters looked up, and

cried out in awe. For as they looked, the clouds parted, and they saw

behind them Arawotya, who lives in the sky: a great and gentle Being

whose face seemed to have light behind it. He looked down at them

kindly, and beckoned. Then he began to lower a long cord, made, like

that of the old man, of plaited hair. It reached almost to the top of

the mound where they stood.

"You are to go up," said the old man. "You first, I last of all. But

first we will send up the little dog, that you may see how safe it is."

He took his silver cord and tied it round the body of Dulderana, then

joining it to the magic cord from the sky. Then Arawotya pulled it up,

so gently that the little dog never seemed frightened, and he

disappeared behind a cloud. Presently the cord came back again, and

one after another the old man tied the girls with it, and Arawotya drew

them up to himself. Yillin was the last of the sisters to go, but as

she was being pulled up she cut her hand with her digging-stick, and

her Pirha, or food-bowl, fell. It was a very beautiful carved Pirha,

and, because it had been her father's, Yillin felt very sad. Even when

Arawotya had gently received her, and, untying the cord, placed her by

her sisters, she peered over the edge of the cloud, trying to see where

it had fallen.

The old man was being drawn up, and just as he reached the clouds

Yillin caught sight of her Pirha, lying on the mound.

"See!" she whispered to Peeka. "My Pirha--it lies below. I will just

slide down the cord and get it, for it belonged to our father,

Wonkawala. Arawotya will forgive me and pull me up again."

She slid hurriedly down the cord and joyfully seized the bowl. But

when she turned to climb up again she uttered a cry of despair, for the

cord was out of her reach. Arawotya had drawn it up. As she looked,

it disappeared, and then the cloud-masses swept together, blotting out

everything above. She was alone.

All that day and night Yillin lay on the mound, weeping, and begging

Arawotya to forgive her and take her up to her sisters. But all the

clouds had gone, and there was only a clear blue sky, bright with

moonlight and dotted with a million stars: and there was no sign of

those whom she had lost. She gave herself up to despair.

"Yakai!" she moaned. "Better that I had remained a slave in the camp

of Wonkawala than have come to this lonely land to die!"

Towards morning, exhausted, she fell into a troubled sleep. And in her

sleep her father came to her, and his face was grave and kind.

"Alas, my daughter!" he said. "You have lost your chance of happiness

for the sake of a worthless Pirha. What! did you imagine that you

would need a Pirha in the sky?"

"No--but because it was yours, my father," she sobbed in her sleep.

Wonkawala's face shone with a great light.

"Always you were my dear and faithful daughter," he said. "Because of

that, there is yet happiness for you. Go forward, and no matter what

shall befall you, be of good courage."

Then the vision faded, and after that Yillin's sleep was no longer

troubled. She woke refreshed in the morning, and although she was

lonely for her sisters, there was hope in her heart. She took her

weapons and went forward.

It was a quiet country. There seemed no men and women in it, nor even

any animals; and even the birds were strange to her. She passed over a

great rocky plain, making for a green line of trees that seemed to mark

the windings of a creek, for she was very thirsty. She found it, a

clear wide stream, and drank deeply: then she wandered along its banks.

And here at length there was a touch of home, for there were many

crimson parrots in the trees, and the noise of their harsh crying to

each other was as music in her ears. They had their mates, and to see

them made her feel less lonely.

She found some roots and berries, which she ate, hoping they were good

for food: and when night came, she curled into a hollow under a rock

and slept deeply, waking refreshed, eager to go on her way. Then for

many days she wandered, following the course of the creek, for she was

afraid to go far from water. She was a strange figure in her silvery

scales. Whenever she caught sight of herself, mirrored in the water as

she bent to drink, it gave her a new throb of amazement.

She was wandering along one day when a rustling in the bushes made her

glance aside. To her surprise, a dog was looking at her, and she could

see that it was a tame one. Yillin had always loved dogs, and she

whistled to this one, trying to coax it to play with her. But the dog

was suspicious, and backed away from her, growling: then it uttered a

few short barks and raced off into the scrub.

Two black hunters, who were ranging through the Bush a little way off,

stopped, hearing the barking.

"My dog has started game of some kind," said one. "He does not bark

for nothing."

"Let us go and look," said the other. They turned aside in the

direction of the sound, and presently came upon the dog, who bounded to

his master and licked his hand.

"What have you been barking for?" demanded his master, patting him.

The dog wagged his tail vigorously and ran a few paces into the bushes.

"I believe there is something in that direction," the hunter said. "We

might as well go and see, Chukeroo."

They moved noiselessly through the scrub, and presently Chukeroo caught

his friend's arm.

"See, Wonga," he whispered. "There is a demon! Let us fly!"

Wonga looked, and saw a strange, glittering figure standing by a tree.

He was just as afraid as his friend, but he was also full of curiosity.

"It seems to be a woman-demon," he whispered back. "See! it has long

hair, and the face is the face of a woman." He pondered, watching the

strange apparition. "And it carries weapons--strange, that a demon

should go armed, Chukeroo. I should like to get hold of those weapons.

They would be worth having in a fight."

"You may try, if you like, but I have no fancy for fighting demons,"

said Chukeroo.

"I do not know that I have, either," said Wonga. "Perhaps, though, a

woman-demon would not be so terrible to fight. Look how she glitters

when she moves! She would be a startling wife for a man to take home

to his wurley, Chukeroo."

"Every one to his fancy," returned his friend. "Personally I prefer

mine black."

"You are used to yours, but I have none yet," said Wonga, laughing, for

he was a cheerful youth. "Come, I am going to get a nearer look at the

demon. Are you afraid?"

"Very much, but I suppose I had better come," said Chukeroo

grumblingly. "You are a mad-headed fellow, Wonga, and you will get

into trouble if you do not take care. I only hope that this is not the

sort of demon that the sorcerers tell us about, who can blast men to

cinders with a wave of the hand."

He followed his friend, and they crept through the bushes until they

found a place where they could see the strange being more closely. In

their excitement they had forgotten the dog, and suddenly it gave a

loud bark. The shining figure turned sharply and ran towards them.

"Save yourself!" uttered Chukeroo. "It has seen us!"

They turned to run, but in crossing a clear space Chukeroo caught his

foot in a trail of clematis and fell headlong, scattering his weapons.

Wonga pulled himself up, and raced back to help his friend. Before

they could gather all the fallen spears the strange being was upon them.

Yillin was as astonished as the black hunters--and as afraid. But she

had learned to defend herself, and so she flung her digging-stick at

Wonga. It grazed his leg, and made him so angry that he forgot all

about being afraid of this demon, and hurled his spears at her. But

his fear returned when he saw them glance off her shining scales as

though she were covered with glass, and then fall harmlessly to the

ground. Chukeroo joined in the fight: but though the aim of both

hunters was true, nothing seemed to pierce those magic scales.

Moreover, the strange being, having lost her digging-stick, picked up

the fallen spears and flung them at their owners so rapidly that they

thought themselves lucky in being able to dodge behind trees with whole

skins.

"She is indeed a demon!" gasped Chukeroo.

"She may be, but she is very like a woman," said Wonga. "And I am not

going home to tell the other warriors that a woman has stolen my

spears, even if she does happen to be a demon. Besides, you know as

well as I do that they will not believe us. Even your own wife will

laugh at you, and she will not believe."

"That is true enough," said Chukeroo gloomily. "What are we to do?"

"I will make you armour," said Wonga. "Then we will go back, and when

the demon throws the spears at you they will stick in the armour, and I

will rush in and secure them."

"I do not know that it is much of a plan, but at least I have no

better," said Chukeroo. "Be quick, or the demon may come and find us

unarmed."

So Wonga broke off young saplings, and lashed them round his friend

with strips of twisted stringy bark fibre, until nothing of him could

be seen, and he had great difficulty in moving. Then, slowly and

cautiously, they made their way back to the open space where they had

fought.

Yillin was standing wearily by a tree with the spears in her hand. She

jumped round as they came, and while she flung spear after spear at

Chukeroo, Wonga ran through the trees and came behind her. His foot

struck against her own digging-stick, and he picked it up and rushed at

her. The point caught in her shining scales, and ripped them up as

though they were paper. They fell in tatters about her.

"Do not kill me!" she cried. "I am a chief's daughter!"

"A chief's daughter, are you?" said Wonga. Suddenly his angry face

grew soft with pity. "Why, I thought you a demon," he said--"and lo!

you are only a poor, frightened little girl!"

* * * * *

So the wanderings of Yillin came to an end, and though she missed

happiness with Arawotya in the sky, yet, as Wonkawala had said in her

vision, she found it elsewhere. For Wonga took her home and married

her, and his tribe treated her with honour because she was the daughter

of a mighty chief; and later on, Wonga became the chief of his own

tribe, and she helped him to rule it in wisdom. Very often she was

lonely for her four sisters, especially for little Peeka, whom she had

loved best of all: but she comforted herself by thinking that they were

happy with Arawotya in the sky, and that some day she would find them

again. Then, together, they would go at the last to Pund-jel, Maker of

Men, and join their father Wonkawala. There were five stars in the

southern sky that she liked to watch, for she grew to believe that they

were her sisters, and that the tiniest of the five was her little dog

Dulderana. They are the stars of the Southern Cross. And it seemed to

Yillin that they looked down at her and smiled.

Otherwise, Yillin was never lonely, for many children came to her and

Wonga, and her wurley always seemed full of jolly black babies and wee

lasses and lads. Yillin did not mind however many there were,

especially as she did not have to worry about clothes for them. They

grew into strong, merry boys and girls, who loved dancing and songs and

laughter just as she had always loved them. She used to tell them the

story of her wanderings, and when she came to the part about the silver

scales that had once covered her, they would pretend to hunt for them

on her black skin, and would laugh very much because they could never

find any. And Wonga would laugh too, and say, "Ah, well, many men find

their wives demons after they have married them, so I was lucky in only

thinking that of mine beforehand--and then finding I had made a

mistake!"

XI

THE BURNING OF THE CROWS

No one in the Bush ever had a good word to say for the Crows. From the

very earliest times they were a noisy, mischievous race, always poking

their strong beaks into what did not concern them, and never so happy

as when they were annoying other people. Whatever a mother Crow taught

her chickens, civility and good manners were not included in the

lessons; they were accomplishments for which none of the family had the

slightest use.

It did not at all trouble the Wokala, as the Crows were called, that

they were unpopular. Indeed, they rather gloried in the amount of

ill-feeling they were able to excite among the Bush folk. They were

powerful birds, well able to hold their own in any quarrel with birds

of their own size, and so quick and daring that they would even steal

from animals, or attack weak ones, secure in the advantage given them

by their strong wings. They made so many enemies, however, that they

took to going about in flocks, so that no one dared molest them--not

even Wildoo, the Eagle, or Kellelek, the Cockatoo.

Especially did Wildoo hate the Wokala. He was always proud, as the

King of the Birds has every right to be, and among all birds that fly

his word was law. He liked to keep good order, and if any bird

displeased him, a few quiet words, possibly accompanied by a discreet

peck, or a blow from one of his great wings, was more than enough to

bring the offender to his senses. One day he had occasion to punish

one of the Wokala, who had stolen the meal laboriously provided by the

wife of Wook-ook, the Mopoke, for her husband, who was ill. The

Wokala, battered and furious, flew away and told his story to the other

Crows; who, equally furious, flew in a mob to the high crag where

Wildoo had his nest. There was no one there, for it was too late in

the season to find chickens: so the Wokala amused themselves by

scattering the nest to pieces, and when Wildoo and his wife came home

from hunting they hid among the bushes and screamed all sorts of

insulting things at them. Wildoo took no notice, openly. It would

have been beneath his dignity to go hunting smaller birds in thick

bushes--which the Wokala very well knew. He merely folded his wings

and, with his wife, perched on the edge of the rocky shelf where his

nest had been, and stared out across the tossing green sea of gum-trees

that clothed the rolling hills below, his yellow eyes full of silent

anger. Gradually the Wokala grew tired of screaming, and, becoming

hungry, flew away.

After that the Wokala became more insolent than ever. Even Wildoo was

afraid of them, they said; and they kept together in a mob, and lost no

chance of being rude to him. More and more they attacked and insulted

the other birds, until no one felt safe if there were any chance of the

evil Wokala coming near. Again and again complaints came to Wildoo of

their wicked doings, and Wildoo heard them in silence, nodding his

head, with his brain busy behind his yellow eyes. But he said nothing:

until at length the other birds began to ask themselves was it really

true that Wildoo was afraid? Wildoo was not at all afraid of a flock

of squawking Wokala. But he was very much afraid of being made to look

ridiculous. He had no intention of making a false step, and he did not

quite know what to do. There was no one for him to talk to, for the

Eagle is a lonely bird--not like Chirnip, the Magpie-Lark, or Tautani,

the Cormorant, with dozens and dozens of friends. He is a king, and

therefore he is lonely: and, being naturally silent, he does not talk

much, even to his wife. All by himself he had to think out the problem

of what to do about the Wokala; and, meanwhile, the Wokala perched

above his nest and insulted him, and dropped bits of stick down upon

his rocky shelf, and screamed rude things at his wife, until she said

crossly to Wildoo, "I cannot think why you do not make an end of those

abominable little white birds. They are a disgrace to any decent

Kingdom, and you have not the spirit of a Bandicoot!" This annoyed and

hurt Wildoo, but he said nothing--only looked at her until she caught a

gleam of fire in the depths of his yellow eyes.

Perhaps you did not know that in the very early times all the Wokala

were white? They were the whitest of all the birds of the Bush,

without a single grey or coloured feather in all their bodies: so that

there was a saying in the Bush, "As white as a Wokala." They were very

proud of it, too, and thought it quite a disgrace if one of their

chickens showed a sign of being even creamy in colour, once he was

nearly fledged. They kept themselves very clean, going often to bathe;

and when they flew about in a flock their dazzling whiteness almost

hurt the eye, while, if they perched in a dead gum-tree, they looked

like big snowflakes against the grey branches. Even Kellelek, the

Cockatoo, was dingy compared to the gleaming whiteness of the Wokala.

Somehow, it seemed to make their bad behaviour worse, since no one

would expect a beautiful bird like polished marble to have the manners

of a jungle pig.

Summer ended early that year, with a great thunder-storm, followed by a

month of wild wind and driving rain: and all the birds were rather

uncomfortable because the moulting season was scarcely over. Most of

all, the Wokala were annoyed. They liked their white feathers so much,

and were so proud of their smart appearance, that they always delayed

moulting as long as ever they could; and now the bad weather caught

them in a worse state than the other birds. When the rains ended,

early frosts came, and found the Wokala without any of their new

feather cloaks ready. They used to huddle together among the thickest

trees, shivering and untidy.

In that part of the country there is a great black ironstone hill,

treeless and forbidding. Few birds go there, for there is nowhere to

perch, and but little food except the tiny rock-lizards that sun

themselves in the hot mornings. Wildoo knew it well, for he often flew

over it, and occasionally he was accustomed to stand on a shelf at the

mouth of a cave near the top--a black hole in the hillside where no one

but an Eagle would willingly perch alone. He took refuge in the cave

one morning, during a fierce hail-storm; and it was there that an idea

came to him.

That night as he came flying homewards, he brought in his great talons

a bundle of dry sticks, and as he flapped his way over the black

ironstone hill, he dropped down on the ledge and made a heap of his

sticks on the floor of the cave. The next morning he did the same: and

so it went on for many days, until he had a big pile of smooth sticks,

something like a great nest. His wife came with him one evening, and

was very much amused.

"Why have you taken to playing with sticks?" she asked, laughing. "I

never saw such a funny heap. Is it a game?" But Wildoo only looked at

her sourly, and said, "Be quiet, woman!" after the manner of husbands:

and since she was more sensible than most wives, she was quiet.

It was after his heap of sticks was ready that Wildoo went to look for

the Wokala. They had been far too uncomfortable lately to continue to

be rude to him, and, in fact, were keeping out of the way of every one;

so that he had some difficulty in finding them, and might have given it

up but for Corridella, the Eagle-hawk, who remembered having seen them

near a sheltered gully between two hills.

"They are cold," said Corridella, laughing, "oh, so cold, and so sorry

for themselves. There is no impudence left in them."

"Cold indeed must be the night that chills the impudence of the

Wokala," said Wildoo.

"It is going to be a very cold night," said Corridella. "Already there

is a sharp nip of frost in the air. I think that some of the Wokala

will be dead before morning, for none of them have their new feather

cloaks nearly ready." He chuckled. "Well, no one in the Bush will

mourn for them. Perhaps they will realize now that it does not pay to

make enemies of every one."

"The Wokala will never learn a lesson," answered Wildoo. "They are

always satisfied with themselves: and even though some may die, the

others will forget all about it, once they have their shining white

cloaks and can flock into the tree-tops again. But possibly they may

not be so lucky--who can tell?" He also chuckled, looking as wise as

an owl. But when Corridella asked him what he meant, he pretended to

go to sleep: and Corridella, who knew better than to pester an Eagle

with too many questions, said good evening and sailed homeward across

the tree-tops.

Left to himself, Wildoo waited until no bird was in sight, and then

flapped heavily away from his rocky shelf, and dived downward to the

gully. It did not take him long to find the Wokala. They did not

gleam with the whiteness of snow, for they were moulting and very

shabby, and a few were dressed mainly in pin-feathers; but their voices

were just as harsh as ever, and guided Wildoo to where they were

huddling among some she-oak trees. Already a cold wind was whistling

down between the hills, sighing and moaning in the she-oak branches.

There is no tree in all Australia so mournful as the she-oak on a cold

night, when each long needle seems to sing a separate little song of

woe. Already the miserable Wokala were sorry that they had chosen to

roost there.

Suddenly, great wings darkened the evening sky above them, and, looking

up, they saw Wildoo. He perched on a limb of a dead gum-tree far

overhead, and looked down at them, laughing. There seemed, to the

shivering Wokala, something very terrible in the sound of his laughter.

"Kwah!" they whispered. "Wildoo has found us. Now he will be

revenged." They knew they could not fly swiftly enough to escape him,

and they began to creep downwards, hoping to hide among the bracken

fern that clothed the gully. But Wildoo called to them, and, to their

astonishment, his voice sounded friendly.

"Oh, Wokala!" he cried. "Are you very cold?"

"Ay, we are cold," said the Wokala, as well as they could, for their

beaks were chattering with fear and shivering.

"No wonder, seeing how little you have on," said Wildoo. "A pity you

did not get your new white feather cloaks ready earlier, instead of

spending your time in annoying honest folk. Well, perhaps you will

have more sense next year."

"Doubtless we shall, if we live," said the oldest Wokala. "But it

seems likely that not many of us will live, for we are nearly frozen

already."

"How distressing for you!" said Wildoo--"especially as it will be far

colder before morning than it is now. These gullies are the chilliest

places in the Bush on a frosty night."

The beaks of the Wokala chattered anew.

"We came for shelter," said the old Wokala miserably. "But you say

truth, Wildoo: I think the Frost-Spirit has his home down here. Is it

any warmer where you are?"

"Very little," said Wildoo--"and the wind is singing through these

branches. But I know of a sheltered place, for all that."

"Kwah!" said the Wokala, all together. "A sheltered place! Oh,

Wildoo, you are great and--and--and beautiful. Will you not tell us

where it is?"

"Great and beautiful, am I?" said Wildoo, with a chuckle. "That is not

the sort of thing you have been calling me all these months. However,

it is lucky for you that I am also good-natured; I would not willingly

see any of my people die of cold, not even the Wokala, who deserve

little of anyone."

"Then you will tell us where is the sheltered place?" chattered the

Wokala.

"Fly across to the Black Mountain," said Wildoo. "There is an

ironstone wurley near the top--I will guide you to it, if you like. It

is big enough for you all, and there is a fine heap of sticks on which

to perch. The wind will not blow inside it, and the morning sun will

shine right into it."

"It sounds too wonderful to be true," said the Wokala. "Is it dry,

this ironstone wurley?"

"Dry as old bones," answered Wildoo. "Oh, you would be in luck to get

there--you would forget all your troubles."

"One would think that impossible," shivered the old Wokala--he was very

sorry for himself. "But if you will really guide us there, then be

quick, Wildoo, or none of us will be able to fly at all."

"Very well," Wildoo answered. "I will go slowly, as I suppose you are

all stiff. Follow me, and come down when you see me perch."

He spread his great wings and looked down at them for a moment with a

little smile; and if they had not been so eager and so cold they might

have hesitated at the expression in his yellow eyes. But, as usual,

the Wokala thought only of themselves, and as they had learned to

believe that Wildoo was afraid of them, they never suspected that he

might be leading them into a trap. They cried "Kwah! Kwah!" and rose

into the air after him as soon as the flapping of the mighty wings told

them that he had left the gum-tree. Even to fly slowly was difficult,

so stiff with cold were they: but they all persevered, except one young

hen--a pretty young thing, whose weary wings would not do their duty.

She made a brave attempt to rise, but before the flight had cleared the

big dead gum-tree she had to drop back--thankful to find a secure perch

on a jutting limb.

"Ky!" she whimpered. "I can never fly all the way to the Black

Mountain. I must die here."

She crept along the limb until she came to the trunk, and there luck

awaited her. In the fork was an old 'possum-hole which had not been

used for many seasons. It was dry and warm--sheltered from the bitter

wind, and soft underfoot with rotting leaves, pleasant to the touch.

The young Wokala hopped in thankfully, and it seemed the last touch to

her wonderful good fortune that she immediately met a fine fat grub.

She promptly ate it for her supper, tucked her head under her wing,

nestled into the farthest corner, and went to sleep, remarking

drowsily, "This is better than all Wildoo's ironstone wurleys!"

The other Wokala did not notice that the young hen had dropped back--or

if they did they did not worry about her. Weary as they were, it took

all their strength to keep Wildoo in sight, even though he kept his

word and flew slowly. They were thankful when at length he sank lower

and came to rest on a big boulder by the mouth of the cave near the

mountain-top. The Wokala followed him in a straggling line, and

perched on the shelf outside the cave.

"There you are," Wildoo said, nodding towards the yawning hole in the

hillside. "That is your ironstone wurley, and I will promise you that

you will find it dry and free from draughts."

"There is nothing living there?" asked the old Wokala, looking a little

doubtfully at the cave.

"Nothing at all. All you will find there is a heap of dry sticks; you

can perch there and keep each other warm. Stay there, if you like it

well enough, until your new feather cloaks are ready--you are really

scarcely fit for decent society now." Wildoo cast a half-contemptuous

glance at the shivering, half-fledged birds, as they clustered on the

rocky shelf. Then he flew off again into the gathering darkness.

"Whatever is Wildoo about?" asked Kellelek, the Cockatoo, of his hens.

"He seems to be leading all the Wokala round the sky. A funny nurse he

looked, and with a funny lot of chickens!"

"No wonder he waited for dusk before he would be seen with them," said

one of his wives contemptuously. "I flew by their tree to-day, and

really, they were a positive disgrace. And they always think

themselves so smart!"

"Oh, they'll be smart enough again," said Kellelek, laughing. "Wait

until they have their new feathers on, and you will be just as jealous

of them as ever you were. There is no doubt that the Wokala are

smart--that is, for people who prefer plain white. I like a good

sulphur crest myself--but then, it's all a matter of opinion."

"Well, don't let the Wokala know that you admire them, or they will be

worse than ever," said his wives, ruffling their feathers angrily.

Meanwhile, the Wokala had hesitated just for a moment before entering

the cave. Then a fresh blast of cold wind swept across the face of the

mountain, and they waited no longer, but fluttered in before it, in a

hurrying, jostling flock. It was just as Wildoo had told them: warm

and dry, and with a big heap of dry sticks in the middle--just the

thing for them to perch on. They hopped up eagerly, huddling together

for warmth, scrambling and fighting for the best places. Soon they

were all comfortably settled, and at last warmth began to steal back

into their shivering bodies.

"A good thing we made Wildoo afraid of us," said one sleepily.

"Otherwise we should never have known of this splendid wurley." The

others uttered drowsy murmurs of "Kwah!" as they drifted into slumber.

But far away on his mountain shelf Wildoo sat and waited, his yellow

eyes wide and wakeful. The dusk deepened into night, and far off, from

his perch on a tall stringy bark tree, old Wook-ook, the Mopoke, sent

out his long cry, "Mo--poke! Mo--poke!" Presently came a dim radiance

in the east and Wildoo stirred a little.

"Peera comes," he muttered.

Peera, the Moon, came up slowly, until all the Bush was flooded with

her dim light, falling into shadow now and then, when dark clouds

drifted across her face. Wildoo waited until she was above the

tree-tops, with her beams falling upon the ironstone mountain. Then he

took a fire-stick in his talons and flew swiftly away, never pausing

until he alighted on the shelf before the cave.

He laid the fire-stick down and went softly to the dark opening,

listening. There came only the sound of the breathing of the Wokala,

with now and then a muffled caw as one dreamed, perhaps, of cold and

hunger. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, Wildoo could see

them--a huddled white mass upon the heap of sticks. That was all he

wanted, and he went back swiftly for his fire-stick, and with it went

into the cave. Very softly he slipped it into the dry heart of the

heap of sticks below the sleeping Wokala. He waited until little

smoke-wreaths began to curl up, and a faint glow came from within the

heap.

"Now you will be warm enough, my friends!" he muttered. He hurried out

of the cave, and flew slowly to the nearest tree, on the hill opposite

the Black Mountain. There he perched and waited. Very soon all the

dark mouth of the cave was filled with glowing radiance, and clouds of

smoke came billowing out and rolled down the hill. Then came loud and

terrified cawing, and Wildoo thought he could see dark forms fluttering

out through the smoke. His yellow eyes gleamed at the sight. And then

clouds came suddenly across the face of the Moon, and a fierce wind

blew, with driving rain that beat into the mouth of the cave. It

blotted out the glow, and the wind carried away the cries. When all

was quiet Wildoo flapped off to his nest.

He was back next morning on the boulder outside the cave, and with him

all the birds of the Bush, whom he had collected as he came, saying to

them, "Come and see what happens to those who insult Wildoo." The

black mouth of the ironstone cave looked grim and forbidding, and,

peering in, the birds could see the charred ends of the dry sticks,

scattered on the floor round a heap of ashes. Then, from the inner

recesses of the cave came a strange procession, and at the sight the

Kooka burra burst into a peal of laughter. For it was the Wokala.

They came slowly--but where were their white feathers, of which they

had been so proud? All were gone, singed off close to their bodies;

and their bodies were blackened with smoke. Queer, naked birds they

looked, creeping out into the sunshine, and there was no pride left in

them. They looked up and saw Wildoo and the laughing birds of all the

Bush; and with a loud miserable cawing they fled back into the cave.

No one saw the Wokala again for a time. But after a long while they

came out again, this time with all their feathers fully grown. No

longer, however, were they white--the whitest of all birds. Their new

feathers were a glossy black!

They looked at each other for a moment with a kind of horror. Then

they rose into the air with a swift beating of their jet-black wings,

and, calling "Kwah! Kwah!" they fled across the sky. And as they flew

another cawing was heard, and a white bird rose and flew to meet

them--the Wokala hen who had been left behind, and who had taken refuge

in the 'possum-hole. She was now the only white Wokala left in all the

world. They met in mid-air, and at sight of the strange black birds

with the familiar voices the white Wokala uttered a scream and fled

away, never to be seen again.

Since then, always the Crows have been black. They found their old

impudence again after a while, and became what they had been when they

were white--always the nuisances of the Bush, vagabonds and robbers and

bullies. But still the terror of the ironstone wurley is upon them,

and they never venture into caves, but live in the big trees, where

they can see far and wide, and where no creeping enemy can come upon

them in the darkness. And Wildoo, the King of the Birds, never finds

them near his nest, nor need he ever speak to them. One glance from

him is enough for the Wokala: they would fly to the deepest recesses of

the Bush rather than face the gleam of his yellow eyes.

XII

KUR-BO-ROO, THE BEAR

CHAPTER I

Kur-bo-roo was a little black boy baby. His father and mother had no

other children, and so they were very proud of him, and he always had

enough to eat. It is often very different when there are many hungry

pickaninnies to be fed--especially in dry seasons, when roots and yams

and berries are hard to find, and a black mother's task of filling her

dilly-bag becomes more difficult every day. Then it may happen that

the children are quite often hungry, and their ribs show plainly

through their black skins: and they learn to pick up all kinds of odd

food that white children would consider horrible--insects, grubs, and

moths, and queer fungi, which may sometimes give them bad

pains--although it is not an easy thing to give a black child

indigestion.

But Kur-bo-roo had not known any hard times. He was born a cheerful,

round baby, quite light in colour at first; and as he darkened he

became rounder and jollier. His hair curled in tight little rings all

over his head, and his nose was beautifully flat--so flat that his

mother did not need to press it down to make him good-looking, as most

of the black mothers do to their babies. He was very strong, too, with

a straight little back and well-muscled limbs; and when his teeth came

they could crunch up bones quite easily, or even the hard nardoo

berries. His mother thought he was the most beautiful pickaninny that

was ever born, which is an idea all mothers have about their babies.

But Kur-bo-roo's mother _knew_ that she was right.

He had so many good things to eat that he grew fatter and fatter. His

father brought home game--wallaby, wombat, iguana, lace-lizards,

porcupines, bandicoots, opossums; and though it was polite to give away

a good deal to his wife's father, there was always plenty for little

Kur-bo-roo. Then delicious bits of snake came his way, and long white

tree-grubs, as well as all the native fruits and berries that the black

women find; and he had plenty of creek water to drink. So long as you

give a wild blackfellow good water he will always manage to forage for

food.

Kur-bo-roo did not have to forage. It interested his father and mother

tremendously to do all that they could for him, and watch him grow. As

soon as he could toddle about, his father made him tiny throwing-sticks

and a boomerang, and tried to teach him to throw them; and his mother,

squatting in the shade of the wurley, would laugh to see the baby thing

struggling with the weapons of a man. And, while she laughed, she was

prouder than ever. She used to rub his limbs to make them supple and

strong. He did not wear any clothes at all, so that she was never

worried about keeping his wardrobe in order. Instead, she was able to

give all her time to making him into what she thought to be the best

possible kind of boy. And, however that may have been, it is quite

certain that there never was a happier pickaninny.

It was when Kur-bo-roo was nearly six years old that the evil spirit of

Trouble came to him.

Sickness fell upon the tribe. No one knew how it came, and the

medicine-men could not drive it away. First of all, the people had

terrible headaches, and the Meki-gar, or doctor, used to treat them in

the usual manner--he would dig out a round sod of earth and, making the

patient lie down with his head in the hole, would put the sod on his

head, and stand on it, or sit on it, to squeeze out the pain. If this

were not successful, he would tie a cord tightly round the patient's

head, and cut him with a sharp shell or flint, beating his head with a

little stick to make the blood flow freely. These excellent measures

had in the past cured many severe headaches. But they could not cure

the sickness now.

So the Meki-gar had the patient carried out of the camp. The bearers

carried him slowly, singing a mournful chant; and behind them came all

the sick man's friends, sweeping the ground with boughs, to sweep away

the bad power that had caused the disease. This bad power was, the

Meki-gar said, the work of a terrible being called Bori. But, whether

it was Bori's fault, or whether the tribe had simply brought sickness

on themselves by allowing the camp to become very dirty, the Meki-gar

could not drive away the sickness. It grew worse and worse, and people

died every day.

Kur-bo-roo was only a little lad, but he was unhappy and frightened,

although he did not understand at all. The air was always full of the

sound of the groaning and crying of those people who were ill, and of

lamenting and mourning for the dead. Everybody was terribly afraid.

The blacks believed that their bad spirits were angry with them, and

that nothing could do them any good; and so, many died from sheer

fright, thinking that once they were taken ill they were doomed, and

that it was no good to make a fight against the mysterious enemy. That

was stupid, but they did not know any better.

Then there came a heavy rain, and after it was over, and the sun had

come out to smile upon a fresh, clean world, the sickness began to get

better and pass away. But just at the last, it came to the wurley

where Kur-bo-roo lived with his father and mother.

Kur-bo-roo could not understand why his parents could not get up and go

to find food. They lay in the wurley together, shivering under all the

'possum rugs and talking quickly in queer, high voices that he could

not make out at all. They called often for water, and he brought it to

them in his little tarnuk, or drinking-vessel, going backwards and

forwards to the creek, and up and down its banks, until his little legs

were very tired. Long after he was tired he kept on going for water.

Then there came a time when they could not lift the tarnuk, and he

tried to hold it to their lips, so that they could drink; but he was

not very successful, and much of the water was spilt. You see, he was

only a very little, afraid boy.

He woke up one morning, cold and hungry. There was no more food in the

wurley, and no voices: only a great silence. He crept under the

'possum rug to his father and mother, but they were quite still, and

when he called to them, they did not answer. He rubbed their cold

faces with a shaking little hand, but no warmth came to them. Then he

broke into loud, frightened crying, like any other lonely little boy.

Presently some of the blacks came to the wurley and pointed at the

quiet bodies under the 'possum rug, and jabbered very hard, beckoning

to others to come. Kur-bo-roo heard them say "tumble-down" a great

many times, and he knew that it meant "dead"; but he did not know that

his father and mother would never speak to him any more. Only when an

old woman picked him up and carried him away he understood that a

terrible thing had happened to him, and he cried more bitterly than

ever, calling to his mother. She had always run to him when he called.

But now she did not come.

CHAPTER II

After that, hard times came upon little Kur-bo-roo. There were none of

his own family left, for the sickness had taken them all. His father

and mother had been the last to die, and that made the blacks think

that very probably Bori, the Evil Spirit, had been especially angry

with Kur-bo-roo's family, because so many of them had died and the last

terrible blow of the disease had fallen on their wurley. Indeed, for

awhile they argued as to whether it would not be better to kill

Kur-bo-roo too, so that so troublesome a family should be quite stamped

out, with no further chance of annoying Bori and bringing trouble upon

the tribe. They did not spare him out of any idea of pity; but because

so many men and boys had died that the tribe had become seriously

weakened, and it seemed foolish to kill a strong and healthy fellow

like Kur-bo-roo. It was very important for a tribe to keep up its

fighting strength, for there was always a chance that another band of

blacks might come upon them and want to fight: in which case the weaker

tribe might be swallowed up. So boy babies were thought a good deal

of, and for that reason the blacks did not make an end of little

Kur-bo-roo.

But he had a very bad time, for all that. No one wanted him. He was

nobody's boy; and that hurts just the same whether a boy be black or

white. Never was there so lonely a little fellow. The other children

were half afraid of him, because the fear of Bori's anger yet hung

about him; they would not let him join in their games, and took a

savage delight in hunting him away from their wurleys. Another black

family had taken possession of his father's wurley, and no home was

left to him. He used to wander about miserably, often sleeping in the

open air, curled up in the shadow of a bush, or in a hollow tree-stump.

If it were cold or wet, he would creep noiselessly into a hut when he

thought every one would be asleep--and quite often he was kicked out

again.

He was always hungry now. His father and mother had taken such care of

him, and had loved so much to keep him fed, that he had never learned

how to find food for himself. He would wander about in the Bush,

looking for such things as his mother had brought him, but he knew so

little that often he ate quite the wrong things, which made him very

sick. He learned a good deal about food in that way, but the learning

was not pleasant work.

It was a bad year for food. Dry weather had come, and game was scarce;

it was hard for the fighting-men to bring home enough for their own

children, without having to provide for a hungry boy of six who

belonged to nobody. Kur-bo-roo used to hang about the cooking-places

in the hope of having scraps of food thrown to him, but not many came

his way. When so many were hungry the food was quickly eaten up.

Sometimes a woman, pitying the shrinking little lad, would hastily toss

him a bone or a fragment of meat; and though you would not have cared

for the way it was cooked, Kur-bo-roo thought that these morsels were

the most delicious he had ever tasted.

You see, a wild blackfellow has not much to think about except food.

He has no schools, no daily papers, no market days, or picture shows,

or telephones. The wild Bush is his, and all he asks or expects of it

is that it shall supply him with food. He knows that it means strength

to him, and that strength means happiness, as a rule, when all that he

has depends upon his own ability to keep it for himself. He does not

reason things that way, for the blackfellow is simple, but he just eats

as much as he can whenever he can get it, and that seems to agree with

him excellently. That was the principle on which Kur-bo-roo had been

brought up, and it had made him the round, black, shiny baby that he

had been until his parents died.

He was not nearly so round and shiny now. His little body was thin and

hard, and he did not look so strong as before. It was not altogether

lack of food that had weakened him--the want of happiness had a great

deal to do with it.

He had found out that the tribe did not like him. Not only was he

nobody's boy, but he was the object of a kind of distrust that he could

feel without at all understanding it; and he had learnt to shrink and

cringe from blows and bitter words. Once he had found a lace-lizard

asleep on a rock, and, grasping his tiny waddy, had stolen up to it

very carefully, all the instinct of the hunter blazing in his dark, sad

eyes. The lizard, when it woke, was quick, but Kur-bo-roo was

quicker--the stick came down with all the force of his arm, and he

carried off his prey in triumph, meaning to ask a woman who had

sometimes been kind to him if she would cook it for him. But just

outside the camp three big boys had come upon him as he was carrying

his prey, and that had been the last that Kur-bo-roo had seen of his

lizard. He had fought for it like a little tiger--quite hopelessly, of

course, but to fight had been a kind of dismal satisfaction to him,

even though he was badly beaten in addition to losing his dinner; and

that was specially unfortunate, for blacks think lizard a very great

delicacy indeed. The boys ran off with it, jeering at the sobbing

little figure on the ground; and they called him names that, even in

his angry soreness, made him think. They said something to do with an

evil spirit--he pondered over it, creeping into a clump of bushes. Why

should they call him that?

Blacks always want a reason for any happening. Sometimes they are

satisfied with very foolish reasons; but they must have something to

explain occurrences, especially if they are unpleasant ones. The

sickness that had fallen on their tribe they put down to Bori, as the

medicine-man told them; but when the sickness had gone, it seemed only

reasonable to believe that Bori was satisfied and would leave them

alone for awhile. So they could not understand why misfortune should

still pursue them. Another tribe had stolen part of their country, and

they had been too weakened by the sickness to fight for it; and now had

come the drought, making food harder than ever to obtain, and causing

some of the babies to fall sick and die. They turned to the magic-men

or sorcerers for explanation, and these clever people performed a great

many extraordinary tricks to make things better. Then, as they were

really hard up for some object on which to throw the blame of their

failure, it occurred to them to turn suspicion towards little

Kur-bo-roo.

Kur-bo-roo went on with his unhappy little life, quite ignorant of the

storms gathering round his woolly head. No one was ever kind to him,

and he could scarcely distinguish one day from another; although he

gathered a vague idea that in some way they were linking his name with

the Evil Spirit, he did not understand what that meant. He kept on

hunting round for food and water, and dodging blows and angry faces.

If he had guessed that the magic-men were busily persuading the people

that his family and he were the cause of the terrible year through

which they had passed, he might have been more uneasy; but, in any

case, he was only a very little boy, and perhaps he would not have

understood. He had enough troubles to think of without looking out for

more.

CHAPTER III

Then the worst part of the drought happened, for the creek began to run

dry.

Day after day it ran a little more slowly, and the deep holes at the

bends shrank and dwindled away. The fish disappeared completely,

having swum down-stream to where deeper waters awaited them; and so

another source of food was lost to the tribe. There only remained the

black mud-eels, and soon it was hard to find any of these, try as they

might. That was bad, but it was nothing in comparison to the loss of

the water supply. Without the creek, the tribe could not exist, for

the only other drinking-places in their country were swamps and

morasses, and these, too, were dried up and useless. So the magic-men

and head-men became very anxious, and many were the black glances cast

upon the unconscious Kur-bo-roo as he slunk round the camp or hunted

for food in the scrub. Then the head-men issued a command that no one

should drink from the creek itself, lest the little water remaining

should be stirred up and made muddy, or lest anyone should drink too

much. Instead of going to the creek to drink, they were permitted to

fill their tarnuks, or drinking-vessels, each morning; and then no one

was allowed to approach the creek again that day. So in the mornings a

long procession of women went down to the bank, where a head-man

watched them fill the tarnuks, remaining until the last had hurried

away, very much afraid of his fierce eyes.

But the new law fell very heavily on Kur-bo-roo, for he had now no

tarnuk. The little one made for him by his father long ago had

disappeared when he lost everything, and since then he had always been

accustomed to drink at the creek. Now, however, he could not do so,

and no one would give him a tarnuk, or let him drink from theirs. He

would have stolen it very readily, for he was now not at all a

well-brought-up little boy, but the tarnuks were hung far beyond his

reach.

Of course, the magic-men knew how the new law would affect the little

fellow. They knew that now it would be impossible for Kur-bo-roo to

drink, and after a little he would "tumble-down" and be dead; and then,

perhaps, the Evil Spirit would be satisfied, and go away from the

tribe. They watched him carefully, and were glad that he became weak

and wretched. They had uttered such savage penalties against drinking

from the creek that it never occurred to them that he would dare to

disobey. But sometimes in the darkness Kur-bo-roo used to creep down

for a drink, being, indeed, as desperate as a boy can be, and quite

sure that unless he went he must die; and he had become so stealthy in

his movements that he was never caught. It did not satisfy his thirst,

of course, for it was the hottest part of the summer, and all the

blacks were accustomed to drinking a great deal: still, it was

something. At least, it kept him alive.

Then, one morning, came news of a number of kangaroo feeding two miles

away by the creek, and all the camp fell into a state of tremendous

excitement at the very idea of such a chance of food. All the men and

big boys dashed off at once, and presently the women made up their

minds that they would follow them, as it was not at all unlikely that

if the men had good luck in their hunt they might immediately sit down

and eat a great portion of the game they had killed--in which case

there was only a poor look-out for those left in camp. So they

gathered up their dilly-bags and sticks, slung the babies on their

backs, and ran off into the Bush after the men, leaving the camp

deserted.

Now, it chanced that Kur-bo-roo knew nothing of all this. He had not

spent the night in camp, because, on the evening before, he had been

savagely beaten by two big boys, who had caught him alone in the scrub,

and when they had finished with him he was too sick and sore to crawl

back to the wurleys. He had crept under a bush, and slept there

uneasily, for the pain of his bruises kept waking him up. The sun was

quite high in the sky before he made up his mind to go back to the

camp, in the faint hope that some one would give him food. So he

limped slowly through the Bush, wincing when the harsh boughs rubbed

against his sore limbs.

He stopped at the edge of the camp and rubbed his fists into his eyes,

blinking in surprise. No one was in sight; instead of the hum and

bustle of the camp, the men sitting about carving their spears and

throwing-sticks, the women chattering round the wurleys, the babies

rolling on the ground and playing with the dogs, there was only

desolation and silence. He approached one hut after another, and poked

in a timid head, but he saw no one, and the stillness seemed almost

terrible to him. Then, in a corner of one wurley he saw a rush-basket,

and from it came a smell that would have been disgusting to anyone but

a black, but was pure delight to Kur-bo-roo. His fear vanished as he

seized upon the food and ate it ravenously.

He came out presently, his thin little body not nearly so hollow as

before, and looked about him. The food had made him feel better, but

he was terribly thirsty. And then he saw, with a little glad shout,

that all about the camp were drinking-vessels, brimming with water--put

down wherever their owners had happened to be when they had rushed away

to the hunt. Kur-bo-roo did not know anything about that, of course;

he only knew that here was water enough to make him forget that he had

ever been thirsty. He ran eagerly to the nearest tarnuk and drank and

drank until he could drink no more.

And with that drink, so the blacks say, a great change came upon little

Kur-bo-roo.

Kur-bo-roo put down the tarnuk and stood upright, throwing his head

back in sheer bodily happiness at once more having had enough to eat

and drink. All his bruises and soreness had suddenly gone; he was no

longer tired and lonely and unhappy, but strong and well and glad. How

wonderfully strong he felt! A new feeling ran through all his body.

"I am stronger than anybody ever was before!" he said aloud. And he

believed that it was true.

He glanced round the deserted camp. It was quiet now, but he felt sure

that soon the blacks would come hurrying back. Perhaps they would be

there in a moment: Kur-bo-roo listened, half dreading to hear the quick

pad-pad of bare feet over the hard, baked ground. No sound came. But

he knew that they would return: and then, what would await him?

His new strength seemed to burn him. He stretched his arms out,

wondering at their hard muscles, although he felt that the drink had

been Magic, and so he need not wonder at anything at all. Some good

Spirit, perhaps sorry for lonely little boys, had evidently come to

help him. Fear suddenly left him altogether, and with its going came a

mighty desire for revenge. He did not know what he was going to do,

but the new power that was in him urged him on.

A little tree grew in front of him. He began to gather up all the

drinking-vessels, and, one by one, to hang them upon the boughs. There

were very many, and it took a long time, but at last the task was

completed, and not a tarnuk was left in the camp. He looked in the

wurleys, and found many empty vessels, and these also he hung up in the

tree. Then he took the biggest tarnuk of all, and a little tarnuk, and

went down to the creek: and with the little tarnuk he filled the big

one, dipping up all the water from the creek, until there was none

left. There was much water, yet still the big tarnuk held it all, and

only the mud of the creek-bed remained where the stream had been

rippling past. Even as he looked, that grew dry and hard. Then

Kur-bo-roo turned and carried his burden up the bank to his tree, and

from the big tarnuk he filled all the empty ones. They held a great

deal, and yet the big tarnuk remained quite full. For now there was

Magic in everything that Kur-bo-roo touched.

He climbed up into the little tree and seated himself comfortably in a

fork, where he could see everything, and yet lean back comfortably. A

quiver ran through the tree, as if something far underground had shaken

it; and suddenly it began to grow. It grew and grew, spreading wide

arms to the sky, until it was as large as very many big trees all put

together: and its trunk was tall and straight and very smooth. All the

time, Kur-bo-roo sat in the fork and smiled.

When the tree had finished growing, he heard a sound of voices far

below him, and, looking down, he saw the tribe hurrying back through

the scrub to their camp. Their hunt had been unsuccessful, for all the

kangaroo had got away into the country of another tribe, where they

dared not follow: so they were returning, hungry and thirsty, and in a

very bad temper, for they had not found any water in the places where

they had been. They came angrily back to the camp, and from his seat

in the fork of the great tree Kur-bo-roo looked down at them and smiled.

The blacks were far too thirsty to look up at any tree. They hurried

to the wurleys. Then the first said, "Where is my tarnuk?" and another

said, "Wah! my tarnuk has gone!" and a third, "Who has taken all our

tarnuks?" They became very angry, and beat their wives because they

could find no drinking-vessels and no water: then, becoming desperate

because of their thirst, they hurried to the creek. And lo! the creek

was dry! They came back from the creek, jabbering and afraid,

believing that the Evil Spirits had done this wonderful thing.

Presently one saw the big tree, and cried out in astonishment.

"Ky! What tree is that?" he exclaimed.

They gathered round, staring in amazement at the huge tree: and so they

saw all their tarnuks hanging in its branches, and little Kur-bo-roo

sitting smiling in the fork.

"Wah! is that you?" they called. "Have you any water?"

"Yes, here am I, and I have plenty of water," said Kur-bo-roo. "But I

will not give you one drop, because you would give me none, although I

died of thirst."

Some threatened him, and some begged of him, and the women and children

wailed round the base of the tree. But Kur-bo-roo smiled down at them,

and took no heed of all their anger and their crying. Then a couple of

young men took their tomahawks of stone and began to climb the tree,

although they were afraid, because it was so big. Still, thirst drove

them, and so they came up the tree, cutting notches for their fingers

and toes in the smooth trunk, and coming wonderfully quickly. But

Kur-bo-roo laughed, and let fall a little water on them from a tarnuk;

and as soon as the water touched them, they fell to the ground and were

killed.

Again and again other men tried to climb the tree, becoming desperate

with their own thirst and the crying of the women and children; but

always they met the same fate. Always Kur-bo-roo smiled, and splashed

a few drops of water upon them: only a drop on each of them, but as the

drops touched them their hold loosened, the grip of their toes relaxed,

and they fell from the great height, to meet their death on the ground

below. So it went on until nearly all the men of the tribe were gone:

and Kur-bo-roo sat in the fork of the tree and smiled.

And it still went on, all through the moonlit night. But in the dawn

two men came back from hunting: Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin, the sons of

Pund-jel, Maker of Men. They were very cunning, as well as being very

brave, and after they had taken counsel together, they began to climb

the tree. But they did not climb as the other men had done, straight

up the long line of the smooth trunk. Instead, they climbed round and

round, as the clematis creeps when it throws its tendrils about a

branch.

Kur-bo-rop laughed, just as he had laughed at the others, and waited

until they had ascended to a great height. Then he took water, and let

it fall--but the men were no longer in the same place, but on the other

side, climbing round and round, and he missed them. Again and again he

ran to get more, and poured it down; they were very quick, circling

about the trunk, and always managed to escape the falling drops. They

came to the place where the trunk forked, and swung themselves into the

high boughs.

Then little Kur-bo-roo began to cry in a terrified voice. But they

seized him, not heeding, and beat him until all his bones were broken,

and then threw him down. The other blacks uttered a great shout of

triumph, and ran to kill him.

But the Magic that had helped him came to the aid of little Kur-bo-roo

once more, and so he did not die. Suddenly, just as the angry blacks

were upon him, with uplifted waddies and threatening faces, he changed

under their gaze; and where there had been a little black boy there lay

for a moment a Native Bear, his grey fur bristling, and fear filling

his soft eyes. Then, very swiftly, he gathered himself up and ran up a

tree, until he was out of sight among the branches.

Just then the blacks were too thirsty to pursue him. Overhead, Ta-jerr

and Tarrn-nin were cutting at the branches of the great tree that held

the tarnuks; and all the water came out and flowed back to the creek,

and again the creek became wide and clear, running swiftly in its bed

so that there was drink for all. Then Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin came down

to the ground, and the tribe hailed them as heroes. But when they

looked for little Kur-bo-roo, the Native Bear, he had fled into another

tree, and had disappeared.

From that time, the Native Bears became food for the black people. But

it is law that they must not break their bones when they kill them, nor

must they take off their skin before they cook them. So they take them

carefully, hitting them on the head; and they cook them by roasting

them whole in an oven of stones, sunk in the ground. If the law were

broken, Kur-bo-roo would again become powerful, the magic-men say; and

the first thing he would do would be to dry up all the creeks.

Now, Kur-bo-roo lives near the creeks and water holes, so that if the

people broke the law he might at once carry away the water. He is not

very wise, because he was only quite a little boy before he became a

Native Bear, and so had not much time to gain wisdom: but he is soft,

and fat, and gentle, unless you interfere with him when he wants to

climb a tree, and then he can scratch very hard with his sharp claws.

All he can do is to climb, and he does not see very well in the

daytime: therefore, he thinks that whatever he meets is a tree, and at

once he tries to climb it. If the blacks throw things at him when he

is sitting in the fork of a tree, he blinks down at them, and sometimes

you might think he smiles. But if they climb his tree and come near to

knock him down, he cries always, very terribly--just as he cried long

ago, when he was Magic and Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin climbed his great tree

and threw him to the people far below.

XIII

WURIP, THE FIRE-BRINGER

CHAPTER I

Once there was a time when the blacks had no fire. They had not

learned the way to make it by rubbing two sticks together; or if they

had once known the way, they had forgotten it. And they were very

miserable, for it was often cold and wintry, and they had no fire to

warm them, nor any way of cooking food.

Fire had been theirs once. But there came two women upon the Earth;

strange women, speaking in unknown tongues, with great eyes in which

there was no fear. They did not love the blacks. They lived in their

camps for a time, and built for themselves a wurley, coming and going

as they pleased; but always there was hatred in their wild eyes, and

the blacks feared them exceedingly. Because they feared them, although

they hated them, they gave them food, and the women cooked it for

themselves, for at that time the fire blossomed at the door of every

hut.

But one day, the blacks awoke to find the women gone. They had gone in

the night, silently, and with them they took all the fire that the

blacks had. There was not even a coal left to start the hearth-blaze

for the shivering people.

The fighting-men made haste to arm themselves, and started in pursuit

of the women. They travelled through swamps and morasses, across boggy

lands and creeks fringed with reeds and sedges; all the time seeing

nothing of the women, but knowing that they were on the right track, by

the faint smell of fire that still hung in the air. "They have gone

this way, carrying Fire!" they said. "Soon we shall overtake them."

And they pressed on, going faster and faster as the smell of burning

wood became stronger and stronger.

At last they came out upon a little open space, and, looking across it,

they saw a new wurley made of bushes interlaced with reeds. In front

of it smoke curled up lazily, and they caught the gleam of red coals,

and yellow flame. The two women sat by the fire, motionless. The

fighting-men broke into a run, shouting: "Now we will make an end of

these women!" they cried fiercely to each other, as they ran, gripping

their spears and throwing-sticks.

The women sat by the fire taking no heed. So little did they seem to

notice the running warriors that it seemed that they did not see them;

or, if they did see them, they cared no more than for a line of black

swans flying westward into the sunset. One stirred the fire gently,

and laid across the red embers a dried stick of she-oak. The other

weaved a mat of rushes in a curious device of green and white; and as

she twisted them in and out, she smiled. Even when the long shout of

the fighting-men sent its echoes rolling round the sky, they did not

look up. The glow of the flames shone reflected deep in their eyes.

So the fighting-men came on, grim and relentless, burning with the

anger of all their long chase and the hot desire for revenge. They

tightened their grip on their waddies, since there was nothing to be

gained by risking a throwing-stick or a spear when the enemy to be

slain was only two women, weak and unarmed. For such defenceless

creatures, a blow with a waddy would be sufficient. But, half a

spear's cast from the wurley, something they could not see brought them

to a sudden, gasping halt. It was as though a wall were there, soft

and invisible, but yet a wall. They could not touch it to climb over

it, neither could they force their way through. They struck at it, and

it was as if their sticks struck the empty air. There was nothing to

see but the wurley, and the fire, and the quiet women, and the air was

clear and bright. But no step farther could they advance.

They circled about the camp, trying at every step to get nearer to the

wurley. It was all to no purpose: always the wall met them, though

they could not see it. So they came back to the point whence they had

started, breathless, angry, and a little afraid. They were brave men,

and used to battle, but it is easier to fight a visible enemy than one

that lurks, unseen, in the air. It was Magic, and they knew it.

Still, their anger burned furiously within them, and one lifted a spear

tipped with poisoned bone, and flung it at the women. To see him lift

his hand was enough for the band. A storm of spears went hurtling

through the air.

For a few yards the spears flew straight and true. But then they

stopped suddenly in mid-flight, as though an unseen wall had met them.

For a moment they seemed to hang in the air, then they fell in a

jangling heap among the tussocks. And beyond them, while the terrified

warriors shrank together, gesticulating and trembling, the women laid

more sticks upon the fire, and smiled.

The fighting-men were cunning, and they did not give in easily. Not

only were they smarting with the fury of defeat, but the tale was not

one they wished to carry back to the tribe, lest they should become a

laughing-stock even to the women and young boys. So they drew off,

thinking under cover of night to renew the attack in the hope that when

the women slept their Magic would also sleep. So, when darkness had

fallen, they crept up again, on noiseless feet. But the invisible wall

was there, and they could find no gap in its circle; while, all the

time, the fire burned redly before the wurley, and the women sat by it,

feeding it, and weaving their mats of white and green.

At length the warriors became weak for want of food, and weary of the

useless struggle; and so they gave up the fight and slowly made their

way back, across swamp-land and morass, to the tribe that waited for

them, shivering and fireless, in the shadow of the hills.

Great and bitter were the lamentations at the news of their defeat.

They had been eagerly watched for; and when they came slowly back to

the camp, trailing their spears, a long cry of angry disappointment

rent the air. It was difficult to believe their story. Who could

imagine a wall, strong enough to stop warriors, yet that could not be

seen? So they found themselves coldly looked upon, and their wives

said unpleasant things to them in their wurleys that night. Quite a

number of wives had sore heads next morning--since it was easier to

deal with a talkative wife by means of a waddy than by argument. But

the wives had the last word, for all that, and the small boys of the

tribe used to call jeering words at the disgraced warriors, from the

safe concealment of a clump of dogwood, or fern. Meanwhile, there was

no cooked food. The tribe was very far from being happy.

Then a band of young men, who were not picked warriors, but were

anxious to distinguish themselves, made up their minds that they would

go forth to find the Fire-Women and slay them, and bring back Fire to

the tribe. They were very young men, and so they were confident that

they could succeed where the warriors had failed; and for at least a

week before they started they went about the camp telling every one how

they meant to do it. When they were not doing this, or singing songs

about the great deeds they meant to perform--and very queer songs they

were--they were polishing their weapons and making new ones, and

talking together, at a great rate, of their secret plans. When they

were ready, at last, they painted themselves with as much pipe-clay as

they were allowed to use, and gathered together to start.

"When we have killed the Fire-Women," they said to the tribe, "some of

us will turn homewards and wait here and there along the way. Then the

others will run with the fire-stick, and as they grow tired those that

have gone ahead will take it and run very swiftly back to you. In

three days the tribe will be cooking food with the fire which we shall

bring. Then we shall get married and have wurleys and fires of our

own."

All the blacks listened gravely, except the fighting-men who had not

brought back anything at all. These men laughed a little, but no one

took any notice of their laughter, because they had failed, and it is

the way of the world not to think well of failures. The girls thought

the band of young warriors wonderfully noble, and smiled upon them a

great deal as they marched out of the camp. Of course, the boys were

much too proud to smile back again--but then, the girls did not expect

them to, and were quite content to do all the smiling. So the little

band marched off with a great flourish, and the Bush swallowed them up.

"May they come back soon!" said one girl, as she and her companions dug

for yams next day.

"Ay!" said the others. "We are weary of eating things which are not

cooked."

"I am weary of being cold," said one. "There is but one 'possum rug in

our wurley, and my father takes it always."

"There will be great feasting and joy when they bring Fire back," said

another. "Perhaps some of us will be married, too." And they laughed

and made fun of each other, after the fashion of girls of any colour.

But the three days had not past when the young men returned: and when

they came, they sneaked back quietly into the camp and tried to look as

if they had not gone at all. They had washed the pipe-clay from their

bodies, and were all quite anxious to work very hard and make

themselves exceedingly useful to the older men; nor were they at all

anxious to talk. They gave severe blows to the young boys who

clustered round them, clamouring for news, and told them to go and

play. But when they were summoned before the leaders, they hung their

heads and told the same story as the warriors. They had seen the

Fire-Women, they said, and they still sat before their wurley and fed

the fire; but the young men could not come near them, nor could any of

their weapons reach them. And when they were wearied with much

throwing, and their arms had grown stiff and sore, a great fear came

suddenly upon them, and they turned and fled homeward through the

scrub, never stopping until they came upon the huts they knew. Now

they were very much ashamed, and the girls mocked at them, but the

warriors shook their heads understandingly.

"To fight is no good," they said. "Unless the magic-men can tell us

how to beat down the magic wall and conquer the Fire-Women, the tribe

will go for ever without Fire. We are wonderfully brave, but we cannot

fight witchcraft. Let the magic-men undertake the task, for indeed it

is a thing beyond the power of simple men. But is it not for such

matters that we keep the magic-men?"

Then all the tribe said, "Yes, that is what we have been thinking all

along." And they looked expectantly at the magic-men, demanding that

they should at once accomplish the business, without any further

trouble. Every one became quite pleased and hopeful, except the

magic-men themselves--and _they_ were in a very bad temper, because

they did not like the task.

Still they held their heads high, and made little of the matter,

because to do anything else would have been imprudent: and they looked

as wise as possible--a thing they had trained themselves to do, whether

they knew anything about a matter or not. All kinds of wise men can do

this, and it is a very handy habit, because it makes people think them

even wiser than they are. They went away by themselves, with dreadful

threats of what might happen if the people came near them--not that

there was any need for them to take such precautions, for the blacks

were much too terrified by them to venture near when they were working

any kind of Magic.

A great deal of what the blacks called Magic would seem very stupid to

you if you watched it now; but they all believed in it firmly, and even

those who knew that they deceived others still thought that Magic was a

real thing, and that it could be practised upon them. The magic-men

shut themselves up for a time; and then they told the men that they had

made themselves into crows, and had flown over to watch what the

Fire-Women were doing. As all the tribe believed that, they could turn

themselves into any animal they chose, and be invisible, nobody thought

of doubting this. The magic-men then began to weave spells. They

chopped the branches from a young she-oak tree, and cleared away grass

and sticks in a circle round it. Then they sharpened the end of the

trunk, and drew on the ground the figure of a woman, with the lopped

tree growing out of her chest. Afterwards they rubbed themselves all

over with charcoal and grease, and danced and sang songs round the tree

for some days, expecting the Fire-Women to feel their Magic, so that

they would have to rise from their camp and walk, as if in a sleep, to

the place of the dance. But the women did not come, and so the

magic-men told themselves that they were not yet strong enough.

Meanwhile, the tribe clustered some distance off, very frightened and

respectful, and also very cold.

[Illustration: "They rubbed themselves all over with charcoal and

grease, and danced and sang songs round the tree."]

The magic-men tried other plans, although they were much hampered

because many of their spells needed the use of Fire, and there was none

to be had. They tried to kill the women by pointing magic things in

the direction of their camp, such as bones, and pieces of

quartz-crystal, which were believed to be very deadly; and, going to

their old wurley, they put sharp fragments of bone in any footprints

they could find, thinking that the women would fall ill and become very

lame, and so lose their power. But nothing happened. So they sent one

of their number secretly through the Bush, and he returned to tell them

that the women were well and unharmed, and that the invisible wall

about their camp was just as strong as ever.

Then the magic-men knew that they could do no more. They told the

people that the only spells that would conquer the Fire-Women were

spells in which Fire formed a part; and until they could bring them

Fire, they must not expect to be freed from the power of the women.

The tribe did not like this, and much lamentation went up; but they

were much too afraid of the magic-men to object openly to anything they

did.

CHAPTER II

At this time there lived in the tribe a man called Wurip.

He was not a lucky man. Once, in a big tribal fight, most of his

relations had been killed; and when he was still quite a young man, his

wife died of a mysterious sickness, before they had been married very

long. Then, one night, he tripped and fell into a big fire, burning

himself terribly. He got better, but his left arm and hand were quite

twisted and withered, and were of very little use to him.

Had he been a different kind of man, it is not unlikely that he would

have been killed by the tribe, for the blacks had no use for maimed or

deformed persons. But Wurip was strong, apart from his twisted arm;

and also he had a way of muttering to himself that rather frightened

people. It was only a habit, but the blacks were always afraid of what

they could not understand. So they left him alone.

He lived in a little wurley by himself, and though he was lonely, and

would have liked to take another wife, he knew that no girl would want

a man whose arm and hand were not like those of other men. So he did

not try to get married, and gradually he became very solitary. He

thought the other men disliked him, and he would go away by himself on

hunting expeditions, and wander through the scrub alone. Although he

was half a cripple, he soon learned to know the Bush more thoroughly

than any man in the tribe, and he trained his shrivelled arm to do a

great deal, although at first it had seemed that it must be useless for

ever. The other blacks at first gave him nick-names about his arm, but

he did not like them, and his eyes were so fierce that they did not let

him hear them any more, and to his face only called him by his own

name, Wurip, which means "a little bird."

Now, Wurip loved his tribe. He had no special friends in it, which was

partly his own fault, for he had grown very unsociable, but he was

proud of the tribe itself, because it was brave and owned good country,

and had been successful in many fights. It made him sore at heart to

see it suffering from the want of Fire, and also it hurt his pride that

it should have been beaten by women. So he made up his mind that he

would try to recover Fire from the wicked Fire-Women. He thought about

it for a long time, and laid his plans very carefully.

One day he left the camp, carrying no weapons, but only a single waddy.

The other blacks said to him:

"Where are you going?"

Wurip said, "I go to try to get Fire back."

"You!" they said. "A little man, and crippled! That is very funny."

And all the people laughed at him.

Wurip hesitated, and a gleam came into his eyes, so quick and fierce

that those who had laughed shrank back. Then he turned on his heel and

walked off into the scrub, and the blacks said, "Let him go. He is

mad, and he will most likely be killed; and it really does not matter.

He is not much use."

Into the wild Bush Wurip went, taking short noiseless strides. He was

a little man, but he had the quick movements of many little men, and at

all times he could move rapidly through the Bush, scarcely making a

sound as he went.

He passed through the scrub, and came to boggy lands and morasses; his

light feet carried him over swamps and across creeks fringed with reeds

and sedges. Then he saw a light curl of smoke going lazily skywards,

and at the sight his heart gave a leap, for it was long since he had

seen Fire.

Until then he had travelled very quickly. But now he slackened his

speed and went slowly across the plain towards the Fire-Women's camp.

As he drew near he could see them, sitting in front of the wurley and

weaving their rushes. They did not look up as he came, and he advanced

so near them that he began to think that the magic wall could be there

no longer. Just as he was wondering if this were indeed true, one of

the Fire-Women glanced up and saw him; and almost immediately Wurip

felt some invisible object blocking his way, and knew he could go no

farther.

He stopped, and burst out laughing, and at the sound of his merriment

the other Fire-Woman glanced up sharply from her weaving, and the first

one paused, with a stick of she-oak wood in her hand, and looked at him

in blank astonishment. So silent was the place that Wurip's shout of

laughter echoed like a thunderclap. The Fire-Women looked at the

little black figure standing among the harsh tussocks of swamp-grass,

and he waved to them with his withered arm. But they took no further

notice, going on scornfully with their work.

Wurip had expected nothing else, and he was not discouraged. He began

collecting sticks and brushwood for a wurley, singing as he went about

his work, in full view of the two women. He made no further attempt to

get through the invisible wall. There was not much timber about, and

to find suitable material for his wurley was a difficult task. He

walked slowly, using his crippled arm very little, because he hoped

that the women would be less careful about him if they regarded him as

a one-armed man. Sometimes he felt that they were looking at him, and

then he would work with particular awkwardness. Always, however, he

sang, and went about with a merry countenance, as if he had not a

single care in the world.

He built his wurley and went off into the swamp to hunt, returning with

some lizards and grubs, and a duck that he had caught just as it

settled on a sedgy pool. Standing a little way back from the wall, he

called out and threw the duck towards the fire where the women sat.

But it fell before it reached them, meeting the unseen obstacle.

"What a pity--it is for you!" called Wurip, slowly, so that they could

hear easily. "It is a fat duck." And saying this he laughed again,

and went into his wurley, where he ate his supper contentedly--although

it was not cooked--and went to sleep.

In the morning, the women were sitting as before. But the duck had

gone, and, looking closely across the little space, Wurip saw that

there were feathers lying about near their fire. Also there was a

pleasant smell of cooking in the air. This gladdened his heart, for it

showed that the women did not mind making him useful, and that was

exactly what he wanted.

So the days went by, and Wurip lived in his wurley, and the women in

theirs. He never saw them away from it. Neither did he try any more

to go near it. From time to time he made them friendly signals, or

called cheerful greetings to them, but that was all. Each day he went

hunting, and good luck always attended him, because it was the time

when waterfowl are plentiful, and as no others hunted there, the birds

were not afraid. It was quite easy to fill the bag he had made out of

rushes. And each evening he put the best of the game on a big stone

some distance from his wurley, and in the morning it was always gone.

This went on for fourteen days. When he was not hunting, Wurip lay

about his camp, always singing contentedly as he carved himself

boomerangs or whittled heads for throwing-spears that he never used.

Once he carved a bowl from a root that he found, and this also he put

on the stone, for the Fire-Women, and they took it. He gathered

bundles of the rushes that women of the tribes use in weaving, and left

them too. So that he became very useful to them, although he had never

heard their voices.

Then, after fourteen days, Wurip pretended that he had fallen sick. He

did not go out hunting any more, neither did he place offerings upon

the big stone. In his wurley he had hidden sufficient food for himself

to last him for several days, but he did not let the Fire-Women see him

eating. Instead, he crawled out, dragging himself along the ground,

and cried out, sorrowfully, waving his withered arm to them. He

crawled back into his wurley and ate and slept; but they did not come,

as he had hoped they would.

Next day he did not go out into the open at all. He kept close within

his wurley, and all the exercise he took was to groan very mournfully.

He groaned nearly all day, and by the time it was evening he was more

tired than if he had hunted for three days. Because he was tired he

ate nearly all that remained of his food, after which he felt

discouraged, for he realized that it would soon be necessary to go out

hunting again, and he wanted to seem ill. So he groaned more loudly

than ever, and once or twice cried out as if in pain. Then he fell

asleep.

The Fire-Women were fierce creatures, but still they were women. It

troubled them that this crippled little blackfellow should be ill, too

ill to bring them gifts or to busy himself, singing and laughing about

his camp. To sit over a fire and weave mats of white and green may, in

time, become dull; and it cheered the women to see Wurip and listen to

his songs. When he did not appear they took counsel together, agreeing

that so small a fellow, with a withered arm, could not be dangerous.

So, in the morning, Wurip heard steps, and opening his eyes, he saw one

of the women entering his wurley. He almost jumped up; then,

remembering, he groaned heavily, and looked at her with a stupid stare.

She spoke to him, asking what was the matter, but he only moaned in

answer. So she picked him up--it was not difficult, for she was very

powerful, and Wurip was quite light--and carried him over to where her

sister sat. There seemed to be no invisible wall now: the Fire-Woman

walked to the fire, and put Wurip down before it. He nearly shouted,

it was so long since he had been near a fire: but, luckily, he

remembered to turn the shout into a groan.

For some days Wurip pretended to be very ill, and the Fire-Women nursed

him--not in the harsh fashion of the medicine-men, but in gentler

manner, feeding him, and giving him a comfortable bed to lie on. Wurip

was only too glad to lie still and be fed, and it was not hard for him

to pretend to be ill, because, being black, he was not required to look

pale. Moreover, to taste cooked food once more nearly made him weep

with joy. He was very grateful to the Fire-Women, and told them that

he was an outcast from the tribe, because of his crippled arm, and he

begged that, when he grew better, they would allow him to serve them.

The Fire-Women were not sorry to have a servant. Getting food and

firewood was not very entertaining for them, and the gathering of

rushes was a long and laborious task, which they hated. There could,

they thought, be no risk in taking so harmless a person as Wurip to

work for them. Still, they were stern with him. They told him that

when he was well he must live in his own wurley and only come near

theirs when it was necessary. Also, they assured him that if he were

unfaithful to them their Magic would strike him dead immediately. This

made Wurip think very hard, for he did not want to meet such an

unpleasant fate, although he was quite determined to take Fire back to

his tribe.

He showed great horror at the idea of being unfaithful, and when he

thought it was prudent to get better he recovered his strength--not too

quickly, for it was very pleasant to be nursed--and then began his

duties. The Fire-Women found him an excellent servant. He was always

at hand when he was wanted, and he did his work well. There was plenty

of food at all times, and very long fine rushes that he found when he

was hunting far from the camp. Wood he brought also, but the

Fire-Women would never allow him to go near the fire. He laid the

sticks at a little distance away: and they tended the fire and cooked

the food, giving him a share. Altogether, they were very happy and

comfortable, and if he had been able to forget the shivering tribe,

Wurip would have been content. Although he was only a servant, he was

less lonely than he had been in the company of the other blacks. The

Fire-Women were stern with him, but they never made him remember that

his arm was crippled--and when he had been with the tribe he could not

forget for an instant that he was different to the others.

Sometimes in the evenings, as he lay in his wurley, the thought came to

him that it would be better to forget the tribe and stay with the

Fire-Women. After all, they were good to him in their fierce fashion,

and he remembered that he had very little to look forward to, in

returning to the big camp. Even if he took back the long-lost Fire,

they might be grateful to him for a little while, but he would never be

as the other men were.

And then Memory would come to him, bringing back pictures of the tribe,

half starved and shivering; of the little children who were dying for

want of proper food and warmth, and of the cold hearth-stones of his

people. However they might treat him, he could not forget that they

were his own people. He knew that he must go back to them.

CHAPTER III

Wurip lay on his back in the shade of a golden wattle and listened idly

to the Bush voices talking round him. He heard far more than you would

ever hear--voices of whispering leaves and boughs, of rustling grass,

and softly-moving bodies. Not a grasshopper could brush through a

tussock but Wurip knew that it had passed. Overhead, birds were

twittering gaily in the branches. He knew them all--had he been hungry

he might have wanted to set snares for some of the little chirping

things, but just then he was too well-fed and lazy to trouble about

such tiny morsels. He bit long grass-stems lazily, and tried to sleep.

A pair of jays flew into a tree close by, and began to chatter to each

other, and suddenly Wurip found that he knew what they were saying.

Somehow, it did not seem surprising that he should know. Afterwards he

wondered if he had dreamed it, but at the moment nothing was strange to

him. The jays, eager and chattering, did not notice the little black

figure in the grass. They were too full of their subject.

"The Fire-Women have nearly finished their weaving," said one. "Soon

the last mat will be done. They have worked very quickly since Wurip

brought them rushes."

"And then they will go away," said the other.

"Yes, then they will go quite away, and there will be no more Fire for

ever. He-he! what would the tribe say!"

"And Wurip!"

"Yes, Wurip also. What will he do when they have gone?"

"He will go back to his people, I suppose. He cannot go with the

Fire-Women. I think, brother," said the smaller jay, "that they mean

to sail away on their mats to another country, taking Fire with them."

"Certainly they mean to go, and to take Fire with them; did we not hear

them talking about it while we perched on their wurley?" said the

other. "As for sailing away on their mats, I do not see now that can

be. Mats are not like wings. You are a foolish young bird."

"Well, why do they make them so strong and large, and how else will

they get away?" asked the other, looking down his beak in an abashed

way, out still sticking to his point. "You cannot tell me those

things."

"I do not care to know," said the big jay; and that was untrue, because

jays are very inquisitive. "What does it matter? They are only

humans. But wonder what Wurip would say, if he knew."

"Wurip thinks he will take Fire back to the tribe. But I do not think

he will ever get it. The Fire-Women watch him too closely--and anyhow,

he is only a little cripple."

"He would be excited if he knew what we heard them say--that if they

lost any of it now, all the rest would go out, and then their power

would leave them, so that they could work no more Magic."

"He-he-he!" chattered the other jay. "But he will never know that.

They do not talk when he is near."

"No, they are wise. It is a very foolish thing to talk," said his

brother solemnly. Yet they chattered for a little while longer, and

then they flew away.

Wurip lay motionless under the wattle-tree, and forgot to bite

grass-stems any more. He was not sure whether he was awake or

dreaming; and he did not greatly care, because he felt that the warning

that had come to him was true, whether he had dreamed it or not.

It fitted in with little things he had noticed. Lately the Fire-Women

had been very busy at their weaving, working night and day, so that he

could hardly bring them rushes quickly enough. A great pile of mats

lay ready in a corner of their wurley, and now they were working

together at the largest of all. They had seemed restless and excited,

too, and talked earnestly together, although they were careful not to

let him hear anything, and never to let him go near the fire. Not that

they seemed to fear now that he would try to approach it. Wurip had

been very careful, never even glancing towards it as he worked about

the camp. He was allowed to place his firewood at a certain spot, and

took great pains not to go beyond it. In every way in his power he

used to try to make them think that he was afraid of Fire and dreaded

to go too close to it since he had burned his arm. By this means he

seemed to have put their suspicions to sleep, and they regarded him as

a harmless little fellow, of whom they need have no fear.

He made his way back to the camp, slowly, thinking hard. If the

Fire-Women were really going away, he must act, and act quickly. At

any time they might finish their work; and then they would disappear

for ever, and there would be no more Fire to warm the people of the

earth. Wurip drew up his thin little body as he walked, and clenched

his fist. He made up his mind that he would act that very night.

He found the camp just as usual, with the Fire-Women working at their

greatest mat of all, weaving it in and out in a curious device of green

and white. One held the white strands, and the other the green; and

their black hands worked so quickly that Wurip could scarcely see to

which woman they belonged. He looked at it with great admiration, and

ventured a timid word of praise. Then he went a little way off and

began to skin the native cats and bandicoots that he had brought home.

When he had prepared them for cooking, he laid them carefully on

crossed sticks and put them in a shady corner. It was growing dusk,

and he hurried off to find firewood. All the time, he was turning many

plans over and over in his mind, and rejecting one after another as

useless. Well, he thought, he must trust to luck.

He came back to the camp with his bundle of wood, and began to heap it

in the accustomed place, keeping a respectful distance from the Fire,

and bending down his eyes, lest their burning desire should be seen.

Already the sun had gone away over the edge of the world, and darkness

was coming fast. The Fire-Women had been forced to stop weaving, for

the pattern of the great mat was too fine to weave by firelight.

Generally, when they had finished, one carried the work into the wurley

while the other remained outside to watch Wurip and begin the cooking.

But the great mat was now too heavy for one to lift, and so they rolled

it up, and carried it away together.

Wurip, crouching over his heap of firewood, felt his body suddenly

stiffened like a steel spring. Under his brows he watched them; and as

the wurley hid them, he darted forward, snatched a big fire-stick from

the glowing coals, and fled, with great noiseless bounds that carried

him in a moment far into the dusk. Behind him he heard a sudden loud

anguished cry, and knew that the Fire-Women had found out his theft.

For a moment he feared that the magic wall would spring up to bar his

way, and he ran as he had never run before. But it did not come; and

into his mind swept the words of the jay, that if Fire were taken from

the Women, they would lose their power of Magic. He hardly dared to

think that could be so--but as he ran on, finding no unseen obstacle in

his way, hope surged over him. Magic was a thing against which no man

could fight. But if he had only ordinary women to deal with, he was

not afraid.

A few hundred yards from the wurley, he glanced back, and saw that

their fire no longer sent its red gleam into the dusk. His heart leapt

with joy, for it seemed as if the jays' story must be true; and if so,

the Fire-Women's hearth was cold, and already the only Fire in the

world was what he carried. The greatness of the thought caught his

breath--surely such an honour should be for the bravest warrior of the

tribe, and not for a half-crippled, undersized weakling like him. And

behind him came a sudden trampling of running feet, and a cry of such

terrible anger that the very waterfowl in the swamps hid themselves in

fear. The Fire-Women were on his track.

Wurip ran forward, leaping from tussock to tussock sometimes slipping

into bog-holes, and scratching his bare limbs on great clumps of

sword-grass. In his withered hand he clutched the fire-stick; the

other held his waddy, and sometimes he was glad to use it to help

himself over rough places. Luckily, he knew the ground well--there was

no part of it that he had not studied on his days out hunting, knowing

that at any time he might have to make his dash for home. He hid the

glow of the fire-stick as much as he could, holding it so close to him

that his skin was scorched by it; but his precautions could not conceal

it altogether, and to the Fire-Women behind him it was like a red star,

twinkling low down upon earth.

They came after Wurip swiftly. At first they had uttered savage cries

of wrath, and fierce threats of what they would do to Wurip when they

caught him; but soon it seemed that they knew that shouts and threats

were useless, and after that they hunted him silently, only the quick

pad of their feet being heard in the darkness. They were terribly

quick feet. Wurip had not dreamed that women could run so fast.

Sometimes, as the moon rose, he could see them in pursuit, grim and

revengeful, looking like giants in the darkness. His soul was full of

terror at the thought of what they would do if they caught him, for he

knew that he would be but a little child in their hands.

They crossed the swamps and morasses, and the reed-fringed creeks--and

here Wurip lost ground, for he had to go very carefully, lest he should

slip and so drown the precious fire-stick that he held close to him.

Only a blackfellow could have kept it alight so long; but Wurip knew

just how to hold it so that the air fanned it enough to keep the dull

coals glowing, without letting it burn too quickly away. He heard the

Fire-Women splash through the creeks, not far behind him. Then they

came into the scrub-country, all running at their wildest speed, for

this was the last part of the journey back to the tribe.

Then Wurip knew that he must be beaten. He was nearly done--his breath

came unevenly, and his limbs were like lead, and would no longer do his

bidding. Fierce and untired, close behind him, came the Fire-Women. A

little ahead, he knew of a bed of green bracken fern in a gully, and he

set his teeth in the resolve to get thus far.

They were quite near him when the dark line of the gully showed,

somewhat to his left. He threw all his remaining strength into a last

spurt of energy, and then, turning from the straight line towards the

camp of the tribe, he crept through the scrub to the gully, holding

both hands over the fire so that it might not guide the Fire-Women to

his place of refuge, and heedless of the cruel burning. He reached the

gully safely, and flung himself face downwards among the rank ferns and

nettles, panting as if his heart would burst from his body. He heard

the Women run past, tirelessly swift; there came to him their angry

voices, calling softly, lest they should miss each other in the dim

scrub. They had not seen him swerve--that was clear; and Wurip hugged

himself with joy to think that for the moment he was safe.

When they had passed, and the sound of their feet had died away, he

crept from his gully and fled in a northerly direction. He ran all

through the dark hours, with long trotting strides, as a dingo runs,

and circling round so that he might miss the Fire-Women and come upon

the camp from the other side. Sometimes he paused to rest, listening

for the sound of the other hastening feet--but they did not come, and

at last he believed that he had escaped pursuit.

He was very tired--so tired that at last he lost something of the

blackfellow's keenness that guides him through even unknown country in

the dark. Something seemed to have broken in his chest, from the time

of his last mad spurt from the Fire-Women, and now each breath stabbed

him. Perhaps it was because he was so tired that at last he became

confused altogether, and swerved from the track he had mapped out for

himself to get back to the camp; and when dawn broke he was back in the

direction where he might expect to meet pursuit. Even as this dawned

upon him, he looked up and saw the Fire-Women running silently towards

him, their fierce eyes gleaming.

Wurip knew it was the end. He fled, knowing as he went that he could

not run far. Behind him came the Women, tireless as though they had

not spent the night in fruitless chase. He clutched the fire-stick to

him, scarcely knowing that it burned his hands and his naked chest.

Rounding a clump of saplings, a sob burst from his labouring chest.

Before him he saw the familiar camp, the wurleys clustered together; it

seemed to smile at him in home-like fashion. So near home, to fail!

He spurred himself to the last effort.

Then from the camp burst a knot of fighting-men, racing towards him.

He caught the glint of the rising sun on their spears and

throwing-sticks; and he waved to them, for he could not shout. They

came on with great strides: there was music in the sound of their

trampling feet. When they came to him, they divided, running past him,

and Wurip staggered through the lane they formed. He heard fierce

cries and blows behind him, but he did not stop.

Before him the camp lay, and never had it smiled to him a welcome so

sweet. There were people running out to meet him; men, women, and

little children: he could hear their voices, amazed and

rejoicing--"Wurip! It is Wurip, bringing us Fire!" He tried to smile

at them, but his lips would not move. So he staggered in to the circle

of the huts, and there fell upon his face, still grasping the red

fire-stick in his blistered hand. It was all red now, for it had

burned down to the last few inches.

Then, as they clustered round him, lifting him with gentle hands and

blessing his name, he smiled at them a little, and died peacefully,

happy that he had brought back Fire to his own people.

But to the people he did not die. Ever after they honoured his name,

calling him the benefactor of the tribe: so that in death he found that

honour that forgot he had ever been little and weak, and a cripple.

And when you see the little Fire-tailed Finch that hops about so

fearlessly, with the bright red feathers making a patch of flame on its

sober plumage, you are looking at Wurip, the Fire-bringer, who gave his

life to vanquish the wicked Fire-Women and to lay Fire once more upon

the hearth-stones of his tribe.

_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_

* * * * *

MARY GRANT BRUCE'S

POPULAR STORIES

Published by

WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.

A LITTLE BUSH MAID

TIMOTHY IN BUSHLAND

MATES AT BILLABONG

FROM BILLABONG TO LONDON

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End of Project Gutenberg's The Stone Axe of Burkamukk, by Mary Grant Bruce