Holy Writ.

A cloudless sky, the long grass wet with the night's gentle shower,

a thin veil of mist on the hills, a glassy, steel-blue sea, the air

saturated with the essences from myriads of leaves and scented with

the last whiffs from the tea-trees and the primal blossoms of the

wattles--such are the features of this smiling morn.

A spangled drongo--ardent lover of light and free air--talkatively

announced the dawn long before its coming; the noisy pitta--bird of the

moist soil and leafy gloom--triumphs in three notes. For an hour the

scrub fowl have been violently noisy, but have retired to the recesses

of the jungle, whence comes an occasional chuckle of satisfaction or

a coarse, triumphant crow. The fasciated honey-eater has loudly called

“with a voice that seemed the very sound of happiness”; the leaden

flycatcher, often silent but seldom still, has twittered and whispered

plaintively; the sun-birds are playing gymnastics among the lemon

blossoms, and the centre of activity for butterflies is the red-flowered

shrub bordering the wavering path.

Since--sometimes wantonly, often thoughtlessly--man interferes with

plants, time out of mind the banqueting-table of the butterflies, is

it not a duty to provide substitutes for devastated natural vegetation?

When it is discovered that a plant, introduced to give satisfaction to

the lust of the eye, provides from year's end to year's end nectar as

unfailing as the widow's cruse of oil, is it not becoming to reproduce

it plentifully so that excited and virtuous insects may be encouraged

to return to former scenes? If not a duty, at least it is a source of

happiness, for the particular insects which revel in the nectar of the

perpetually flowering shrub are the two most gorgeous butterflies of the

land--pleasantly known as Ulysses and Cassandra.

Science changes its titles so frequently that unless the intellect is

to be increasingly burdened it is well to refuse to be divorced from

the old and often explicit and fulfilling names. Cassandra is the lovely

green and gold fly which dances in the air so delightfully when he

woos his sober, fluttering mate. That of gorgeous royal blue with black

edging to the wings and dandyish swallow-tails, which wanders far and

wide and flies high and swiftly, is Ulysses.

This glorious morn the ruddy shrub is as lively as a merry-go-round with

the feasting and antics of flitting gems, and there are others by the

dozen attentive to less seductive fare. For half an hour the courtship

of a perfect Ulysses has interfered with the staid ways of those not

in holiday humour. Unlike Cassandra, there is little in appearance to

distinguish the sexes, nor in the wooing does the dame exhibit staid

demeanour. The object of Ulysses' love is almost, if not quite,

as brilliantly decorated as himself. She is not, therefore, to be

fascinated by the display of blue no more lustrous than that of her

own proud wings. He may flit and toss about her, but she seems to take

scanty notice of his affected aerial limpings. Her raiment is just as

brave, and she has swallow-tails too. The wider black margin on her

wings is no badge of subserviency, but rather an additional charm

inciting tremulous fascination. She may soar over the mango-trees with

ease as careless as his, and slide down straight to the red flowers

with like certainty. She is not to be bewildered by his gyrations, nor

thrilled by mock hostile swoops. However sprightly his activities,

she has a mood to correspond and power to mimic. Indeed, is she not

indifferent?--so much on an equality with him that she might say:

“If thou thinkest I am too easily won, I'll frown and be perverse, and

say thee nay.”

Might she not say more at the moment, since her airs are those of

independence? Possibly she imagines hers to be the superior sex. Is she

to be distinguished from her wooer as she flits from him disdainfully?

Can she not imitate his most audacious feats? Ah! but for how long may

she restrain primal emotions? The blue-mantled dandy understands his

art. His wings beat with the passion of the dominant lover. He tosses

himself before her, impeding her flight until she imitates his antics.

Tossing is not the privilege of his sex. She exercises her right to

toss, and the pair toss in delightful but bewildering confusion, like

jewels sent skyward by a conjurer. And thus having established her

rights if not her equality, she consents to play the part Nature

decrees, and the pair tumble and toss over the mango-trees, while half a

dozen others sip contentedly the red flowers.

Many other winged creatures flit and glisten in the garden and down

along the grass-invaded path between the coco-nuts. Dragon-flies hover

over the moist spots, transparent wings carrying coral-red bodies,

and two sand-wasps pilot my steps, following the narrow ribbon of bare

ground as a fish the course of a shallow stream, buzzing ominously as if

in warning of some possible mischance. They are friends, and will in a

moment swerve, and boom back to the shafts they have excavated in sand

as depositaries for their eggs, and into which they will pack living

caterpillars as fresh food for their young. They dig with such deftness

and vigour that the sand is expelled in a continuous jet. When the mouth

of the shaft, round to exactness, is lumbered with soil, the insect

emerges backward and shovels away dog-like with its forelegs. Then it

disappears again, until the sand-jet has made another encumbering heap.

These alert and furiously resentful insects are endowed with

resourcefulness and “intelligence” in keeping with their physical

activities. One had foraged a caterpillar in bulk and weight beyond

its flight strength, and was, therefore, compelled to haul it along the

toilful earth. On the wing the wasp finds its home unhesitatingly. On

the unfamiliar ground it lost its bearings, and, moreover, the lumbering

caterpillar had to be tugged through a bewildering forest of grass

stems, among which it went astray. During a pause the wasp surveyed the

scene, and, locating the shaft, after stupendous exertions deposited

its prey conveniently thereto, to find itself confronted with a problem,

since the diameter of the caterpillar exceeded that of the shaft.

It seemed to reflect for a few moments, and then with feverish haste

enlarged the shaft. Another difficulty had then to be overcome. Was it

possible to force such a bulky and unwieldy body head first down--the

habitual way? The insect came to a rapid decision in the negative.

Backing into the shaft, it seized the caterpillar by the head and drew

it down, presently emerging, and how it managed to squeeze past so tight

a plug is another of the magics of the morn. Having butted with its

highly competent head the caterpillar well home, the wasp selected

a neatly fitting stone as a wad, and, filling the shaft with earth,

strewed the surface with grass fragments, to the artistic concealment of

the site.

On the beach is another industrious winged miner which has not learned

the art of the rapid evacuation of the spoil, but follows the slower

ways of the crab, carrying the sand in a pellet between the forelegs,

and as it backs out jerking it rearward until a tidy heap is made. But

it is a fussy worker, so charged with nervous energy that its glittering

wings quiver even while down in the depths of its shaft, as you may

assure yourself if you hearken attentively when neither the sea nor air

makes competitive noises.

ANCESTRAL SHADE

“Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the

root--and time has been When tempests could not.”

COWPER.

If it were possible to recall the spirits of the departed of this Isle

to solemn session and to exact from them expression of opinion as to

the central point of it, the popular, most comfortable and convenient

camping-place, there can be no question that the voice of the majority

would favour the curve of the bay rendered conspicuous by a bin-gum

or coral tree. Within a few yards of permanent fresh water, on sand

blackened by the mould of centuries of vegetation, close to an almost

inextricable forest merging into jungle, whence a great portion of the

necessaries of life were obtained, and but ten paces from the sea,

the tree stood as a landmark, not of soaring height, but of bulk and

comeliness withal.

Generation after generation of careless coloured folk must have been

born and bred under its branches. When the soil became rank because of

continuous residence and insects of diabolical activity pestered its

occupants, the camp would shift to another site; but there existed

proofs that the bin-gum-tree localised the thoughts of those aimless,

unstable wanderers to whom a few bushes stuck in the sand as a screen

from prevailing winds represent the home of the hour and all that the

word signifies and embodies. Many a one was laid to rest beneath its

spreading branches, for it was the custom of the pre-white folk's days

to swathe the dead in frail strips of bark, knees to chin, and place the

stiffened corpse in a shallow pit in the humpy which had been in most

recent occupation. If the dead during life had possessed exceptional

qualities, burial rites would be ceremonious and prolonged. With tear

and blood stained faces (for the mourners enforced grief by laceration

of the flesh) incidents in the admirable career of the departed would

be rehearsed in pantomime. The enactment of scenes from the life of the

hunter and fighter might occupy hours. The art of the canoe or sword

maker would be graphically mimicked. The life of the woman found

rehearsal from infancy until she passed from the protection of her

father into the arms of her lover. If she had died childless, a

protesting infant or an effigy in bark would be placed on her shrunken

bosom, so that she might not suffer the reproach of matrons who had

preceded her to the mysterious better country.

The ancestral shade was a birth-place, an abiding-place, a cemetery,

and the soil grew ever richer, and the thick-trunked tree displayed its

ruddy flowers and gave of its best in nectar for birds and butterflies

and gauze-winged, ever-flitting creatures.

It was not a comfortable tree to climb, for its grey-green branches were

studded with wens each armed with a keen prickle, long and tough. It

offered the hospitality of its shade to man, but little else, save

flowers to gladden his eyes, though it stood as a perpetual calendar, or

rather floral harbinger, of some of the most excellent things in life.

At a certain season its big, trilobed, hollow-stalked leaves changed

from bright green to pale yellow and lingeringly fell, and often before

the last disappeared, flower-buds registered the date with almost

almanac exactitude. Then, as the rich red began to glow here and there,

and impatient small birds to assemble in anticipation of the annual

feast, the old inhabitants of the Isle would comfort one another with

reminiscences of the “Oo-goo-ju,” the nutmeg pigeon, which was wont to

congregate in such numbers that adjacent and easily accessible isles

were whitened. There would be plenty of eggs then, and in a few weeks

squabs quiveringly, helplessly fat.

It was a good tree, for it gave good tidings, and it centralised the

shelter of the Isle. Its blooms were delightfully, dashingly red, and

they lasted long--that is, if the camp--the soil rectified by sun

and rain--happened to be in residence, for then the sulphur-crested

cockatoos would be scared. Otherwise the profligate birds would sever

the heavy racemes of flower in their eagerness for honey until the

ground beneath glowed with a furnace-hued shadow. But there would be

still plenty for the gay sun-birds and the honey eaters, while the grey

goshawk would make the site of regular call, for the bibulous lesser

birds could not always be on the alert, ready to dart into adjacent

tea-trees. The hawk would abide its time, and have occasion, after its

kind, to be grateful because of the tree and its seductive nectar which

translated artless little songsters into shrill-tongued roysterers,

careless of the ills of life, or at least less watchful for the presence

of crafty enemies. Flying foxes would swoop into the tree at sundown to

squeak and gibber among its repellent branches till dawn, when some, too

full for flight, would hang among the lower limbs all day, sleeping with

eyes veiled by leathery wings.

For many a long day the bin-gum tolerated no undergrowth. Despotic over

its territory, the shade was clean but for a carpet of ferns, and its

branches free from the embraces of orchids, save that which bears the

ghostly white flowers which set off its own of bold red. But as it

passed its maturity shrubs and saplings began to encroach, until it was

the centre of a circus of upstart vegetation, though still stretching

big, knotty limbs over the slim youths of yesterday. Anterior to this

era a neglected fire had scorched a portion of its trunk. Decay set in.

A huge cavity gradually appeared, betokening vital injuries. The soft

though tough wood does not patiently endure the annihilating fret of

time. Far up in a recess of this cavity a toy boomerang was found,

placed there by some provident but forgetful piccaninny. At the date of

the discovery of the missile the age of the resident blacks had passed

away; but still the tree stood, stout of limb, while the encompassing

saplings shot up until sun-seeking shoots caressed the branches and

familiarised with the blooms, as if taking credit for the seasonal

gaiety of the patriarch.

In the prime of life the wood of the bin-gum is of pale straw colour

with a faint pinkish tinge, and tough though light. Sapless age makes

it tindery, and the decaying fibre descends in dust--glissades of dust

which form moraines within the hollow of the base. Then the end is not

far off.

The old tree might have been credited with premonition of its fate.

However fanciful to ascribe to it power of utterance, some phenomena,

perhaps associated with the dusty flux draining its vitals, gave

it distinct voice. On silent days it was often heard--a whispering,

whimpering sing-song, pitifully weak for so great a tree, but not

without appeal. Did it not suggest the sanctuary of some wood-nymph

chanting never so faint a death psalm--a monotone which the idlest

zephyr might still?

Disdaining to die while consenting to disappear, the great tree, proudly

green of head, did not fall headlong, like a giant, in its pride, but

subsided silently behind its leafy screen while all the winds were

still, and as one who passes away full of years and with untarnished

conscience.

Though the saplings and shrubs which fought for its place decently

conceal its shattered relics, addressing glossy leaves to the face of

the sun, is it quite vain to expect that its graceful proportions--a

true and stately dome--will be transmitted to the most worthy of its

descendants? Or that they will escape for so long a term the many

mischances that befall soft-wooded trees? No; the bin-gum of the bay was

unique. Afar off its flowers assumed a bricky shade, which contrasted

with the sage-green background of huge and overtopping melaleucas, while

but a strip of creamy sand intervened between its low and spreading

branches and the shallow sea, with its varying tints of pale green and

blue. So lovely and conspicuous a feature is not to be reconstituted

under a century.

If it be permitted to assume that trees are sentient, that each--since

it differs from all others in some material quality and condition--has

its individuality, and that one may stand out from the rest as a

figure and representative of its age, then was this old monarch which

maintained its red robes to the last an examplar of the race whose

births, nuptials, pastimes, deaths and burials it witnessed from the

date when the good ship ENDEAVOUR slowly plodded along the alien coast.

The dust of the witness is blending in common decay. A few months and

not a trace will be discoverable, and what is left of those who rested

in its shade? In the pages of history they will be unchronicled, for

were not their lives less beautiful than the life of a tree, and their

renown no more durable?

QUIET WATERS

“Like playhouse scenes the shore slid past.”

KIPLING.

Lovable as is the open sea when the spray drenches the scanty clothing

of the steersman and rains upon his lips salty salutation, yet is there

rare delightsomeness in reverse of the wet frolic.

A few minutes past the deck glistened in the sun as each rollicking

billow sent its herald over the bows, and here the surface of the river

is almost rippleless. Shallows and uncertainties perplex its union with

the ocean. Sombre green mangroves screen its muddy banks at full tide

and trail leathery leaves and the tips of spindly fruit on its placid

surface. Pendant roots and immersed branches create on each hand a

continuous scroll of wavering ridges and eddies bordered with the

living tints of the steadfast wall of leafage. The sun so burnishes the

midstream ribbon that the boat seems to float on an invisible element.

Though the topmost leaves of the mangroves fail to disclose any movement

in the air, an unceasing and inharmonious hum tells of the sea idly

shouldering the orange-hued sands outside.

The original inhabitants of the country knew the stream as Marang.

None call it so; but half stranded on the bank at the mouth lies a raft

typical of the past, and of the ease and resource with which those of

the day are wont to avail themselves of Nature's suggestions in the art

of crossing flooded waters. The name of the river has gone, but not that

of the three buoyant logs lashed together with strips of cane which with

sullen lurch, take the wash of the boat. The boys jerk their heads in

the direction and murmur “wur-gun,” and speculate on the last user.

The day is young. For the time being the best the ancient river has to

show--the quintessence of the season, superb October--shall be ours. The

cloudless sky is richly blue, lighter in shade than the shapely mountain

which seems to block the way miles ahead. The sun gives a taste of its

quality, not to fret or discomfort, but merely to add a slightly richer

tint to skin glowing with previous marks of his fervour and favour.

All the sounds of the little engine are maliciously exaggerated as the

boat forges ahead. The silent green river has become vociferous with

echoes, which snap and grunt, groan and hiss, in mockery of inevitable

and earnest doings. Out at sea the merry moods of the boat and hasty

and determined throbs of the engine are manifestations of something

accomplished in the overcoming of distance. Here it is all mere idle

fancy, while the echoes jeer. Surely the uncouth imps of the dimly-lit

jungles need not proclaim their spite with such exaggerated fuss.

With but little effort of imagination the boat becomes stationary on

a shining ribbon with strips of dark green on each side, and the banks

glide past with never so gentle undulations. The tide screens most of

the mud on which the many-rooted trees stand. Some are in full bloom,

the hawthorn-like flowers breathing perfume as from an orangery

soliciting the raids of millions of bees. Scents cling to the placid

surface. It is as a stream of scent, bounded and confined by changeful

tints as the sun toys with the shadows, and curve after curve, reach

after reach, slip by. Sometimes the chattering boat heads due east.

South she knows too, and then she bows her duty to the west, along

reaches which run straight and clean as a canal; and round hairpin bends

she sweeps with disdainful air, as if conscious of besoiling banks.

Gradually the monopolistic mangroves become more tolerant of the rights

of other vegetation. Tea-trees with white papery bark and pale yellow

flowers dripping with spirity nectar, the sunflower-tree with its masses

of gold, an occasional wattle, and slim palms mirror themselves, and

here and there compact jungle, with its entanglement of ponderous vines

and smothering creepers, shoulders away the salt-loving plants.

Scents may vary as the river's fringe; but only a delicate blend is

recognised--the breathings of honey-secreting flowers and of sapful

plants free from all uncleanliness. Many trees endure sadly the

decoration of orchids in full flower, some lovely to look on and

deliciously scented. The snowy plumes of one species sway gently, as

if offering friendly greeting. A worthy similitude to the lily of the

valley clings to a decaying limb, and a passing smudge of lustrous brown

is but the reflection from a mass of the commonest of the Dendrobiums

which encumbers a long-suffering host. Where forest trees and wattles

guard the bank the water is of a different hue, as if the face of the

river had absorbed less of the actualities of the sun. The screen

of vegetation is not only higher, but it is varied and impresses its

individuality. Only during the pelting rains of the wet season may

this delightful stream be monotonous, for at intervals brief and

narrow vistas open out on patches of yellowing grass, and beyond lie

forest-clad hills.

All save the boat is wonderfully still. The birds are silent, for this

is the first hot day of the season, and they have retired to the patches

of jungle where shade and dimness afford relief from the sunlight

spaces. For many a mile a cormorant, lacking valour to double on its

tracks, has fled before the boat, settling out of sight ever and anon,

only to be scared further from its nest. A mangrove bittern sitting

humpbacked on a root and roused from its night thoughts has flown ahead,

following the bends of the stream until it crossed a familiar loop and

so evaded incessant harrying.

No murmur of the sea is audible, though the water is as briny as at the

mouth. Mangroves still reinforce the muddy banks at intervals, and big

barramundi swirl aside to give the boat precedence in the narrow way.

If in no impetuous haste, one might drift with the tide up and down with

but little exertion except during periods of flood, which quickly rise

and quickly subside. Drifters become familiar with characteristics of

the stream unknown to those who hurry up and down in an echo-rousing

motor-boat. They see crocodiles basking on their sides, as many as

seven on a sunny morning in the cool season, and many curse them in

De Quincey's phrase as “miscreated gigantic vermin” because the rifle

happens to be unavailable. Crocodiles have their moods. Sometimes they

are lazy and indifferent and will not be disturbed though the boat may

clink and chatter as it passes, and the then easygoing man disposes

of them. More often the faculties of the crocodile are disappointingly

acute. He is visible for such a fragment of time that the authoritative

man who has promised sport looks foolish and tries to relieve the strain

by the relation of anecdotes in which circumstances have not been all

in favour of the illusive creature. He tells of the slumbering one which

lay on a mud-bank with its jaws distended, weary of the monotony of

the mangroves, and took but sleepy notice when upbraided for being a

sluggard. And of that other monstrous beast which, with eyelids like

saucers and a bulk which filled a narrow tributary of the river,

floundered, splashed, and flurried into deep water, while the awestruck

individual with the rifle was too astounded to fire a shot. He may tell,

too, of another instance of good luck on the part of the crocodile.

How, drifting down silently with the ebb, the black boy indicated the

presence of game on a slide overhung by a deep verandah of mud; how a

shot was fired and a big log splashed into the water and the little

one remained bearing the bullet-wound, the real having been too big and

impressive for sight.

The day is well spent among strange plants. Here is a tall hibiscus with

coarse leaves, diversely lobed, and great pink, fragile flowers, each

with a blotch of maroon at the base and each containing a fat and

lumbering bee spangled with maroon-tinted pollen. A trailing eugenia

bears dark red flowers shaped like a mop, and a tiny white lily with

petals and strangely protuberant anthers scents the air as with honey

and almonds.

The tide ebbs fast. All the country teems with entertainment, and the

river, cool in the dusk, and black, reflects the dead mangroves, white

and spectral, on its brink.

This breathless night the sea is as tetchy as petrol. Trailing fingers

are terminals which ignite living flames, and the propeller of the

little boat creates an avengeful commotion of light which trails far

astern. Blobs of light are cast off from her bows as she rounds the

familiar sandspit and glides to her moorings.

“THE LOWING HERD”

“Your cattle, too--Allah made them; serviceable, dumb creatures;

they change the grass into milk; they come ranking home at evening

time.”--CARLYLE.

Remote from the manners and the sights of the street, here are we secure

against most of the pains which come of the contemplation, casual

or intimate, of other folk's sufferings. No hooded ambulance moves

joltlessly, tended by enwrapt bearers, on pathless way; no formal

procession paces from the house of death to the long last home. Immune

from the associations which oft subdue the crowd, as well as from

its too exciting pleasures, and participating only indirectly in its

inevitable sorrows, yet we are occasionally forced to remember that

troubles do come to all that is flesh, and that keen is the grief

attendant upon enforced separations even among animals which cannot call

reason to their solace. Man cannot claim to be the sole proprietor

of the luxury of woe, and may he not draw edifying lessons from

contemplating the transient sorrows of his pets and domestic animals?

Is he to confine his schooling on the wholesome theme of the frailty

of flesh solely to his own species? It is not to be denied that animals

lower in the scale than mankind have acute sense of bereavement, though

it is equally certain that in their case the healing influences of time

are more prompt and potent.

An illustration may be cited. Two favourite Irish terriers, in violation

of an all-precautionary training, molested a death adder, the emulation

of each inciting the other to recklessness. When the fray was over and

the wicked little serpent lay squirming in death, both dogs took joyful

credit on account of the feat. An hour after one began to froth at the

lips, and in another hour he lay dead. His son and companion, as well as

rival in all rat and lizard hunts, softly approached the body, lifting

each foot with almost solemn deliberation. He sniffed, and catching a

whiff of the scent of death, sat on his haunches, threw back his head,

and in loud and piercing tones lamented the tragedy until from very

hoarseness he could howl no longer. He stood the solitary spectator of

the burial, and as the soil was patted down tenderly, sniffed the spot,

whimpered plaintively, and followed with downcast mien. Unable to fathom

the mystery of death, yet fearful, if not resentful, he wandered about

for days rebuking the moon, or its dire influence, and hailing passing

steamers with weak whines. Time soon soothed the mental hurt.

Since I became a milker and tender of pet cows many instances have been

revealed of the patience and amiability of these inestimable beasts. The

man who owns the cattle on a thousand hills, who employs stockmen by the

dozen, who sends off hundreds of fat, contented, happy, liberty-loving

oxen in droves to end their days in an unknown locality amid the clatter

and swish of machinery and with the fearful scents of blood and decaying

offal defiling the air, has few opportunities of studying the nicer

qualities of his possessions. He may be full of bullock lore and able to

recite sensational and entertaining stories illustrative of the ways of

the big mobs which tramp from native hills and downs to the city of the

thousand deaths. He knows, perhaps, something of the individualities of

his herds, and will tell how fat beasts form friendships, and how

they pine when separated. Then will he register his personal regrets,

counting in the measure for fat, for, refusing food, the animals fall

away in condition, so that the sorrows of two fat bullocks due to

parting, enforced by determined men on horseback, cracking whips and

using violent and threatening language, come home to the owner in terms

of pounds, shillings, and pence.

Here are few sordid considerations, for does not the full-fed and

contented herd supply generously milk and cream with no apprehensions

of the butcher? Perhaps on that account the sentiments of the sleek cows

are more tender. At least it has been noticed that when the time comes

for the flash young bulls to be banished, and they are transported, the

mother's grief is loud-voiced and prolonged. Under stress of departure

and all the novel excitement of a first experience of the motion of the

sea, the fat calf, which has rollicked in all that makes for good temper

and ease and comfort, becomes mute. Tears trickle from big, affrighted

eyes, and the head is turned wistfully when terms of comfort are

uttered. He is of the make of man and will not whimper. But the mother,

on the discovery of her bereavement, arouses the echoes of the hills

with her calls.

Accustomed to the voices of the individuals of your herd, your ears are

also attuned to the significant tones of each--the low warning hum of

the mother to her safely hidden new-born, the imperative command to

obedience, the note of inquiry when the wandering offspring is out of

sight, the anxious call when it is absent from her side unaccountably,

the angry bellow when she thinks injury is being done.

The other day a lusty young bull which had been wont to treat me as a

chum, and perhaps as a slightly inferior animal, was reluctantly

parted from. His face displayed his emotions-astonishment, grief,

resignation--and once, and only once, did he permit himself to protest

vocally. But for a week his mother's sorrow has been insistent. Early on

the morning following, the banishment, she led off the rest of the

herd in Indian file, to search accustomed scenes. At times she

hastened--perhaps she heard in fancy the loved one's voice--but more

often and with rare persistency she shrewdly scrutinised every possible

hiding-place, lowing plaintively and with a coaxing, wistful tone.

Frequently, attended by silent, sympathising companions, she made

frantic appeals to me, and then there seemed to be a note as of

upbraiding, if not accusation, in her voice. Knowing her feelings, it

was easy to interpret them, and her doleful mood and loud yet melodious

protests against the arbitrary usage of man affected the wonted serenity

of the Isle.

How many lusty, fat, sleek, good-humoured, straight-backed, frolicsome

calves had she reared, and when they had come to the age when a

mother's pride must be in the full, each in its turn had mysteriously

disappeared. Was this not a subject of moan? Why should she not tell

her grief to the responsive hills, and send it as far as her voice might

carry over the irresponsive sea?

Time soothes all such pangs. She calls now when she spies me in the

forest, still suspecting where responsibility rests, and mumbles as she

crops the succulent herbage. A few more days and her sturdy offspring

will be forgotten; but the recollection of her material woes excites the

thought that human beings, in guiding the destinies of domestic animals,

may not always be conscious of certain moral aspects of such incidents.

Are we justified in lacerating the feelings of those creatures, which

have become accustomed to our ways, which submit to our arbitrary

authority with wondrous patience, which depend on us in many ways, and

which trust us with unquestioning fidelity?

Against all precedent, the dairy herd was started with a bull. Though

such a beginning is not to be recommended as a general precept, it must

be confessed that in this particular instance developments proved its

wisdom. Unjust fears were overcome while yet he was undistracted by

society of his kind. Having no other company, he sought ours in frank

and friendly manner. Occasionally he would accompany me on indefinite

excursions in the bush, and would oft tempt me to play. With the fable

of the frogs and the boys in mind, I had to decline participation in his

sportful moods, for what would have proved pure frolic to him might have

been fraught with disaster to me. At this period of the dairy herd,

he spent most of his leisure moments in the paddock where poultry

congregates, and where many of the domestic rites are performed. He

was at home, and he was a gentleman, and did no one premeditated ill.

Longing for something to play with, he would make hostile demonstration

against the wheelbarrow, but that dull-hearted vehicle never responded

except by ignominious collapse at tenderest touch of horn. One evening,

when all the good little chicks had been put to bed for the night, the

bull, impatient for play, overturned two coops so suddenly that two of

the inmates were crushed flat. There was no sheltering mother to protest

against such violation, and so the adjoining coop was visited. But for

once he went wrong in strategy. The coop contained an exceptionally

numerous family, the mother of which richly deserved the name of

“Scotty.” The coop was overturned none too politely; the squeaking

chicks vanished in the grass and remained discreetly silent; the irate

hen, with the valour of ignorance and all feathers on end, flew in the

face of the startled bull. Though a white leghorn, she has fighting

blood in her veins, and as she hurled herself--stuttering with

frantic exclamations--at the violator of her home, he backed with a

mirth-provoking look of surprise and dismay. He seemed to wish to say

that he regretted the intrusion, and would apologise and ask permission

to retire. The hen was not in the mood to accept apologies, however

seemly the cringing attitude of the bull. Making herself ever so much

bigger than Nature intended, she followed up her advantages, slapping

her enemy's face with widespread wings until he winced again, and

clawing with truly feminine extravagance and uncertainty of aim. The

first round was all to the credit of the hen, and the startled poultry

cackled derisively as the bull retreated. Sure of victory, the hen

followed him up, skipping, flapping, clawing, and scolding as only an

irate hen in transports of rage can. Still the bull backed. He was a

gentleman, and genuinely afraid of female tantrums. With half-shut eyes,

he submitted to the buffets of the wings, while encouraging remarks

from friends and companions further excited the delirious pugnacity

of “Scotty.” Then it seemed to dawn on him that honour was at stake.

Gallantry forbade him to do violence to a lady; honour forbade him to

run away. What other recourse was open? He must treat the whole episode

as a joke. So, rubbing his muzzle on the ground, he invited the hen to

come on. She did so. There was a splash of outspread feathers against

his front and more clatter than ever. He pawed the ground, jerking

little clods over his shoulders, and, lowering his head, menaced the

hen with horns that could have tossed her over the highest of the

mango-trees. But there was a smile on his face the while, and the

spectators knew, though “Scotty” did not, that it was all a joke. Again

and again she flew in his face. Just as often he refused to take her

seriously, though all the pantomime of battle was displayed. She cackled

in impotent anger. He bellowed with gratification. Not a fowl in the

yard saw the joke, and all the little chicks in adjacent coops strained

their necks to watch the battle and their voices in shrill comments.

Having made not the slightest impression on the jovial little bull,

“Scotty” retired, feinting and scolding, while he, still blue mouldy

for a game, coaxed her by unmistakable gesticulation to one round

more. Twice during the night “Scotty” dispelled the silences with loud

exclamations of wrath and defiance. She was fighting her battle again in

her dreams, and though I was not there to see, I am very sure that the

gentle bull beguiled his wakeful moments with smiles. There are several

white hens in the yard, and whensoever one crosses his path the

bull, who does not pretend to discriminate, tosses his head with an

interrogative gesture. “Do you want to fight?” he says, and the hens

flee--all except “Scotty.”

The herd comprises a dainty little cow of most placid disposition.

Nothing disturbs her placidity, incites her to hurry, or bewilders her.

Cure the dove of its timidity and shrinking and you will have a good

prototype of Parilla, who, taking life easily and affably, is fat and

amiable. When she brought home her firstborn, mooing plaintively, he,

big and fat for his age, walked into the byre as a matter of course.

Here was the first evidence of heredity. It was patent that Fillo

Billaroo was born with a mind like that of his sweet-tempered mother.

He earned his name because of acute dissimilarity to the swiftlet which

swoops about the cleared spaces, never resting save in a dark and dirty

cave.

Though, apparently, entirely unselfconscious, Fillo Billaroo at once

established himself as a superior sort of creature. He did not exact any

rights. They were conceded with all possible grace. He enjoys privileges

none other dares to imagine. When he has exhausted for the time being

the maternal source of refreshment, he visits other mothers, and with

such a pompous, patronising, good-humoured, thoroughly appreciative and

yet gentle way, that the absurd creatures are flattered. They realise he

is something quite out of the common, and give agreeably of their best.

Thus he has become a favourite, and he drinks so much and has become so

fat that he could not for a couple of weeks accompany his lazy-pacing

mother on her daily rounds, but would be planted in shade and coolness

with cautions against straying until called for late in the afternoon.

Often would Parilla forget the hiding-place, or rather pretend to,

and beseech in wistful tones for help in the search, and when it was

successful the greetings she bestowed displayed the bigness of her

heart.

Once the little mother left Fillo Billaroo in charge of Lady Clare,

a much more experienced matron, who cannot bear to permit her frisky

heifer out of her sight for a moment unless safely planted, and then the

treasure must not be wandered from more than a hundred yards. Parilla

went off for the day. Late in the afternoon, Lady Clare with her heifer

and Fillo Billaroo were found far away from the mob and driven home. It

had been hot, and the big calf has an enormous appetite and apparently

Lady Clare had been coy. When he saw his mother and his mother saw him,

he stooped with uplifting nose, sniffing; she stopped feeding and begin

to sniff. He seemed to say to himself, “I do believe I know that little

creature. Yes; I am certain I must have met her before. She rather

resembles my own mother; but I have so many fond, kind, and obliging

aunts that it is not so very easy to make sure. She has a special look.

Can I be mistaken? I really hope not, for I am painfully hungry.”

In the meantime Parilla was saying to herself--you could see it all

plainly written in her big, round, bulging eyes, so full of inquiry,

hope and longing--! “The sight of that really fine fellow reminds me

that I, too, am a mother. He is a pretty fellow; I fancy that Fillo

Billaroo is not unlike him. I now recollect with dismay that I have not

seen him since morning, when Lady Clare condescended to look after him.

And there's Lady Clare! Oh! if she's mislaid Fillo Billaroo! But can

that fine, beautiful fellow be mine? I must inquire. Come!” And she

moo'd, and Fillo Billaroo murmured “Mum,” and they rushed to one

another, and the look in Parilla's face was that of perfect happiness.

BABBLING BEACHES

“By the wisdom of Nature it has been appointed that more pleasure may be

taken in small things than in great.”--Ruskin.

On a breezy day, when the sun scorches the sand and the wind

continuously sweeps off the dry surface, and your ears detect the

musical sound accompanying the process--vague as the visible part of it

is blurred and misty--then it is that you are made aware of the agencies

by which time creates geographical differences. Precipitated at the apex

of the spit, the sand as it sinks tints the verge of the sea, while

the lighter spoil, leaves and wisps of seaweed, trip off on independent

voyage. The current from the south pares the spit, preserving its

shapeliness. The ebb from the bay maintains the fluent inner curve.

The dry wind, the current with its northerly set, and the ebb in

conjunction, push the spit to the north, and as the sand advances,

vegetation consolidates the work. Then comes the season of northerly

winds, when the apex of the spit is forced backwards and outwards into

a brief but graceful flourish, in the bight of which small boats may

nestle, though the seas roar and show white teeth a few yards away.

Since the winds of the north are less in duration and persistency than

those from the south and east, the tendency of the spit--in defiance

of the yearly setback--is to the north. Driftwood, logs, and huge trees

with bare, branchless limbs become stranded, to dry and whiten in the

sun and reinforce the sand, and in their decay, with ever contributed

seaweed, to make mould for vegetation. The work of encroachment and

consolidation is incessant and strangely rapid, for vegetation never

lacks pioneers of special character to prepare the way for the less

venturesome and less hardy. Often before vegetation appears, coral

chips, shells, small stones, and sharp gravel, are concreted into

platter-shaped masses which seem to become the base of blocks of rough

conglomerate, capable of resisting the attacks of the sea; and a few

yards back, where a mangrove-bordered creek once existed, the mud and

decayed fragments of wood have been transformed into a black, cheesy

substance which might be mistaken for soft coal. So do these beaches lay

bare their secrets.

When the mainland streams pour out their floods and the commingled

volume hurries north in a mud-tinted, sharply delimited current, and

whole trees are cast up on the beaches of far-away isles, vivid examples

of the dispersion of animate and inanimate things by purely natural

means are afforded. Weighty stones are found locked among roots which,

as the wood decays, are deposited on alien sands, thereafter to invite

speculation as to origin and means of transport. On one such raft

voyaged a living specimen of the white and black banded snake, one of

the most singular of the family, for Nature has bestowed on it a placid

disposition, and provided it with an unmischievous mouth and fangs

so minute that, although classed as venomous, it is not considered

injurious to man. Though strange and interesting, on the plea that the

family is quite sufficiently represented, the derelict was unwelcome,

save as a living proof of the practicability of natural transports.

By what grace, indeed, could the creature which earned the Almighty's

bitter curse be accepted as “wilsam”--goods of God's mercy driven

ashore, no wreck or ship being visible?

This small bay never ceases the laying of tribute at one's feet. There

are seasons when the amount is less than at others; but how seldom

are its sands trodden without a display of the infinite variety of

productions of the ocean? When the mood of the sea is savage and the

spoil from the reef is flung in ridges among the vegetation of the

shore--coral in blocks and shattered masses, shells, seaweed, sponges,

and other dead marine animals and driftwood, heap on heap--days of

enthusiastic toil might be spent in sorting out the oversurplus of the

secrets of the sea. But for months together the beach maintains its

cleanly orderliness, and during these dreamy days the sea will tell of

many a pretty treasure which the sands will reveal in the face of the

sun.

The most famous of botanists compiled a floral almanac; the months,

and in some cases the weeks, being associated with the development and

flowering of significant plants. So might it be possible to ascribe to

particular months the tokens with which the obliging sea bestrews the

beaches. It is not proposed herein to attempt any such design, which

would involve special knowledge of the science of conchology and the

compilation of the records of years of patient observation. A few

examples of the material on which the delightful work might be

undertaken are given, so that the wealth of one brief strip of beach may

be taken as typical of a vast stretch of calm waters within the Great

Barrier Reef.

The ridges and furrows of the cyclone season, when the clean sand is

covered and stained with weed, dead and living molluscs, coral, leaves

carried from the hills by flooded streams, all fermenting in the heat,

tell that Christmas is past and March not yet over. Many a year passes

without such a storm as compels the groaning ocean to ravage its reefs.

Then the beaches, during the first three months are not particularly

fertile, nor are the shells to be found special or peculiar. In April

many specimens of the mollusc known as Tapes, of which there are several

species, are cast ashore, empty but fresh. In life the animal buries

itself in the mud at the edge of the sand, and some disturbance of

natural conditions, possibly due to the fresh water from flooded rivers,

causes seasonal mortality. The most conspicuous of the species is that

known as “literati,” because of the erratic scribblings decorating its

valves. With others of the genera, it is to be found cast away at other

times of the year, but the end of the wet season seems exceptionally

direful.

April is confirmed, too, but transiently, by the presence of a frail

mollusc (HAMINAEA CYMBALUM) which is washed ashore attached to seaweed,

soon to disappear desiccated by the sun and ground to powder. The shell

is semi-transparent with a sandy tint, and in form not unlike that of

a common snail. As the weather becomes cooler, a thin, delicate bivalve

decorates high-water mark. It is one of the tellinas--semi-transparent,

lustrous, and fragile--which occurs in muddy sand, but why the species

should be more susceptible to the ills of life during a particular

season is not apparent. When the fates do conspire against its welfare

dozen of bright specimens may be picked up during a casual stroll, the

animal having disappeared. The epidemic the beach thus announced

with pink and glittering shells coincides with low night tides, which

possibly leave the inefficiently protected animals exposed to the

attacks of uncustomary enemies which thrive only when the muddy banks

are exposed. The cause of the exhibition of the relics is not of so much

concern to the unlearned observer as the relics themselves and the part

they play in signifying the progress of the season. If strong winds

occur during the cool months, among the wreaths of broken seaweed thrown

on the beach may be found unbroken and fresh specimens of a singularly

beautiful and fragile univalve known commonly and most appropriately as

the “bubble shell” (HYDATINA PHYSIS), which when alive is a most lovely

object, its fine spiral lines being black and faint yellow with faint

purple edges, while the mantle is fringed with light blue intermingled

with pale yellow. In some specimens the base colouring is fawn, the

lines, of varying width, being brown and “comely crinkled,” like the

face of the pleasant old woman of whom a poet wrote. Such a frail shell

is subject to many mischances before it reaches the beach, and a few

hours of exposure to the sun tarnishes its lustre. To obtain it in

perfection the beach must be patrolled every day during due season,

and very rarely is the collector rewarded by the discovery of unsullied

specimens.

When the chill is out of the surface the spring-time of the sea begins.

Vegetable life is strenuous, so that one may chance to see a lazy turtle

bearing on its back a weedy garden. The water is alive. Miles of space

are belted with that plant to which Captain Cook applied a significant

name, likening it in its myriads to “sea sawdust.” Some dare call it

“whale spawn,” forgetful that the whale is not a fish. Others assert it

to be none other than the “coral insect,” which does not exist save in

the minds of those who write odes to such creatures:

“Ye build, ye build, but ye enter not in,

Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin.”

It consists of minute vegetation in bundles, to be individualised under

a strong microscope, though when countless billions drift on to the

beaches and die and become green and grey with corruption, the fumes are

by no means in proportion to the marvellous littleness of the individual

plants. Then we know by the organs of scent and sight that August has

come. The beaches are foul. The breakers roll in unbroken or with a

muddy, froth, for the scum acts as oil, calming even troubled water.

The Red Sea is said by some authorities to derive its title from the

scum formed by this plant (TRICHODESMIUM ERYTHRAEUM), which is strongly

impregnated with iodine. It emits a most disagreeable odour and exhales

a gas which affects the mucous membrane, causing in some individuals

sneezing and inflammation of the eyes. One amateur fisherman of

considerable experience and by no means susceptible to intangible

irritations, and not to be diverted from his sport by trifles, has

frequently been compelled to move from a favourite ground by a stream of

the scum drifting to his anchored boat. The fumes gave intense smartness

to the eyes, which were relieved by a gush of tears, but keen discomfort

recurred when the tears were wiped away.

Following the least desirable of marine phenomena is that which is known

as the “blanket weed,” which floats ashore in loathsome blobs, a hand's

breadth and more, the centre a grey, solidified slime, with a periphery

of long, dull green, slimy, shapeless fringes Individual plants coalesce

on the sand and, mingling with other weeds, cover respectable beaches

with a woolly, compact mass not unlike a rough, thick blanket, but

teeming with unpleasantnesses. Isolated plants cling to ropes, which

become garlanded with thickened slime, from which evil-smelling mud

oozes. Offensive to man afloat and ashore, the “blanket weed” is a

luxury to mullet and garfish, for during its period both may be seen

in shoals skimming the surface of the sea in abandonment of habitual

shyness, and the stomachs of both are found to be full of the

greenish-grey slime. With the compliance of the sun the impurity

disappears, giving place to the graceful weed of vivid green that

attaches itself to dead and whitened shells and fingers of coral covered

at low water. Every flood-tide deposits a zone of shells splashed

with green, while the shallows glow as a field of rich pasturage. In

favourable situations, such as the upper part of a long immersed log,

coated to the water-line with goose barnacles, the plant grows long and

luxuriantly, falling on each side like a silken mantle.

One other season, ephemeral but universal, do the babbling but

truth-telling beaches record. No rocky cove, no smooth strand, no

rubbish-accumulating creek, no mangrove-fringed islet, no coral

esplanade white under the tropic sun, no sand-bank with crest of

windshaken bush, is free. It is Christmas. Christian and pagan alike

tell it to the sea, and the sea tells it to the beaches in--corks.

Though there are grounds for the belief that some molluscs are seasonal

in their appearances and disappearances, the majority are always with

us, though subject to many casualties. A few months since an epidemic

broke out among a certain species of sea urchins (Echinus), spherical

animals with shells thickly set with spines, keen and exceedingly

brittle. The beaches were strewn with thousands of the dead, no apparent

exterior injury having been suffered. The particular species afflicted

gathers to itself, seemingly as a disguise, but perhaps as ballast, the

dead shells of cockles, which are retained by the spines. It was noticed

that the dead were not encumbered.

A curious and one of the rarest of local shells is that known as the

elephant's tusk (DENTALIUM APTINUM). Pure white and slightly fluted

longitudinally, it typifies the marvellous extent of Nature's

requirements and her fertility in design. It is especially interesting

to note that the existence of the species in Australian waters has not

hitherto been recorded, the nearest known locality being the Moluccas.

The DRUPA RICINUS (so specifically called because of resemblance to

the prickly seeds of the castor-oil plant) has another feature almost

unique--two ivory-white projections in the mouth, singularly like a

baby's teeth. In the waters of Florida is a distinct curiosity in the

form of an altogether different mollusc which is commonly known as the

“bleeding-tooth shell,” the gory stains about the base of the tooth

being highly significant. The local example of the whimsicality of

Nature owes its excellence to absolute purity. No fond mother crooning

to her first-born ever looked on budding teeth more delightful in

modelling and pearliness.

CHAMA LAXARUS belongs to the same family as the clams, the largest of

living molluscs, its specific title being an allusion to the tattered

raiment of the beggar of the most edifying of parables. Occasionally the

china-white upper valve is decorated with a broad streak of buff. Some

of the genera are attached to coral or rock indifferently by

either valve, and it is exceptional to find on the beach a perfect

specimen--that is, the valves united. Since on the reef the shells are

frequently protectively disguised with seaweed and other growth, it is

only after the violence of a cyclone that the amateur collector expects

to be rewarded.

Unlike some others of the family, the cockscomb oyster, though not

objecting to the near-by presence of its kind, seems to hate a crowd.

Half a dozen may occupy separate areas on a rock, and solitary specimens

lie embedded and strongly anchored in the sand. A typical example may

weigh over seven pounds. So big and weighty a shell can scarcely

be sensible of its invariable burden of parasites and other

encumbrances--but the variety of such tenants never fails to excite

curiosity. That which is illustrated accommodated another oyster of

delicate texture, a thorny clam (which has the reputation of being

poisonous), a mass of seaweed, a serpentine mollusc, two species of

coral--the red organ-pipe and a mushroom--three burrowing crabs, besides

a number of smaller animals, fixed and mobile, in addition to the

congregation of less obvious life critical examination would undoubtedly

have revealed.

Most species of univalves are wanderers, many bivalves are free,

and multivalves become fixed at an early stage of existence. The

goose-necked barnacle, with its five valves, comes in its myriads

attached to derelict coco-nuts, floating logs, and pumice-stone. The

species owes its name to the fabulous belief that it was the preliminary

state of the barnacle goose of the Arctic regions, the filaments

representing the plumage and the valves the wings. It has been found on

shells, whales, turtles, and marine snakes.

In the mud close to the edge of the beach sand one of the most singular

of marine animals exists, and often its empty, horny, flexible,

semi-transparent shell, always tinted green, may be found. It is known

in some works as LINGULA ANATINA, and by the natives of this Isle, by

whom a certain part of it is eaten, as “Mill-ar-ing.” A pinhole in the

mud indicates the presence of the animal, and the hungry black boy,

thrusting his hand with outspread fingers below it, closes the fingers

and withdraws anything but an inviting morsel. To the tongue-shaped

shell is attached a pedicle or stalk, attaining a length of ten inches,

opaque and tough, which is broken off, seared over the fire, and eaten

with apparent relish. It is remarkable that in localities in which this

mollusc is found a seaweed occurs similar in shape and size, the chief

difference in appearance being in the length of the stalk, which in the

plant is thin and membranous.

The Phorous, or carrier, otherwise the mineralogist, is remarkable for

its extraordinary habit of cementing to its exterior stones of irregular

size, and in some cases dead shells of other species, an office

performed by the use of an exceptionally long tongue. Its movements are

said to be very clumsy and erratic, as if its self-imposed burden was

too cumbersome for its strength. Personal observation fails to verify

its staggering gait, for dead specimens only have been found. The

stones are, no doubt, designedly acquired as a disguise and so represent

another form of life insurance. When stationary the mineralogist

successfully baffles observation; but some day, peradventure, in a

moment of preoccupation, it will reveal itself lurching along over the

rough country it favours. How few living things escape the “penalties of

Adam.” Some bear sorrows, some stones.

Among the fixed molluscs are what is known as the winged shells, to

which the “pearl oysters” belong. The name is apt, for the expanded

valves are not unlike the form of a bird in flight. The illustration

shows a rare species, several specimens of which were found attached to

the mooring-chain of a buoy by what is known as the “byssus,” a bunch

of tough fibres which passes through an hiatus in the margins of the

valves. Like the king's daughter of the Psalmist, PTERIA PEASEI is “all

glorious within,” the nacreous surface, margined with lustrous black,

shining like silver with a tinge of blue.

Only a very small proportion of the species of shells to be found on the

shore of this bay have been enumerated. In a work of general character a

complete commentary on any particular branch of natural science would

be out of place, nor is it competent for one who has but a trifling

knowledge of a special subject to deal with it in an enlightening

manner. It would be highly interesting to ascertain by study and

observation why the denizens of so many parts of the ocean meet in

community in such a narrow space, though it may not be very difficult to

present a fairly satisfactory theory for the continuous presence of

many species by reference to existing features and prevalent conditions.

Within the area of the bay the water varies in depth from a few feet to

four fathoms, the rise and fall of the tide being about two fathoms. The

fringing coral reef represents all stages of development and decay--live

growth on the outer edge, ever encroaching on the deeper water, and

comprising many varieties; dying masses on the shore-side, and a

considerable extent of dead and denuded relics lying in mud. There are

also weedy patches, bare sand-banks of limited extent, uncovered at low

water, and muddy depressions both in the deep and shallow portions and

clean sand. Strong currents race past the sand-spit and across the bay,

carrying, no doubt, continual supplies of spat from elsewhere to settle

in quiet places. No one who has lived on the margin of the tropic sea

can be astounded at its prolific life, though it may be a matter of

unceasing wonder that along a beach not more than four hundred yards

in extent should be found shells representative of species existing in

nearly all the warm waters of the world.

And there are other isles with other beaches. One may present a narrow

strip of soft sand, cringing and squeaking under foot, almost entirely

composed of finely ground coral and shells, among which polished

fragments of red coral are to the beach-comber as the “colours” the gold

fossicker may find in his dish--prospective of reward. They reinspire

the like fervour which leads to the discovery of mountains as well as

microbes, for may they not signify the existence within the bounds of

the Great Barrier Reef of the precious coral of the Mediterranean and

the Red Sea? Above such hopeful sands lies a band formed of stag's-horn

coral, bleached snow-white, each time lying at right angles to the sea,

and higher up on the strand are blocks and lumps of weather-stained

coral among which vegetation is springing. A few yards further back

stands a group of Pandanus palms, the van of the dense and intricate

jungle covering rock and ridge.

The shore of the sister islet may at the moment be but series of steeply

shelving banks of coral debris, to the base of the granite ramparts over

which the luxuriant foliage falls.

Each islet has its distinguishing features, each beach its budget of

news for ears attuned to “small measures,” each its display of seemly

things--the sweepings of the floor of the sea.

THE LOST ISLE

“Some unsuspected Isle in far-off seas.”

BROWNING.

In a region of rare serenity it lay--a blue stud on a silver

shield--aloof from other lands--unmapped, untarnished, pure, gleaming in

the dawn of exultant day.

Emblem of perfection, its charms were imperative, partly because of

remoteness from the taint of man-trodden land, mainly because, by right

of discovery, it was joyfully mine. Could anything be more desirable

than such a blending of jungle-clad mountains, verdurous hills,

sheltered valleys, orange-tinted beaches, with the shadows of white

headlands staining the sea purple?

An all-comprehending glance revealed the Isle in the shape of a

five-rayed star, each ray irregularly serrated. Here was promise of many

a landlocked cove to which the breathings of the sea would be foreign.

Unsalted streams wound among the foothills of the central mountain,

whence a spire of rose-red porphyry shot into the luminous sky from

unbroken jungle, the superficies of which were soft and brilliant as

sodden moss.

Some of the valleys showed in succession ever-green, flower-bedecked

glades, with great trees and blossoming shrubs in scattered clumps and

patches, among which sinuous ribbons of jungle denoted the courses of

deep hidden streams. Others were merely precipitous depressions in the

unbroken mass of foliage, variegated with aspiring palms so slender of

shaft that their unceasing swaying in the still air seemed an act of

unconscious affectation for the display of huge bunches of gaudy fruit,

seductive and dulcet to the taste. Spider-webbed tree-ferns with

furry, water-bespangled trunks stood in crowded groves on the brink of

spray-creating cascades and along the margins of cool rivulets which

murmured as they hurried to the sea.

Water-dripping moss padded the lintels of grottos, before which dangled

translucent ferns of delicate form, yet so rich and intense with

life that crozier-tipped fronds took the hue of flowers--coral-red,

golden-bronze, and yellow; while golden dust clung to hairy undersides

like pollen to the thighs of hive-returning bees. Deep in perpetual

shadow lived a shy plant with heart-shaped leaves, so succulent and

distended as to resemble green capsules, and in association with each

leaf was a single semi-transparent fruit, pink with a central glow

like the fire of opal, but so frail that upon touch it resolved into a

dewdrop which glistened, trembled, and was gone in a moment.

In the full blaze, feather-foliaged trees crowned with gigantic red

blossoms offered as a sacrifice fruit which blushed before the insistent

gaze of the sun; while beneath this gay canopy vine and creeper and

pliant shrub wove an undergarment which screened the moist earth and

created a realm of subdued light in which all the flowers were pale of

tint and tremulously fragile, though of almost forbidding magnitude of

form.

Birds of painted plumage and loud and sonorous note sang and fluttered

among the flowers and fruit with no ill thing to disturb them, no

dissonance to compel them to silence and fear.

Whithersoever I gazed, the lone and lovely Isle denoted a paradise of

unkempt vegetation, unfeared birds. No stump was there to betray

the passing of the devastating axe. No footprint except that of

birds--erratic, rectangular, scribbling--dented the sand. No human being

had ever visited those groves perfumed by orchids, gauzy as the wings of

the butterflies which poised over them and sipped the nectar stored in

their slender throats.

Each bay and inlet and cove differed in delightsomeness. Unsoiled,

weedless sand littered with shells floored this deep and sheltered nook,

where shadow and substance blended to the complete deceit of the closest

scrutiny. The next was as a garden of shrubs with living blossoms and

fruit in strange shapes and gaudy colours. Many of the subaqueous plants

expanded and retracted their blossoms harmoniously, as if to the strains

of music audible only to the mute denizens of the sea--a measured,

waving dance, fantastic and wondrously beautiful. Crystalline clearness

magnified the detail of the next, the portals of which were coral, dyed

extravagantly and variously according to the secret of the sea, with its

inexhaustible chemicals. Fish in unimaginable shapes, fantastic hues,

and sea-things harmless and educative to the sight, roamed the coral

gardens, retiring at will into sapphire-blue caverns or flashing in

the clearness with lightning speed and scarce visible effort. Cream

and yellow, old gold, blue, pink and lavender, the corals flourished in

myriad shapes. Anemones, large as plates, royal blue and greyish-green,

and each bristling with thousands of independent activities, embossed

snow-white blocks.

Opening out into an oval basin, the inlet was again constricted, the

bottle-neck entrance to a perfect haven being guarded by huge masses of

limestone, weathered grotesquely, from the crevices of which sprays

of peach-coloured orchids quivered, while the flora of land and sea

commingled on the lustrous surface. Beyond again, the inlet wound round

the base of it cliff vocal with the fugue of birds which flew from

flowery parapet to flowery parapet.

Gradually the cliffs retreated, leaving fair banks with shrubs and great

trees with branches pendulous over unbroken placidity, and there, on

a knoll, stood a palm, rigid and straight as a column, crowned with

shimmering fronds which shielded masses of nuts, brown and green,

and great sprays of straw-coloured infloresence. More palms beyond,

thick-set; and beyond again an avenue in perfect alignment, each tree

perfect in stately form, with one blotch of glorious purple--as high and

compact as a church--to block the diminished distance.

The boat drifted to the landing never touched by foot of man. Lost in

admiration of the imposing and manifold perfections of the Isle, eager

to wander at will among those enticing glades, and to make festival with

their genial gods, I stepped out--and into nothingness!

Can it be that never again shall be discovered in the Land of Dreams the

Lost Isle?

PART II.--THE PASSING FACE

THE CORROBOREE

“No ceremony that to great ones 'longs.”

SHAKESPEARE.

Summoned, invited, children, men, women, and piccaninnies assembled to

participate in the duties and recreations of the moment.

Message-sticks had been carried into unfamiliar country by nervous boys.

One of the organisers at ease with his pen sent to his kin formal and

official invitations mingled with social and affectionate greetings. All

responded.

The beach sent its silent-footed contingents trailing along the yellow

sands, carrying in well-worn dilly-bags oysters and scraps of half-baked

fish smeared with smoke, and gritty. All their lives had they trudged

along the convenient margin of the sea, where the receding tide leaves

a firm, level, springy track. They were familiar with all its moods, and

took little heed of any.

The fame of a previous Parliament had spread far and wide, even to that

aspect of the Dividing Range which sends its waters to the great shallow

gulf to the west. Natives who, though living among the mountains but two

days' journey from the coast, had never seen the sea, hastened thither

in bee-line, passing through unknown but not unfriendly country. Though

the age of tribal feuds was past, special weapons of defence were

carried, for did not strange jungles teem with spectral denizens whom

imagination endowed with appalling shape, with cunning, and with rending

ferocity? Unmolested, the party arrived one evening, to gaze with

mute astonishment on the sea. It was almost as incomprehensible, and

therefore almost as fearsome, as the phantoms of the bush. Mysterious,

vast beyond the range of vision, here grumbling on the sand, there

mingling with the sky, the strangers peered at it through the screen

of whimpering casuarinas and trembled. The rustle of the subsiding

north-easter made for fear. They told one another that the big salt

water was alive. It talked in austere tones, while their own sleepy

lagoons were silent and tame. Wonderingly, they retreated to the jungle

for the night, there to take counsel of the long-shoremen.

“That b-i-g fella salt water, him talk all asame?”

“Yowi! Him sing out plenty. Mak'm b-i-g fella row!”

“That fella him walk about lika that?”

“Yowi! Him walk about. Quiet little bit. Sometime run about splash'm

water; mak'm boat capsize. Plenty men drown finis!”

The strangers shivered and longed to return to their cool hills; but the

long-shoremen beguiled them with descriptions of the fish and the crabs

and oysters the generous sea gave, and told that in the morning it would

be “quiet fella” and that they need not be afraid.

With taut-strung nerves, the highlanders approached the sea, which shone

in matutinal placidity. When the ripples wavered on the smooth sand and

ran in caressing ripples towards their feet, they started and shrunk.

The incomprehensible ocean was alive and much to be feared, for was it

not so big that no one could see where it ended? They sat and watched

its enticing gestures, and, gathering courage, stood tremulously while

the tide splashed their feet and retreated. The boldest walked in

ankle-deep and danced in daredevilry, and soon young and old were

gambolling uncouthly, tasting the sea's quality, shouting and splashing.

None ventured more than knee-deep; some crawled and wallowed in the wet

sand, too fearful to trust their lives to so big a thing which showed

itself to be alive by breathing and moving. The morning was spent in

moist frolics, and when the north-easter began to work up a little sea,

which spoke in menacing tones, the terrified strangers withdrew.

Late in the afternoon the corroboree began, many of the participators

having spent hours in the assumption of the festive costume of the down

of sulphur-crested cockatoos plastered to the skin with grease and

the blood. It is not to be supposed that white down in the hands

of experienced dressers is incapable of variation in style. Several

original designs excited the approbation of spectators. The down was

arranged in tufts following the perpendiculars of the body from shoulder

to shin, or in a series of circles accurately spaced, or in intersecting

spirals, while the heads of all performers and combatants were converted

into white mops.

And with the clapping of hollowed hands and the clicking of boomerangs

the function began. And having danced to their own satisfaction and the

delight of the crowd, the warriors with ostentation and bluster recited

private grievances and challenged those against whom they had real or

fancied wrongs to combat. Most of the noisy declamation was ill-founded.

The many had no grievances and no intentions of fighting, but out of the

shouting crowd stepped two big men who sought compensation for “another

Helen.” Though not lovely or winsome or an heiress, she sufficed as the

motive for an honourable and public strife, quite as sincere as many

of the scuffles without the walls of Troy. Spears and boomerangs were

thrown viciously and dodged and evaded skilfully until one of the men

found a boomerang sticking fast in his leg. The wound was decisive, and

with much hullabaloo the defeated warrior limped away, while the lady,

whom niggardly Nature had denied the grace of blushing, passively went

to the victor.

Among the strangers to the coast was an old man but a yard and a

quarter high, with unkempt, grisly beard, a head which needed not the

glorification of cockatoo's down, long, thin arms, huge hands, thick,

stump legs, and sprawling feet. No far-reaching crab of the reef just

showing its worn brown tusks off-shore was more grotesque of mien and

gait. To emphasise his malignant mood, he carried a huge boomerang,

which seemed to obey and embody his whims. It sprang from his powerful

hands in resolute and impetuous flight, whirred threateningly overhead,

and returned to foot, fluttering and purring, as if endowed with

affection for its unlovable master. None so mastered the missile; but

for all his weird influence over it, he was subject to the restraints of

another weapon which seldom left his hands. Is there not a spiritual

law which imposes checks on the bombastic tricks of crude and cultured

alike, or was it by force of gravity that the point of the dwarf's

long and slender spear dipped into the ground, punctuating mock martial

struts with perverse irregularity? Prodigious in his own estimation, his

jibes and taunts were almost as terrifying as the erratic flights of his

boomerang; for the dwarf was a privileged individual, the Thersites

of the campaign, and with one advantage over his prototype--he really

wanted to fight. So he swaggered, heeding not the reproving spear; he

fumed; he mocked; for no warrior affected to notice his vainglorious

absurdities. He was as much in earnest as those who fought on account

of elemental love, and far more so than any of the blusterers who talked

big and looked small. He longed to fight, and for money.

Each warrior was challenged individually, and when none responded he

railed against all for cowards and sent the boomerang hissing defiance

against the blue sky, to fall with mutter and thud at his feet. In his

rage the little man became hysterical, and the more he scolded the less

important, while the swaying spear emphasised increasing agitation,

but brought him neither humility nor jibe, for the race does not

intentionally relieve its drama with comedy.

No more influential personage was present than “Mooty,” the crafty,

determined, plausible philosopher--the sagest of the counsellors, the

most flowery of orators, the most weird of the wizards. Long before

he had established his reputation as a medicine-man. A settler had

purchased some cast-off goats in a distant town, and had employed a

black boy of the district as assistant drover, and the name of the boy

was Tom. Since there are many “Toms,” a distinguishing surname had to

be bestowed, so “Goat” was affixed, and as “Tom Goat” the stranger was

known. Having no sweetheart, he made love to several dusky dames, all

of whom rejected him because his absurd name made him a figure for

fun. Rosey, wife of Jack, was persistently courted, and scornfully she

despised her wooer. That individual, however, was not without malignant

resource. Rosey complained of a sore throat, and as she got worse her

boy became similarly afflicted. The faces and throats of both swelled

alarmingly, so that Mooty, who had the cases in hand, gave up hope. Both

were resigned, when Mooty, to his own horror and the dismay of everyone,

caught the dread disease.

No such illness had ever been known in the district, and since it had

not only baffled Mooty's skill, but had irreverently seized him--the

only physician of credit and renown--its cause must be supernatural.

Thus did he reason, as he began occult investigations. Jack and Rosey

lay in their camp passively dying. Mooty prowled about, the sleeves of

a discarded shirt tied under his distended jaws. No physical origin

for the mysterious disease was found during the two days he devoted to

methodic search and secret rite. Then an anticipated discovery rewarded

him and made his name thrill among his race. To a condescending white

man he told of his skill in these terms:

“Two fella him close up finis. Me bin look out camp belonga two fella.

B'mbi me bin find'm little fella fork stick close up alonga groun'. Me

frait. My word, me bin pick'm up easy fella. Me look out longa little

fella hole. Me bin see hair, too much, belonga Tom Goat. That hair bin

mak'm two fella no good. Him mak'm me fella no good. Me catch'm that

fella hair along two fella stick. Tchuck'm along ribber. My word! That

fella hair no good! Him go phuff! Kill'm fish, too many. B'mbi me fella

go alonga camp. Me tell'm two fella, 'You no more mak'm die. Me bin

find'm that fella hair belonga Tom Goat.' B'mbi two fella him get up;

him no more die; he walk about.”

Exasperated by such impropriety, aghast at the consequences,

Mooty--doctor alike of laws, of science, and of medicine, and a man of

imperative mood--sharpened his tomahawk at the Chinaman's grindstone,

theatrically testing its edge with distorted thumb. Tom Goat disappeared

as silently as last night's dew, for Mooty does not hesitate to

summarily administer his own judgment when his professions are scorned,

his family bewitched, his countenance distorted with mumps.

With feasting and fighting, with dancing and storytelling, quarrelling

and reconciliations, the assemblage spent a happy week. Then the jungle

reabsorbed the nervous hillmen, and beach-combers straggled along the

yellow sands.

THE CANOE-MAKER

“Last scene of all, . . . Is second childishness and mere oblivion.”

SHAKESPEARE.

A tottering old man, frail alike in frame and mind, squats dying in an

alien camp. His teeth have almost disappeared, worn to the gums by

the mastication of food in which sand has been mingled in immoderate

proportion. All his life has been spent on the verge of the sea. He has

never known smooth food. Before he left his mother's breast grit was on

his lips, for in her sleep she snoodled naked in the sand. Hers was the

age of bark rugs or none, and was ever lord of the beach who shared with

his lady so rare a comfort?

Counterparts of Cassowary's babyhood are extant to this

day--milk-bellied, nose-neglected, fumbling-fingered toddlers, who

smash with stones almost beyond their strength infant oysters and gulp a

mixture of squash and sand.

As he grew up his food, seared on a fire on the beach, was always more

or less gritty. Possibly it would hardly have been relished if the

accustomed condiment had been absent.

For many a long year Cassowary was a sort of king in the locality of his

birth, though this rank brought him no isolation. Now he is without rank

and grim in his lonesomeness. True to the sentiments of his race, the

men and women who knew him when he was strong and lusty strive to make

him comfortable in his dotage; but he is repellent. His surliness does

not vex them. They pity and excuse and endeavour to soothe. To strangers

whom Cassowary has never loved and would now assault with spear and

nulla-nulla, they apologise.

“Poor fella, Cassowary. Him no good. Close up that fella finis.”

Then they tell of his strange fantasies. Similar delusions have

afflicted notable men of the world, and even to this day are there not

apprehensive monarchs whose precautions are similar to those of

the age-worn savage? He imagines that he is regarded as a useless

encumbrance, and that his fellows would gladly hasten his departure to

that country on the bourne of which he painfully lingers. Suspicious of

plots to rob him of the poor vestiges of life, he is ever on his guard

against poison, his special dread. Rather than run risk he submits to

semi-starvation, for the decayed monarch of a narrow strip of shore

has no servitor on whom to impose the office of taster of his dishes. A

stranger may of his goodwill offer a tribute of tobacco. It is cast away

with every manifestation of indignation and haste. He is sure that the

one solace of existence has been drugged, and that if he indulges he

must die. How marvellous the self-denial! How many of us would purchase

half an hour's existence such as his at the cost of declining the one

luxury of life!

Flour from his master's hands is served like the stranger's tobacco,

though he may not have tasted food for days; nor does he accept a

portion of the damper cooked in his presence until he has seen others

eat. Then he feeds reluctantly and with extreme caution, not to gratify

the palate, but to maintain life.

Was ever monarch or Roman pontiff beset by more vindictive and envious

foes than this helpless old savage who possesses nothing save a grimy

shirt and the fragments of a blanket?

Cassowary, an old man when I first met him, was of the sort which does

not make friends with white men. Silent, resolute, reserved, a man

apart, he disdained the race-shattering language his fellows hastened

to acquire. His pidgin English, limited to a few words, was almost as

unintelligible as his own rude tongue. Once I landed on the beach which

was his favourite resort, and as the anchor slipped into the sea, smoke

puffed and drifted from the camp and the lonesome man's dogs barked; but

by the time the camp was reached the smell of the fire had gone, and all

tracks had been obliterated as if by the efficient touch of the wind.

The heat of the sand at the entrance of the dome-shaped humpy revealed

the site of the covered embers, and the rest was silence.

At the back of the humpy, concealed by carelessly disposed bark and

grass, was a bark canoe which Cassowary, fisherman and oyster-eater,

was never without. In those days he deserved the reputation of being an

unrivalled maker of canoes which, during the first few weeks of their

prime, were sound, neat of appearance, quite seaworthy, though of small

dimensions and exceedingly light. Others might be expert fishermen and

skilful in more exacting sport of turtle and dugong catching, but all

acknowledged his special superiority. Though custom had made him a king,

Nature had designed him for a canoe-maker, while with that invincible

irony with which she rebukes the self-esteem and baffles the ambitions

of mortals, she discounted her gift by the bestowal of frank distrust

of the sea. He was so impelled to the exercise of the one talent that

during youth and manhood his chief occupation and never-ending delight

lay therein. That which his right hand had found to do he did with

all his might, his frail craft being the admiration of all, while the

confidence with which others managed them proved their quality. They

toyed with the sea in its placid moods, and were deferential in its

ill-humour. But Cassowary never ventured beyond easy hail from the

shore, however urgent the occasion or propitious the day.

Fear also restricted his wanderings in the bush, which kept him within

sound of the dreaded waves. He was an unaffected beach-comber. Neither

the food-bestowing sea nor the safe dry land was for him.

By instinct he seemed to be guided to the best trees for bark, generally

selecting “gulgong,” though others were equally pliant in his hands. Raw

from the tree, he would soak the single sheet in water, and while sodden

steam it over a smoky fire, and, as it softened, mould it with hand

and knee. Bringing the edges of the end designed for the stem into

apposition, using a device on the principle of the harness-maker's

clamp, he sewed them together with strips of freshly cut cane.

Two stretchers gave to the craft beam, and the necessary sheer and

thwart-ship stays of twisted cane stiffness. Gunwales of cane were

sewn on, the stitches being cemented with gum made plastic by frequent

renderings over the fire on a flat stone, and then the canoe was

complete save for the hand-paddles, spoon-bowl-shaped pieces of bark.

Each canoe sat well down by the stern when the fisherman knelt in it,

crouching forward like a jockey on the withers of his mount, and sending

it along by the alternate strokes.

Cassowary was wont to scan each new work with the tilted head of an

artist. All the stitches were regularly spaced, and since they were

burnished with smoke, the canoe became a study in brown, braided with

gold, representative of something more than a means towards earning

a diet of fish, and inevitable grit. It was neat and of harmonious

colouring; innocent of the least touch of finery; not a scratch expended

on ornament. All its lines, save those of the stretchers and stays

which stood for rigidity, were fluent. It was not made to model or

measurement, but developed under the maker's hard hands and tough

fingers--a tribute to his artistry and skill. On the water it was as

blithe as a bubble.

Often had the wish to possess one of Cassowary's masterpieces arisen.

He scorned barter by abandoning his property whenever the interferer

appeared. When the camp was deserted while the boat was being brought

to anchor there was a strong temptation to take the canoe, leaving some

adequate reward. The self-denial is almost regretted, for the old

man with the thin white tuft on his chin, his shyness, his hatred of

strangers, and delusions of his decrepitude, are characteristic of an

age soon to be of the irrecoverable past. A canoe from such accomplished

hands would have represented a complimentary record of a race deficient

in the elements of history.

Several years have elapsed since Cassowary made his last canoe. He

acknowledged that his fingers had lost their cunning, but the fates

ordained that his ideas should blossom as his manipulatory skill

withered Gradually he became feeble in mind and body, and was wont to

spend his time crouched in a rough shelter dreaming prodigious dreams.

He would wake not only his fellows, but a pitying neighbour of other

complexion, with enthusiastic shouts announcing that a “big fella

steamer” was whistling out at sea; that it was his steamer; that it

carried two bags of flour, and tea and sugar and tobacco, and one

“good fella trousis”; and he would demand help in the landing of his

merchandise. Worn with age, sleep would soon again claim him, but never

and anon his great cry, hailing the phantom steamer with her beneficent

cargo, would wake the poor and squalid camp.

The time came when Cassowary could no longer obtain for himself the

coarse and trivial food essential to life, and he and another outcast,

blind and maimed, quartered themselves on the camp on the beach; arid

in spite of fretfulnesses and suspicions, their fellows administered

to their wants. Being brought face to face with facts, the State gave

orders which meant an old-age pension for the outcasts. The dole was

liberal enough. The mistake was that it came too late.

There was no reaction, as is oft the case with those who retire after

the bustling phase to live on the bounty of the State, for Cassowary and

his blind companion had never been strenuous workers or brain-compelling

men. The pension represented unexampled abundance. It was real, and yet

it came from a source almost as intangible as Cassowary's ship. Food

and tobacco! What more could the heart of a casual relic of such a race

want? Actually he wanted nothing more, save, peradventure, a blanket;

but he dreamt he did, and no earthly agent could diminish the festal

extravagance of the scenes among which he revelled, conducted by the

enchanted sleep.

Cassowary had at last come to his kingdom. His time had always been his

own. The ready-to-hand food gave him leisure. His days were all dreams.

Weary of crouching over the fire before the opening of his humpy, he

began to wander in the flesh as he was wont to wander in mind. He was

seen a mile away from the cheerless camp, where his companions, with

smoke-dried eyes, lamented his absence.

Was he searching for a tree which might provide bark for yet another

canoe--his last work, a paragon? A few days passed and it became known

that Cassowary was missing. His shrunken body disordered a patch of buff

sand just above high water.

Had the desolate old man, in his fancy, made the best of all canoes, and

for once ventured out to sea?

TWO LADIES

“To one, resolution; to another, a disposition to dance.”

NELLY, THE SHREW.

As the steamer from the South enters the bay, the traveller sees ahead

the fringe of houses on the low lands fronting the inlet where shipping

finds safe and convenient harbourage. To the left he may be introduced

to a strip of open beach between two low points of grey granite, back

from which are scattered groups of modest buildings and huts which form

the aboriginal settlement. The choice of the site for the settlement

was influenced by the character of the country. Although but a short

distance by sea from the port, it is isolated by its background of hard

and inhospitable hills patched with almost impenetrable jungle. Few

consigned there ever leave of their own motive, however earnest the

longing may be. The home-sick realise that escape is difficult and, if

successful, futile, for are not the police everywhere, and strong and

compelling? Why undertake the unknown perils of unknown hills--spiritual

perils more to be dreaded than physical--when capture and again

banishment are certain?

Nellie Oongle-bi, among whose matrimonial experiences was Tom, of this

Isle, and who since his death has gone from bad to worse, had been

found under the protection of a coloured alien, sadly degenerated and

saturated with opium. For her own salvation she was transported to

the settlement afar off, with its frontier of sea and background of

repulsive hills. She went, being in the clutches of a superior force,

tractably enough, but with none of her unconquerable love of country

subdued. Nelly has nothing of an attractive nature. She has a vixenish

temper at times; is always on the alert for fancied slights; is by no

means cleanly, unless under duress; and does not hesitate to foment

subjects of quarrel. Few among her relations and friends would mourn her

exile. Even her own son, Jim, was scoffingly indifferent. She was far

from being so, but played her part well, being obedient, quite tame, and

ever observant.

She “sat down” at the settlement, and made friends with two or three of

the women there with whom she had previously been acquainted; but while

she talked with apparent resignation, she scanned the hills, especially

fixing in her mind a particular gully which leads up to a ridge

promising an outlook to the south, upon which her hopes were fixed.

Soon after dark on the second night she took to the bush, carrying

a dilly-bag and a blanket. She is now one of the population of a

far-distant settlement, the site of which happens to be within her

own country. How she overcame the distance without food, friends, or

resources, has to be told, though not altogether in her own language,

for such would be unintelligible to the ordinary reader.

She was determined to run away as soon as the steamer landed her, for

that part of the North was not her country, and she could not live

anywhere else. Besides, she was “sorry belonga that boy Jim.” During the

first night of her homeward pilgrimage she never ceased walking among

rocks and through the scrub, for she was fearful of being recaptured.

Without pause she clambered on until well into the next day, when she

slept for a little while. Then on again until dark. One big “mung-um”

(mountain) stood in the hopeful direction. Thitherwards she hastened,

losing count of the days and nights. Nelly has no conception of figures

beyond one, two, and a great many. The climbing of the mountain

occupied many days. She was bewildered, for she could not “catch'm

that sal'water” which would lead her home. At last from a spur of the

mountain she saw the sea--“L-o-n-g way. Too far. Me close up sing out.”

Though she might cry, the sight of big salt water beside which all her

life had been spent was a joy and a stimulant. Pushing and worming her

way through the jungle, she encountered nothing but birds, wallabies,

and snakes.

Once she was startled by what seemed to be a worn narrow track.

Advancing cautiously along it, she came across a huge carpet snake

coiled “all a same rope alonga boat.” It was asleep where an opening in

the roof of vegetation made a patch of sunlight on the jungle floor, and

she passed by, treading noiselessly. For food she had the fruits of the

jungle, crude, harsh, and bitter. Food, indeed, was almost repugnant,

for her thoughts were concentrated on her country, so she hastened down

towards the now hidden sea. Far inland she heard its welcome noise--a

greeting and a call from home which made her forgetful of all weariness

and fret.

In course of time--a weak woman carrying a blanket and living on

innutritious foods does not struggle through jungle at any remarkable

speed--the foothills and then the low-lying country at the junction

of two rivers were reached. Here she took off her few and bedraggled

garments, and, making them into a bundle with her blanket and bag, waded

through swamps, eventually emerging on a sandy beach, which she intended

to follow until she regained her country, many a weary mile to the

south. Providence provided an easy means of crossing the estuary of the

rivers--a kindly white man, owner of a “little fella boat, little fella

ingin.” To him she told the story of her escape and her longing for her

own country and her own people, and was ferried across. Then she picked

up a camp of her race, the members of which, sympathising with her,

accompanied her on her way for a couple of days. One day she woke from

her sleep on the edge of the mangroves with her blanket sopping with

blood which had flowed from her mouth and nose during sleep. “Me bin

sorry belonga that boy Jim. Me bin sorry belonga country. That 'nother

country no good belonga me. Me think me die. Me walk alonga sandy beach.

Some time alonga b-i-g fella rock. Me close up tumble down altogether.

Me tired. B'mbi catch'm Liberfool Crik (Liverpool Creek). Plenty fella

sit down. He bin sing out, 'Hello! You come back from that place?' Me

bin say 'Yes; that country no good belonga me.'”

A month or so after Nelly was again found in the service of a coloured

alien, tugging away with another weak gin at what she calls a “two-fella

saw.” For her task of sleeper-cutting her reward would probably be a

handful of rice and a dose of opium per day.

Nelly is now at her leisure within a mile or so from the place of

her birth, hardly conscious of the feat represented by her solitary

pilgrimage. Occasionally she has the company of her tall and indifferent

boy. She enjoys the society of her relations, and indulges as oft as

may be in exhilarating misunderstandings with them. Without a vehement

squabble now and again life would be intolerably insipid. Anger,

accompanied by fluent abuse, is to her a kind of spiritual blood-letting

for the casement of her suddenly plethoric temperament. But such is of

her frailty. Proof of her strength of purpose, has it not been given?

MARIA DANCES.

In her youth Maria gave promise of a rare condition among coastal

blacks--tendency to width and breadth. As she grew in bulk she seemed,

if not to decrease in stature, at least to remain stationary. Thus it

was that her figure became perfect.

If there be one feature of animal physiology more adorable than aught

else in the eyes of the lords of the soil, it is fat--fat under any

and every circumstance. They admire it in animals of the chase, and

the paltry, greasy relics of a feast may be smeared over the body with

something of the pride and gratification derivable in other and cleaner

walks of life from perfumed powder, pink and white.

Being fat and shiny as a girl, Maria had keen and ardent lovers. She was

an adorable novelty.

Blacks do not gaze into the faces of their sweethearts. They have

never found chaste delight in the writing of woeful ballads to their

mistress's eyebrows, or to the glorification of their snubby and

expansive noses. If any of Maria's admirers had been lyrical, her buxom

condition would have been the theme of their idealisations. In time she

became the mother of children, still retaining that charming superiority

of bulk which excited the rage of sisters whose skins did not shine,

whose flesh did not quiver whensoever they walked, talked, or even

smiled.

No marvel that her matrimonial experiences were the comment of the camp

and gave rise to many differences, but, since placidity and fat have

been known among so-called civilised peoples to blend in the individual,

Maria's demeanour called for no comment. It was not her fault, but the

flightiness and whimsicality of Nature which had contrived to make her

the belle of the camp. And why not enjoy the obvious admiration of the

stalwart youths as well as the discomfort of the sisters who had not an

ounce of irresistible fascination of which to boast.

For some years the form of Maria had not waddled across accustomed

scenes. Quite unexpectedly it loomed up as large and buoyant as ever.

The light-hearted denizens of the camp had arranged an evening's

entertainment. The fires burned low, the sea babbled, making

white-skirted frolic on the hard level sand, and the piping voices of

the honey-seeking flying foxes among the tea-trees seemed to chide

the parrots of the day for having left so little refreshment in the

blossoms. Behind a screen of faded blankets the warriors of the camp

were adorning themselves with white clay and feathers and long, shaggy

beards of bark, while the leader of the orchestra began to tune his

boomerang and fire-hardened sticks, and his attendants to squat ready to

drum on thighs and lap with hollowed hand in time with his refrain and

clicking music. The fires flared up, and the band emerged with thumping

step and emphatic grunts to illustrate the ceremonious visit of

strangers to a camp at which the nature of the reception was in doubt.

One individual, in chalk for the most part, advanced, half nervously,

half anxiously, to the musician, and modestly retired, and advanced

again and retired, until reassured, and then the crowd came forward

whirling and grunting, and, with high-waving arms in unison and swaying

bodies, gave token of happiness.

ACT II.--The master of ceremonies carried to the front a big and rough

sapling. The fires glowed again, the orchestra clicked and thumped, and

a single boy in an ancient red handkerchief and chalks danced into the

light, and, keeping time with the music, began in pantomime to fashion

the sapling into a sword, using a fictitious shell, with which he

scraped off imaginary bark. While absorbed in his work, his companions

came from the screen in haste, skipping round him and mimicking all his

actions and grunting in unison with him, while making the sand-ridge to

quiver with intensity of tread. Presently all flopped down on haunches

in close formation round the sword-maker, still maintaining rhythmical

sway of body and limb, and while some held the sapling, others toiled

strenuously towards the completion of a good and true weapon, the master

of ceremonies encouraging and exhorting the workers until nature could

hold out no longer, and they bounded to their feet and, with grunts

and signs and with bodies reeking with perspiration, whirled away into

darkness.