Chapter 8 A “Walkabout”

“Go and lay ‘em egg, silly fellow you. Go and lay ‘em egg, silly fellow

you,” shouted Bett-Bett in a singsong voice, as she and Sue dodged

between an old broody hen and the tool-house.

Bett-Bett had no patience with broody hens; she seemed to think they

were wasting their time; particularly when, like this one, they would

try to hatch chickens out of nails. “Come for a walk-about, Bett-Bett,”

I called; “I am going to the Long Reach for some water-lilies.”

“You eye, Missus,” she shrieked in answer, still dodging and dancing

after old broody.

As I went for my hat and revolver, I heard her shrill little voice up at

its highest pitch inviting every one within hearing to come with us. By

the time I reached the slip-rails, there were six or eight lubras, a few

piccaninnies, and about twenty dogs at my heels, and I felt like a Pied

Piper of Hamelin.

We had a very merry walk-about that afternoon. Everything that could,

seemed to happen. Just as we crossed the creek outside the slip-rails

the fun began, and Sue got into trouble. She picked up the scent of a

bandicoot, and was darting off to run its tracks, when her black legs

were seized by Bett-Bett, and she got a ringing box on the ears.

She deserved it, for she was actually going to run tracks away from

the direction in which the animal’s toes were pointing. She should have

noticed at once that the scent grew stronger the other way. Good little

nigger dogs always do. Bett-Bett quickly put her right, and off every

one scampered after her, till she stopped at a hollow log. Bett-Bett and

Sue arrived first, and everybody else immediately after, only to find

that the bandicoot was not at home, for there were newer tracks leading

out again. Sue simply couldn’t believe it, and scratched wildly till

stopped by another box on the ears. I was last to arrive, but came up

just as the dogs scented the new tracks, and very soon afterwards the

unfortunate bandicoot was hanging from one of the lubras’ belts.

The Long Reach is a beautiful twelve-mile-long waterhole, full of

crocodiles and water-lilies. It begins about three-quarters of a mile

from the homestead, but we took nearly two hours to get there, for

we zigzagged through the scrub, and had ever so many exciting hunts,

several natural history lessons, and a peep into every nook and cranny

we passed, to see how birds, beasts and insects made their nests.

Do you think if any one had seen me—a white woman with a revolver and

cartridges at her belt, hunting with a mob of lubras—that they would

have imagined that I was at school?

We had a strange lubra with us—one I had not seen before. I noticed that

she dragged a leafy branch after her wherever she went. I asked her why

she did this, and she told me that she had run away from her husband,

and didn’t want him to find her.

“Me knock up longa me boy,” she said, “him all day krowl-krowl,”—she

meant growl.

You see, he would of course travel about, looking at any tracks he

came on, trying to find her, and so Murraweedbee—for that was her

name—dragged this branch along after her like a rake, to scratch and mix

up her tracks, so that nobody could possibly recognize them. Instead of

disguising herself, she disguised her footprints.

When at last we arrived at the Reach, the lubras went into the water

to gather lilies, and Bett-Bett and I poked about in the sand after

crocodiles’ eggs.

She would never hunt for these eggs on the Roper River. She said the

sea-going crocodiles were “cheeky fellow,” and would “round you up” if

you did.

Then she told me a thrilling experience she had had once. She was

scratching about on the banks of the Roper River and found a nest of

eggs. She was just gathering them up, when she heard a splash, and

saw the mother crocodile swimming across the river. “My word! me race

quickfellow,” she said, and she looked terribly frightened as she

remembered how nearly she had been caught. She had evidently just seen

the mother in time. Crocodiles in the land-locked pools were “frightened

fellow,” she said, so it was always safe to take their eggs. They were

too timid to round you up.”

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She scratched around for a while and then told me that “crocodiles all

day knock up longa egg,” meaning they could not be bothered with looking

after them, but just left them to hatch in the sand, keeping one eye on

them in case of accidents.

Bett-Bett was only eight years old, but what she didn’t know about

natural history was hardly worth knowing; but then she had the best

teacher in all the world—Mother Nature. She never wearies her pupils,

but punishes them pretty severely when they make mistakes. The most

certain way of learning that crocodiles watch their eggs, and that

sea-going crocodiles are fiercest, is to be chased by the mother.

Bett-Bett certainly knew her lessons, which is more than can be said of

many white children. They were only timid crocodiles in the Long Reach,

and after a long hunt in the sand, we came on a nest of eggs, and

Bett-Bett broke one, and, there all ready to hatch, we saw a tiny

crocodile, curled up like a clock spring. These eggs are very curious;

they seem to have two distinct shells and look exactly like a hen’s egg

inside a duck’s egg.

The eggs we found were of no use for eating, so Bett-Bett covered them

up again, keeping only one out, which she said would hatch next day.

I asked her what she was going to do with it, but she only grinned

impishly, and I knew she was up to some of her pranks.

As we went back to the lubras, we came on an old blackfellow, fishing in

the water hole. He was standing on a tree trunk holding a spear, poised

ready to dart at the first fish that came up to breathe. I called to

him but he took no notice, and the lubras laughed and said he was “Old

No-More-Hearem,” and threw stones at him.

I called to them to stop, for I was afraid he would be angry with us,

but they said he was deaf and dumb, and that every one threw stones at

him when they wanted him to look round. I said this was rather painful

for “No-More-Hearem,” but they seemed to think it was his own fault for

being deaf and dumb. Two or three of the stones hit him and he turned

round. Then they all began talking in the sign language, asking the news

and answering questions. The blacks’ sign language is very perfect. They

have a sign for every bird, beast, fish, person, place and action. They

have long talks without uttering a word. There are many times when a

blackfellow must not speak, unless by signs. For instance, if he is

mourning for a near relative, or has just come from a very special

corrobboree. Often he must keep silent for weeks, and occasionally for

months, and it is because of this and many other reasons that the sign

language is so perfect. Every one can speak it, and every one does

so when hiding in the bush from enemies, and then there is no fear of

voices being heard.

It is very wonderful, but then the blacks are wonderful. To have any

idea of how wonderful they are, you must live among them, going in and

out of their camps, and having every one of them for a friend. Just

living in a house that happens to be in a blackfellow’s country is not

living among blacks, although some people think it is.

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We told old “No-More-Hearem” to come for tobacco, and then we all

started for home. Before very long Bett-Bett saw a bee’s nest, and

shouting out, “sugar-bag,” as she thrust her crocodile’s egg into my

hand, began climbing a tree. Everybody climbed up after her to have a

look, and then down again for sticks, and up again for the honey; poking

at it with the long sticks and hanging on anywhere and everywhere like

a troop of black monkeys. I waited below, and the dogs thinking it

might perhaps be a ‘possum hunt, danced about and barked ready to catch

anything that came down. When all the honey was gathered into broad

leaves, we went on home, calling in at the blacks’ camp when we got

there. There were a few old men at home, among them Billy Muck and

an old bush nigger or “myall.” Billy noticed at once that I had some

tobacco and matches, and began puzzling his brains to think of some way

of getting a piece without asking for it. To tease him I gave all the

others a bit and pretended to start for home, as though I had forgotten

him. Suddenly a bright idea struck him.

“Missus,” he called after me, “spose me make you blackfellow fire, eh?”

I said I would very much like to see him make a blackfellow’s fire, and

asked him where his matches were.

He grinned broadly at this and showed me two pieces of stick, with a

little notch cut in one. I pretended to be very ignorant and asked what

they were for.

Instead of answering he squatted down on the ground, and picking a few

tiny pieces of dry grass, laid them in a little heap beside him; then

laying one of his sticks on the ground near the grass, he held it firmly

in place with his foot, and fixing one end of the other stick in the

little notch or groove, twirled it quickly between the palms of his

hands. In a few seconds some tiny tiny red-hot ashes, no bigger than

grains of sand, were rubbed out. Billy bent over them, and blew softly

till the grass took fire; then he stood on one leg and chuckled, and

stuck his fire-sticks behind his ears.

It was all so quickly and cleverly done that I gave him two sticks of

tobacco for payment, which pleased him immensely; but the old myall

looked as though he were wondering what Billy had done to deserve so

much “chewbac.” Making a fire was nothing.

To see what he would do, I said—

“Billy Muck, I can make a fire quicker than you,” and striking a match

on my shoe, I set fire to some grass. The myall ran forward eagerly to

see how it was done, so I struck another and gave him a box for himself.

He sat down at once and was so fascinated with his new toy that he

struck off all his matches one after the other, making little grass

fires all around him, till he looked like a black Joan of Arc at the

stake. When they were all gone he came and showed me the empty box,

saying—

“Me bin finissem, Missus.”

I gave him some more and a stick of tobacco, and then followed Bett-Bett

up to the house. I found her crocodile’s egg lying on the garden path,

and picking it up, hid it in the office. When she came back and found

it gone, she gave one quick glance at the ground, and then walked to the

office door and stopped. She was not allowed in there.

“Missus,” she said, “which way you bin put him egg belonga crocodile?”

I said, “You left it in the garden, Bett-Bett,” and suggested that

perhaps Sue had carried it off. “Might it Sue bin catch him, eh?”

“No more, Missus!” she said, grinning knowingly. “You bin put him

longa office. Track belonga you sit down,” she added, pointing at my

footprints, leading from the garden to the office. I saw it was no use

playing “hide the thimble” with a little nigger girl who followed up my

tracks, and I gave her back her precious egg. Once I had tried playing

“hide and seek” with the lubras; but I could never by any chance find

them, and they always tracked me up, so it was not much fun. Their

favourite way of hiding was to lie flat down in the grass, with their

limbs spread out till they looked like open pairs of scissors, with

grass growing between the handle and the blades. If you have ever looked

for a hoop that has fallen in the grass, you will know how hard it was

to find these lubras— how hard and how interesting.

When I gave Bett-Bett her egg, she took it to the broody hen, and filled

her cup of happiness to the brim by letting her sit on it.

After supper, Bett-Bett threw herself down on the grass and said—

“Me tired fellow alright, Missus,” and then she wanted to know why white

people live in houses. I could not see any connection between these

two ideas till she said, “Him silly fellow likee that. Spose you tired

fellow, what’s the matter all day come home?” Then I understood what was

the grievance. When a blackfellow is tired, and has plenty of tucker

for supper, he sees no sense in walking a long way, just to sit on one

particular patch of ground and call it home. When you have miles of

beautiful country all your own, it is a much better plan to have your

home just where you happen to be at the moment; and this can be arranged

very easily, if you have nothing to carry about the world but a naked

black body. When Bett-Bett lived “out bush,” she told me that she and

her friends would just wander about wherever they liked. If they grew

tired, or the sun got too hot, they would lie down and go to sleep in

the beautiful warm shade. When they woke up, very likely they would go

down to the nearest water-hole and have a bogey. If it was a pleasant

water-hole, and some other blacks happened to be there, they would stay

a few days until the tucker began to get scarce, and then all start

off together, to pay some friends a visit at another water-hole, taking

care, as they went, to send up smoke signals to tell the tribe where

they were, and whom they had met.

The smoke language is not nearly so perfect as the sign language,

but still there are signals for most of the people and places in the

country. Our boys could generally tell us where the stockmen were camped

each night, and if they had met any white travellers.

“Blackfellow smoke bin talk, boy bin send him,” Jimmy said once when

I asked him how he knew. The stockmen’s boys had evidently sent him a

telegraphic smoke message. As Bett-Bett wandered about the bush there

was no danger that she would lose herself. A white child cannot possibly

lose itself in its nursery and neither could Bett-Bett in hers, even

though it stretched for about a hundred miles.

She talked a lot about the bush this night, and told me that

Debbil-debbils are very frightened of dogs, and that if every one

is very quiet the Debbil-debbils cannot find them. When she hears

Debbil-debbils about, she never speaks and then they go away. Sue of

course could frighten them off; but as she is a very little dog, and

Debbil-debbils are very big and strong, it is just as well to take

no risks. I believe that if Debbil-debbils did ever carry Sue off,

Bett-Bett would insist on going too, for life without her would not be

worth living.

Before I sent Bett-Bett to bed, I asked her if she would like to come a

“walk-about” on horseback next time we went.

“My word, Missus!” she cried, springing to her feet, and then added

politely—

“Dank you please, Missus!” and then called Sue to come and dream of the

glories of such a walk-about. Next morning I heard shrieks of laughter

and shouts of—

“Go and lay ‘em egg, silly fellow you.”

I went to see what it was all about, and found Bett-Bett and the lubras

doubled up with laughter at old “Broody,” who seemed to be turning

double somersaults and Catherine wheels across the grass patch.

Bett-Bett had been right, and the crocodile’s egg had hatched. The

little curled-up creature had suddenly unwound itself, and splintering

the shell into fragments had headed straight for the water.

Poor old Broody! we saw nothing of her for days, but when next we heard

her, she was announcing to all the world that she had taken Bett-Bett’s

advice and had “gone and laid an egg.”

Bett-Bett appeared, grinning wisely, and said—

“That one hen no more broody now, Missus.”

I said that she might have the egg for herself, so she took it and

roasted it in the fire. Before laying it on the hot ashes I noticed that

she chipped a ring right round it with her finger nails, taking great

care not to pierce the skin underneath the shell.

“What name likee that, Bett-Bett?” I asked.

Carefully covering it up with ashes, she answered, “Spose me no more

break him, him break meself all about.”