The Little Black Princess: A True Tale of Life in the Never-Never Land

After this explanation all the young men of the tribe understood of course that they must not eat their animal brothers. At honey-bee-corrobborees, the history of the honey-bees was taught, and at each animal corrobboree, the history of each totem, for corrobborees, as I said before, were the schools of the blackfellows.

Goggle Eye, you see, was one of the wisest of the blackfellows, and as he said this was true, perhaps it was. I know that “out-bush” we had seen portraits of the great-great-greatest grandfather of the Kangaroo men, and of the Fish and of the Iguana people, drawn on rocks and trees by the artists of the tribe.

When Goggle Eye had finished his history lesson, I gave him some sugar in a calico bag, and he tied it carefully round his neck. He said the ants couldn’t get at it there. Then I gave him a red handkerchief and some tobacco and hairpins. The blacks love hairpins, they find them so useful to dig up grubs with.

As Goggle Eye still stayed about, I said good-bye, and turned to leave him.

“Missus,” he called after me, “me bin lose ‘em pipe.” Something in his face made me suspicious. I went and looked behind the antbed to see what he had hidden, and found his pipe.

“Here you are, Goggle Eye,” I said; “me bin good fellow, me bin find him.”

I expected him to look ashamed of himself, but he didn’t—not a little bit! He sat down and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks at the joke of it all, and that made me laugh too. Of course in the end Goggle Eye got a new pipe, and went off “bush” with it in his mouth. As he went through the gate he turned and waved it at me, and that was the last time I saw him looking merry-hearted and happy.

I had taught Sue some tricks—to beg, shake hands, and pretend to be “deadfellow”—and Bett-Bett was wild with delight.

“My word, Missus!” she cried excitedly, “Sue plenty savey, him close up whitefellow.” Then seizing her darling in her arms, she darted off to the humpy to show her to the lubras, singing as she ran, “Sue plenty savey; him savey, him savey!”

When they came back I was reading, and paid no attention to them.

After a while Bett-Bett said—

“What name, Missus?”

I looked up to see her staring very hard at me, with a puzzled look on her face.

“What name, what?” I said, wondering what she meant.

She did not answer at once, but picked up a book, and held it so close to her face that it almost touched her nose; then staring at it till her eyes nearly jumped out of her head, she said—

“What name, likee this? likee this? likee this?”

I laughed at her and said—

“Bett-Bett, I hope I don’t look like that when I read,” for she looked a fearful little object. But I saw what was puzzling her; she could not understand why I sat looking so earnestly at little black marks on paper.

I explained that books could talk like “paper yabbers,” as she called letters—papers that “yabber,” or talk, you know.

Then I got a little ABC book, and some paper and pencils, and told her I would teach her to read; but it was easier said than done.

We began with the capital letters. Bett-Bett repeated “A” after me, and made it on paper, and then wanted to know what it was. Was it tucker, or an animal, or somebody’s name?

I sat looking so earnestly at little black marks on paper. “What did the mark say?” she asked. “What name him yabber, Missus, this one A?” were the exact words she used.

You remember that on Goggle Eye’s letter-stick marks were cut, and that every mark had a special meaning; so Bett-Bett was sure that “A” must be the name of something.

I couldn’t explain it, so told her that when she knew all the names of the letters, I would tell her what they meant, and we went on to B.

The sound reminded Bett-Bett of bees and honey. “Him sugar-bag,” she said, grinning at her cleverness. Then she made it in the dust with her toe, and told Sue— “Him talk sugar-bag, this one B.” Sue looked wise and smelt it, and then offered to shake hands all round. And that was our first day’s lesson.

Next day we learnt a few more letters, and capital “I” was christened “This one eye,” as a smutty little finger tapped Bett-Bett’s eye.

A day or two afterwards “W” was noticed on ahead.

“Missus,” she cried, pointing to it, “I bin find bullocky.”

“What name?” I said, wondering what was coming now.

“Bullocky,” she repeated, nodding her head wisely at “W” and then “him all day sitdown longa bullocky.”

Then I understood her. “W” was the letter of the station brand, and she had seen it on the cattle and remembered it.

We plodded on day after day, and every day Bett-Bett gave me a hint that she did not think much of lessons.

“Me knock up longa paper yabber, Missus; him silly fellow,” she kept saying.

I took no notice of her remarks, but I think the only thing either of us learnt was patience.

The capitals were bad enough, but when we began the little letters, things got dreadfully mixed.

“Missus! this one no more ‘A’,” said Bett-Bett, worrying over small “a.”

I told her it was a little “a”; but she insisted that it wasn’t, and to prove it showed me big “A,” and of course they were not a bit alike. To try and make her understand a little better, I said that capital “A” was the mother, and little “a” the baby. This pleased her very much,

“Me savey,” she said, pointing from one to the other.

“This one mumma; this one piccaninny.” Then she wanted to know the baby’s name; what its mother called it. She said that piccaninnies always had different names to their mummas.

Of course I didn’t know the baby’s name, and told her so. Very often there was no answer to Bett-Bett’s questions; but somehow she always made me feel that it was my fault, or my ignorance, that there wasn’t. After this we said: “Mumma A and piccaninny belonga mumma A; mumma B and piccaninny belonga mumma B, and so on to the very end of the alphabet, till our tongues ached.

On the page Bett-Bett was learning from, every little letter was next to its mother. Little “a” next mumma “A,” and little “b” next mumma “B”; but in the reading lessons little letters were walking about by themselves. One day she noticed this when she was looking through the book.

“Look, Missus!” she cried, excitedly. “Piccaninny belonga mumma ‘A’ sit down by meself.” Then she scolded the little letter dreadfully, “You go home longa you mumma,” she said, in a loud, angry voice, shaking her finger at it. But small “a” never moved; it just sat and looked at her, and Bett-Bett told me it was “cheeky fellow longa me,” meaning it was not at all afraid of her. “My word! you badfellow alright,” she went on, scolding hard; “Debbil-debbil catch you dreckly.” As little “a” took no notice of this awful threat, she turned back to tell “mumma A” about its naughty piccaninny. There she found that the little letter had slipped home, and was sitting quietly at its mother’s knee. She was so pleased about it,

“Look, Missus,” she said, coming to show me; “him goodfellow now.”

“It’s a very good little letter,” I said, “and you’re a good little lubra, and may go and help to water the garden.”

She gave a piercing, ear-splitting yell of delight, and called Sue; but before she went asked me if the little “a” in my book was good.

I said “Yes,” and hoped I was telling the truth; as far as I knew, they were good. I suppose Bett-Bett thought I spent hours sending naughty piccaninnies home to their mummas. Almost before I knew that she and Sue had gone, I heard shrieks from the vegetable garden, and yells of “Missus! Missus!” and Biddy and Rosey came running through the open gate. “What’s the matter now?” I said, as I went to meet them, for there was always something fresh happening.

“Missus!” they panted, “Bett-Bett bin kill Rolly; him bin kill him longa quart pot.”

I waited to hear no more, but ran as fast as I could to the garden, with the lubras at my heels; hoping that Rolly was not really dead, but perhaps only stunned.

The first thing I saw was Bett-Bett and Rolly quietly watering the garden.

“You naughty lubras,” I said, turning sharply to Biddy and Rosey; “what do you mean, telling such wicked stories? What name you all day gammon, eh?” for I was very angry indeed with them; they had given me a terrible fright.

To my surprise, they insisted that Bett-Bett had killed Rolly.

“Straightfellow, Missus,” they said earnestly; “Bett-Bett bin kill Rolly alright.” Even Rolly herself said: “Bett-Bett bin kill me, Missus! Straightfellow! Me no more talk gammon.”

But Bett-Bett herself said nothing; she kept on watering the garden, with one eye on the Missus. I suppose she was thinking of the paint-pot.

“You silly things,” I said, feeling very puzzled, for they were in deadly earnest. “Can’t you see that Rolly is not deadfellow?”

At this everybody shouted with laughter. At last they understood the Missus and her anger.

“Me no more bin talk kill him deadfellow,” they screamed. “Me bin talk kill him longa quart pot.”

So they had. I remembered now, and as usual it was my fault. Nobody but the Missus ever seemed to do anything wrong. I should have understood their funny “pidgin English” better. To “kill” only means to hit, or prick, or thump; but to put some one actually to death is to “kill deadfellow.” Only that morning Bett-Bett had said, when her needle pricked her finger, “My word, Missus! neenel bin kill finger belonga me.”

I called Bett-Bett, and asked her what she had been doing.

She said that when she got to the garden, she had found Rolly using her favourite quart pot to sprinkle water with. She had asked for it, but Rolly would not give it up, so she had hammered her with another to make her. “Me bin long time kill him,” she said, but as Rolly wouldn’t give in, Biddy and Rosey had run for me to stop the quarrel. Of course, when they saw me coming Rolly had dropped the quart pot and Bett-Bett had stopped “killing” her, and they had both gone on with the watering.

That was all. Such a fuss about nothing! I took the leaky old quart pot from them, and sending them all back to their work, sat down under the banana clump.

In five minutes they were shouting merrily and playing practical jokes on one another; for with a blackfellow, as soon as a quarrel is over, it is forgotten.

Watering the garden is something like washing-day —plenty of fun and water, and very few clothes.

The fun began when Rosey went to fill her bucket. Judy and Biddy caught her by the heels and sent her flying into the billabong. As she scrambled out they ‘showered’ her from full buckets and quart pots, and then ran screaming and spluttering up the banks. Rosey waited her chance, and soon sent Biddy headlong into the pumpkin bed, with a bucket of water after her. Judy screamed with delight at this, only to get a full quart of water into her gaping, shouting mouth. Bett-Bett had thrown it, but in her hurry to dodge the watermelon that Judy flung back at her, tripped and sat down in her own bucket of water, and Rolly got the watermelon in the middle of her back. It broke into a dozen pieces, and of course that meant a wild scramble for the red, juicy fruit, and then everybody sat down to enjoy it properly, and flipped the pips into each other’s faces.

They played these pranks every night, and kept the water flying in all directions; but as it always ended by falling somewhere among the vegetables, the garden was a great success, for it was always well watered. As I said before, a blackfellow sees no sense in working when play will do as well. As I sat watching them, and expecting a shower-bath every minute or two, Jimmy came along, whittling a bit of stick.

“What name, Jimmy?” I asked.

“Yabber stick,” he answered shortly, and squatting down near me, cut busily on.

“What name him talk?” I said, for that was the way to ask him what message he was cutting.

Jimmy spat thoughtfully on the ground and looked wise, but said nothing; and I saw I would have to flatter him a little before he would tell me much. He dearly loved to be important, and generally had to be coaxed and flattered a good deal.

“My word, Jimmy!” I said; “you plenty savey. Me no more savey yabber stick.” This pleased him immensely, so I added, “I think you close up savey white-fellow paper-yabber, Jimmy.”

He grinned from ear to ear with delight, and then taking the letter stick in one hand, and pointing at it with his pipe, began to instruct the poor ignorant Missus.

Jimmy looked very gay to-day. He had a small Union Jack flag hanging from his belt like a little apron. His dilly-bag was decorated with strips of red turkey twill and bunches of white feathers, and he had tied a little mussel shell on to the end of every bobbing curl of his head, and they danced and jingled as he talked.

“This one stick him yabber boomerang,” he began, pointing to a little mark like a V drawn sideways— so <.

I looked carefully at it, and then Jimmy spat once or twice before he explained that when that mark “sat down” on a “yabber stick,” it meant you were being asked for the loan of a boomerang. Then he spat again, and took a few pulls at his pipe, and looked very wise indeed.

“My word, Jimmy!” I murmured.

Jimmy grinned, and then showed me all sorts of marks which he drew in the dirt with his finger. Signs for spears, food, wet season, people’s names, white men, names of places, and many other things. He ended up with “chewbac” and his own name. He was very particular that I should remember “chewbac.” Then he showed me a letter he had just received from Terrible Billy at Daly Waters. Jimmy’s lubra Nellie was his mother-in-law, and this letter was to say that he was quite out of hair-string, and would Nellie kindly cut her hair and send some. All this was told in a winding line, twisting round and round the stick, and a short stroke to end with, and then Nellie’s name, which read, “String —long—hair—Nellie.” Then came some gossip—one thick ring which said “walk-about,” and a mark which was Monkey’s name. Now “Monkey” was a Willeroo, and always up to mischief; so it was very kind of Billy to warn Jimmy that he was having a walk-about. Perhaps he was afraid that Monkey might run off with his mother-in-law, hair and all.

Jimmy’s lecture was suddenly cut short by shrieks from the lubras of—

“Cheeky fellow snake sit down. Cheeky fellow snake, Missus.”

Jimmy ran to the cucumber bed, all his little shells bobbing and jingling as he went, and quick as a flash caught the snake by the tail, and broke its back by cracking it like a stock-whip, and then flinging it from him. In case of accidents, the lubras and I had all scurried in behind the bananas. It is just as wise to be out of the way when poisonous snakes are flying through the air; for of course a “cheeky fellow snake” means a poisonous one.

After a good look at the horrid creature, we all went back to the house, leaving Jimmy to finish his letter. As we went, I saw that Bett-Bett was carrying the snake on the end of a long stick.

“What name, Bett-Bett?” I asked.

“Me put him longa Nellie bed,” she answered, grinning and going down to the humpy. Nellie was out, and Bett-Bett arranged the snake in a very life-like position on her bluey. Of course in about an hour we heard shrieks of “Cheeky fellow snake sit down longa Nellie bed.” The nigger world flew to the rescue, and Nellie got unmercifully teased for being frightened of a “deadfellow snake”; while Bett-Bett grinned secretly and impishly.

Next morning Nellie brought me a “yabber stick” cut all over with “chewbac” signs, and with Jimmy’s name at the bottom. I now understood why he wanted me to remember this sign, for the letter read—“Jimmy wants a big mob of tobacco.” I saw the old rascal grinning through the trees, to see if I was understanding his joke. “Jimmy,” I said, calling him up, “you’re the cutest, cleverest old nigger that ever was born, and you ought to be King. You know exactly how to manage your Missus.”

Jimmy seemed to think this was a compliment, and chuckled as I threw him a couple of sticks of “chew-bac.” He picked them up with his toes, and passed them into his hands without bending his back. As he and Nellie walked away, I saw that she had obeyed her son-in-law, and had cut her hair.

“Go and lay ‘em egg, silly fellow you. Go and lay ‘em egg, silly fellow you,” shouted Bett-Bett in a singsong voice, as she and Sue dodged between an old broody hen and the tool-house.

Bett-Bett had no patience with broody hens; she seemed to think they were wasting their time; particularly when, like this one, they would try to hatch chickens out of nails. “Come for a walk-about, Bett-Bett,” I called; “I am going to the Long Reach for some water-lilies.”

“You eye, Missus,” she shrieked in answer, still dodging and dancing after old broody.

As I went for my hat and revolver, I heard her shrill little voice up at its highest pitch inviting every one within hearing to come with us. By the time I reached the slip-rails, there were six or eight lubras, a few piccaninnies, and about twenty dogs at my heels, and I felt like a Pied Piper of Hamelin.

We had a very merry walk-about that afternoon. Everything that could, seemed to happen. Just as we crossed the creek outside the slip-rails the fun began, and Sue got into trouble. She picked up the scent of a bandicoot, and was darting off to run its tracks, when her black legs were seized by Bett-Bett, and she got a ringing box on the ears.

She deserved it, for she was actually going to run tracks away from the direction in which the animal’s toes were pointing. She should have noticed at once that the scent grew stronger the other way. Good little nigger dogs always do. Bett-Bett quickly put her right, and off every one scampered after her, till she stopped at a hollow log. Bett-Bett and Sue arrived first, and everybody else immediately after, only to find that the bandicoot was not at home, for there were newer tracks leading out again. Sue simply couldn’t believe it, and scratched wildly till stopped by another box on the ears. I was last to arrive, but came up just as the dogs scented the new tracks, and very soon afterwards the unfortunate bandicoot was hanging from one of the lubras’ belts.

The Long Reach is a beautiful twelve-mile-long waterhole, full of crocodiles and water-lilies. It begins about three-quarters of a mile from the homestead, but we took nearly two hours to get there, for we zigzagged through the scrub, and had ever so many exciting hunts, several natural history lessons, and a peep into every nook and cranny we passed, to see how birds, beasts and insects made their nests.

Do you think if any one had seen me—a white woman with a revolver and cartridges at her belt, hunting with a mob of lubras—that they would have imagined that I was at school?

We had a strange lubra with us—one I had not seen before. I noticed that she dragged a leafy branch after her wherever she went. I asked her why she did this, and she told me that she had run away from her husband, and didn’t want him to find her.

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

You see, he would of course travel about, looking at any tracks he came on, trying to find her, and so Murraweedbee—for that was her name—dragged this branch along after her like a rake, to scratch and mix up her tracks, so that nobody could possibly recognize them. Instead of disguising herself, she disguised her footprints.

When at last we arrived at the Reach, the lubras went into the water to gather lilies, and Bett-Bett and I poked about in the sand after crocodiles’ eggs.

She would never hunt for these eggs on the Roper River. She said the sea-going crocodiles were “cheeky fellow,” and would “round you up” if you did.

Then she told me a thrilling experience she had had once. She was scratching about on the banks of the Roper River and found a nest of eggs. She was just gathering them up, when she heard a splash, and saw the mother crocodile swimming across the river. “My word! me race quickfellow,” she said, and she looked terribly frightened as she remembered how nearly she had been caught. She had evidently just seen the mother in time. Crocodiles in the land-locked pools were “frightened fellow,” she said, so it was always safe to take their eggs. They were too timid to round you up.”

She scratched around for a while and then told me that “crocodiles all day knock up longa egg,” meaning they could not be bothered with looking after them, but just left them to hatch in the sand, keeping one eye on them in case of accidents.

Bett-Bett was only eight years old, but what she didn’t know about natural history was hardly worth knowing; but then she had the best teacher in all the world—Mother Nature. She never wearies her pupils, but punishes them pretty severely when they make mistakes. The most certain way of learning that crocodiles watch their eggs, and that sea-going crocodiles are fiercest, is to be chased by the mother. Bett-Bett certainly knew her lessons, which is more than can be said of many white children. They were only timid crocodiles in the Long Reach, and after a long hunt in the sand, we came on a nest of eggs, and Bett-Bett broke one, and, there all ready to hatch, we saw a tiny crocodile, curled up like a clock spring. These eggs are very curious; they seem to have two distinct shells and look exactly like a hen’s egg inside a duck’s egg.

The eggs we found were of no use for eating, so Bett-Bett covered them up again, keeping only one out, which she said would hatch next day. I asked her what she was going to do with it, but she only grinned impishly, and I knew she was up to some of her pranks.

As we went back to the lubras, we came on an old blackfellow, fishing in the water hole. He was standing on a tree trunk holding a spear, poised ready to dart at the first fish that came up to breathe. I called to him but he took no notice, and the lubras laughed and said he was “Old No-More-Hearem,” and threw stones at him.

I called to them to stop, for I was afraid he would be angry with us, but they said he was deaf and dumb, and that every one threw stones at him when they wanted him to look round. I said this was rather painful for “No-More-Hearem,” but they seemed to think it was his own fault for being deaf and dumb. Two or three of the stones hit him and he turned round. Then they all began talking in the sign language, asking the news and answering questions. The blacks’ sign language is very perfect. They have a sign for every bird, beast, fish, person, place and action. They have long talks without uttering a word. There are many times when a blackfellow must not speak, unless by signs. For instance, if he is mourning for a near relative, or has just come from a very special corrobboree. Often he must keep silent for weeks, and occasionally for months, and it is because of this and many other reasons that the sign language is so perfect. Every one can speak it, and every one does so when hiding in the bush from enemies, and then there is no fear of voices being heard.

It is very wonderful, but then the blacks are wonderful. To have any idea of how wonderful they are, you must live among them, going in and out of their camps, and having every one of them for a friend. Just living in a house that happens to be in a blackfellow’s country is not living among blacks, although some people think it is.

We told old “No-More-Hearem” to come for tobacco, and then we all started for home. Before very long Bett-Bett saw a bee’s nest, and shouting out, “sugar-bag,” as she thrust her crocodile’s egg into my hand, began climbing a tree. Everybody climbed up after her to have a look, and then down again for sticks, and up again for the honey; poking at it with the long sticks and hanging on anywhere and everywhere like a troop of black monkeys. I waited below, and the dogs thinking it might perhaps be a ‘possum hunt, danced about and barked ready to catch anything that came down. When all the honey was gathered into broad leaves, we went on home, calling in at the blacks’ camp when we got there. There were a few old men at home, among them Billy Muck and an old bush nigger or “myall.” Billy noticed at once that I had some tobacco and matches, and began puzzling his brains to think of some way of getting a piece without asking for it. To tease him I gave all the others a bit and pretended to start for home, as though I had forgotten him. Suddenly a bright idea struck him.

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

I said I would very much like to see him make a blackfellow’s fire, and asked him where his matches were.

He grinned broadly at this and showed me two pieces of stick, with a little notch cut in one. I pretended to be very ignorant and asked what they were for.

Instead of answering he squatted down on the ground, and picking a few tiny pieces of dry grass, laid them in a little heap beside him; then laying one of his sticks on the ground near the grass, he held it firmly in place with his foot, and fixing one end of the other stick in the little notch or groove, twirled it quickly between the palms of his hands. In a few seconds some tiny tiny red-hot ashes, no bigger than grains of sand, were rubbed out. Billy bent over them, and blew softly till the grass took fire; then he stood on one leg and chuckled, and stuck his fire-sticks behind his ears.

It was all so quickly and cleverly done that I gave him two sticks of tobacco for payment, which pleased him immensely; but the old myall looked as though he were wondering what Billy had done to deserve so much “chewbac.” Making a fire was nothing.

To see what he would do, I said—

“Billy Muck, I can make a fire quicker than you,” and striking a match on my shoe, I set fire to some grass. The myall ran forward eagerly to see how it was done, so I struck another and gave him a box for himself.

He sat down at once and was so fascinated with his new toy that he struck off all his matches one after the other, making little grass fires all around him, till he looked like a black Joan of Arc at the stake. When they were all gone he came and showed me the empty box, saying—

“Me bin finissem, Missus.”

I gave him some more and a stick of tobacco, and then followed Bett-Bett up to the house. I found her crocodile’s egg lying on the garden path, and picking it up, hid it in the office. When she came back and found it gone, she gave one quick glance at the ground, and then walked to the office door and stopped. She was not allowed in there.

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

I said, “You left it in the garden, Bett-Bett,” and suggested that perhaps Sue had carried it off. “Might it Sue bin catch him, eh?”

“No more, Missus!” she said, grinning knowingly. “You bin put him longa office. Track belonga you sit down,” she added, pointing at my footprints, leading from the garden to the office. I saw it was no use playing “hide the thimble” with a little nigger girl who followed up my tracks, and I gave her back her precious egg. Once I had tried playing “hide and seek” with the lubras; but I could never by any chance find them, and they always tracked me up, so it was not much fun. Their favourite way of hiding was to lie flat down in the grass, with their limbs spread out till they looked like open pairs of scissors, with grass growing between the handle and the blades. If you have ever looked for a hoop that has fallen in the grass, you will know how hard it was to find these lubras— how hard and how interesting.

When I gave Bett-Bett her egg, she took it to the broody hen, and filled her cup of happiness to the brim by letting her sit on it.

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

“Me tired fellow alright, Missus,” and then she wanted to know why white people live in houses. I could not see any connection between these two ideas till she said, “Him silly fellow likee that. Spose you tired fellow, what’s the matter all day come home?” Then I understood what was the grievance. When a blackfellow is tired, and has plenty of tucker for supper, he sees no sense in walking a long way, just to sit on one particular patch of ground and call it home. When you have miles of beautiful country all your own, it is a much better plan to have your home just where you happen to be at the moment; and this can be arranged very easily, if you have nothing to carry about the world but a naked black body. When Bett-Bett lived “out bush,” she told me that she and her friends would just wander about wherever they liked. If they grew tired, or the sun got too hot, they would lie down and go to sleep in the beautiful warm shade. When they woke up, very likely they would go down to the nearest water-hole and have a bogey. If it was a pleasant water-hole, and some other blacks happened to be there, they would stay a few days until the tucker began to get scarce, and then all start off together, to pay some friends a visit at another water-hole, taking care, as they went, to send up smoke signals to tell the tribe where they were, and whom they had met.

The smoke language is not nearly so perfect as the sign language, but still there are signals for most of the people and places in the country. Our boys could generally tell us where the stockmen were camped each night, and if they had met any white travellers.

“Blackfellow smoke bin talk, boy bin send him,” Jimmy said once when I asked him how he knew. The stockmen’s boys had evidently sent him a telegraphic smoke message. As Bett-Bett wandered about the bush there was no danger that she would lose herself. A white child cannot possibly lose itself in its nursery and neither could Bett-Bett in hers, even though it stretched for about a hundred miles.

She talked a lot about the bush this night, and told me that Debbil-debbils are very frightened of dogs, and that if every one is very quiet the Debbil-debbils cannot find them. When she hears Debbil-debbils about, she never speaks and then they go away. Sue of course could frighten them off; but as she is a very little dog, and Debbil-debbils are very big and strong, it is just as well to take no risks. I believe that if Debbil-debbils did ever carry Sue off, Bett-Bett would insist on going too, for life without her would not be worth living.

Before I sent Bett-Bett to bed, I asked her if she would like to come a “walk-about” on horseback next time we went.

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

“Dank you please, Missus!” and then called Sue to come and dream of the glories of such a walk-about. Next morning I heard shrieks of laughter and shouts of—

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

I went to see what it was all about, and found Bett-Bett and the lubras doubled up with laughter at old “Broody,” who seemed to be turning double somersaults and Catherine wheels across the grass patch.

Bett-Bett had been right, and the crocodile’s egg had hatched. The little curled-up creature had suddenly unwound itself, and splintering the shell into fragments had headed straight for the water.

Poor old Broody! we saw nothing of her for days, but when next we heard her, she was announcing to all the world that she had taken Bett-Bett’s advice and had “gone and laid an egg.”

Bett-Bett appeared, grinning wisely, and said—

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

I said that she might have the egg for herself, so she took it and roasted it in the fire. Before laying it on the hot ashes I noticed that she chipped a ring right round it with her finger nails, taking great care not to pierce the skin underneath the shell.

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

Carefully covering it up with ashes, she answered, “Spose me no more break him, him break meself all about.”

We were camped at the Bitter Springs on the Roper River, about fifteen miles from home, and had just shut up a big mob of cattle in the yards.

We had been “out bush” for a couple of weeks, riding from camp to camp, and mustering as we went. Bett-Bett was with us for her promised treat, and, as the head stockman said, was having “a wild and woolly time.” Perched straddle-legs on an old stock-horse, with the stirrup-irons wedged firmly between her little bare toes, she had had many a wild gallop after the cattle; and that, and everything else, was better than her wildest dreams of camping out.

As we rode from the yards to our camp, one of the men said:

“Isn’t this June? because, if it is, I reckon King Edward will be just about crowned.”

We all agreed it was June right enough, but nobody seemed sure of the date; we couldn’t even decide what day of the week it was. We had been “out bush” so long that we had got hopelessly mixed.

“Well,” said the Maluka, “we’re within a week of it, and that’s near enough for the Never-Never; so we’ll have a ‘play-about’ to celebrate it. Whoop! Hallo there, boys!” he called; “come and have a bigfellow play-about.” Then remembering that some bush blacks were camped at the river, he added, “Call up your pals, and I’ll shoot you a bullock for yourselves.”

With yells and screechings they obeyed, and were answered back by louder yells, as their bush friends— about twenty men, women and children—came screaming through the trees to accept the invitation.

Some hobbled the horses, some collected firewood, others dug a big, wide, shallow hole, and lit an enormous fire in it; lubras and piccaninnies ran to hunt for stones, which were to be made red hot in the fire; and everybody scampered and scuffled about, getting in each other’s way, laughing and shrieking, as they played practical jokes on one another. When they heard the shot that killed the bullock, they rushed off in a wild stampede to the stockyard.

In about ten minutes a ghastly procession came in sight, for the bullock had simply been hacked in pieces, skin and all; and every one, down to the tiniest piccaninny, was carrying a red, horrible-looking joint of meat.

Billy Muck, who was to be King himself some day, had the bullock’s head, and was amusing himself and everybody else by bucking and charging around, digging the horns into any one he could catch. Bett-Bett had the tail, and was swishing about with it among the lubras and piccaninnies, greatly to their delight. In fact, the future King and Queen were quite the life of the party. As the procession dodged and jumped about, it reminded me of a troop of clowns at a circus.

When it reached the fire, the meat was thrown on the ground, and while the dogs were helping themselves to the tit-bits, the ashes and stones were scraped out, and then the oven was ready for the joints.

A layer of hot stones was first thrown in, then some joints of meat, then more stones and more meat, layer after layer, till the hole was full and heaped up; on top of this were poured a few quarts of water, on top again was piled earth, and on top of everything else a great big fire was lit.

Then we went to our own camp to supper, and the blacks, making little fires every here and there, grilled small pieces of meat, to take the edge off their appetites; for it would be quite two hours before the joints were ready to eat.

As they sat, singing their strange, weird songs, the head stockman said it was a pity that we had no fireworks; but as his Majesty would not let his mail-man carry them, it was his Majesty’s own fault, not ours.

“What about a Poolooloomee Show?” suggested the Maluka.

It was the very thing.

“Poolooloomees, boys!” we shouted, and every blackfellow sprang to his feet with a yell. Snatching tomahawks, knives and hatchets, they rushed to the tall, white gum trees, and peeled off great sheets of bark, for they dearly loved a “Poolooloomee Play-about.”

They dragged the bark to the fire, and sitting down, cut it into thick strips, which were trimmed and shaped till they looked like small-sized tennis racquets, or rather long-handled battledores. As these were cut, the lubras put the broad ends into the fires, leaving the handles sticking safely out. They did not blaze, for the bark was too full of sap, but they gradually changed colour till they were beautiful glowing rings of fire.

Of course, as soon as half-a-dozen were ready to send off, the blacks wanted to fire them, and the Maluka had hard work to make them wait till everybody was well supplied with Poolooloomees. He managed it somehow, and it was well worth the trouble, for we had a magnificent display of fireworks.

When about two hundred of these little racquets were cut and glowing, each blackfellow drove a strong, straight rod into the ground, and holding one Poolooloomee high in his right hand, and a bundle of others in his left, stood looking at the Maluka, waiting for a signal.

“Let her go, Gallagher!” he shouted, and instantly the air was full of yells, and blazing, twirling, curling hoops of fire—the Poolooloomee Show had begun.

At the word of command, every man had brought his right arm down with a peculiar short, sharp swing, and striking the Poolooloomee handles hard against the firm upright rods, had broken off the fiery circles, and sent them whirling and twisting and soaring high up into the air. Quick as lightning, the handles were dropped, other Poolooloomees taken from the left hand, struck off, and sent circling and sailing after the first flight, to be followed again and again by others.

It was marvellously weird and beautiful. Up went the strange fireworks, shooting like rockets through the trees, to join the brilliant cloud of Poolooloomees that were floating away into the glorious tropical night. Backwards and forwards among the fires raced the lubras, looking like flitting black shadows, as they carried fresh supplies of fireworks to the men, letting no one’s left hand get quite empty. The men themselves, standing full in the light of the fires, looked like shining black giants, as they worked and yelled and hallooed at their posts, surprised both at themselves and their display; and we whites sat still in wonder, amazed and admiring, sorry only that so few of the civilized world were there to see it all.

Poolooloomees are really a Daly Water’s Play-about, but our Roper blacks had learnt it from them, and some had learnt it very well.

As the last few Poolooloomees glided out of sight, we gave a “Hip, hip, hooray!” and a “Tiger” for King Edward VII, and then amused ourselves by trying to fire some more.

Most of our attempts were dismal failures; the Poolooloomees doing exactly what they ought not to do. All I fired tried to bury themselves in the ground, and the head stockman’s spent most of their time hitting the nearest tree, and burning everybody within reach with a shower of sparks.

Altogether we had a merry time, and the blacks cut away at bark for us, and screamed with delight at our failures; and when one of the Maluka’s rockets bounced from a tree, and dived into the head stockman’s much-cherished grass-bed, their joy knew no bounds. But when it blazed up, they rushed to the rescue and beat the fire out, looking like so many black imps, as they danced among the flames.

After that they dug each other in the ribs with hot fire-sticks, and played most foolish and painful jokes till the bullock was cooked. When the earth and fire were at last scraped away, everybody helping themselves to huge junks, and began tearing at them like wild beasts, dog and master eating from the same joint. I called Bett-Bett then, and we went to our camp, leaving our guests to their feast; for this part of the entertainment was not very pretty.

Long after midnight they were still at it, singing and laughing and feasting. As I lay awake listening to them, I heard a peculiar scrunching going on inside Bett-Bett’s mosquito net. I went over to see what it was, and found that she had crept back to the feast for her precious ox-tail, and that she and Sue were just finishing picking the bones.

Next morning the bullock had completely disappeared, and the King’s loyal subjects looked as though they would burst, if only pricked with a pin!

When we reached the homestead we found we had been a few days too soon with our demonstration; so on the proper day we called the blacks up, and gave them flour, and treacle, and “chewbac,” for we had no bullock in the yards. Every one got an equal share, and Jimmy carried his supply in his little Union Jack apron, which was most loyal of him; the only unpleasant thing about it was, that when he took his apron off, he had nothing left in the way of clothes.

As the blacks turned to go to their camp, the men gave another “Hip Hooray and a Tiger” for the King, and then fired a volley of revolver shots into the air as a royal salute. This was too much for our dusky friends; they thought we had suddenly gone mad, and dropping flour and treacle-tins in all directions, fled helter-skelter into the bush, even Bett-Bett and the piccaninnies joining in the general scamper.

We shouted to them to stop, and said we were only having a “play-about”; but they did not wait to hear. We ran after them, but that only made matters worse. The only thing was to sit down and wait. When all was quiet, I lifted up my voice to the high sing-song pitch that the lubras had taught me would carry well, and I called Bett-Bett.

Away in the distance a thin little squeak answered. Then I called again and again, and at last she screwed up enough courage to come back. We sent her after the others, to tell them we were only in fun, and to say they had better come and collect their tucker.

For about five minutes we heard her shrill little voice piping through the forest, and then Billy Muck turned up, giggling nervously. Soon after him came the station “Boys,” trying hard to look at ease, and pretending they had only run for fun. But it was nearly half-an-hour before everybody decided that it was really safe.

The last man in got teased unmercifully because he had been frightened of the Missus and the Boss—the good “Maluka” who was every blackfellow’s friend— and I thought it was very like “the pot calling the kettle black,” seeing how they had run themselves.

We told them that we had shouted and fired, because that is the way that white men always have a Play-about Corrobboree. They seemed able to see some sense in that idea, and were soon shouting with laughter at the way they had run, as though it were the best joke in the world.

Bett-Bett put on great airs because she had come back first, and strutted about with her nose in the air, saying;

“Me no more frightened fellow longa Missus; me all day savey Boss play-about. Me no more run long way,” and so on, and so on.

As nobody had waited to see, nobody could contradict her, and she had it all her own way, and “came out on top,” as the men said.

After a while everything was gathered up again, and new pipes were given out all round to make up for the fright, and very soon some most indigestible-looking dampers were cooked and eaten, and every one was happy and contented.

The King had Coronation demonstrations all over his empire, and at many of them a whole ox may have been roasted in the good old English way; but I doubt if he had a stranger or a merrier one than ours, in the very heart of the Never-Never Land.

Some weeks afterwards we heard of the King’s illness, and of the postponing of the Coronation, and knew that after all we had missed the real Coronation Day, but we had paid our homage to our King, and we were satisfied.

Bett-Bett and I very often went down to the billabong for an early morning “bogey,” and she and the lubras were always greatly amused at my bathing-gown. They called it “that one bogey dress,” and said it was “silly fellow.”

My swimming also amused them. They saw something very comical and unnatural in my movements, and I often caught them imitating me. They seemed to expect me to sink every moment, and never went very far from me in case of accidents.

One morning we swam right across the billabong to the “nuzzer side,” as Bett-Bett called it, and there I noticed a man’s tracks on the bank, and asked whose they were; for of course I did not recognize them. To my surprise the lubras burst into shrieks of laughter.

“Him Maluka!” they shouted in delight; “him track belonga Maluka; him bin bogey last night.” Then Bett-Bett screamed to the lubras on the opposite bank—

“Missus no more savey track belonga Boss.”

It was the best joke they had ever heard—a woman who did not know her own husband’s tracks! I felt very small indeed, and as soon as possible went back to the house and breakfast.

We were going to have fowls for dinner, which always meant great fun for the blacks. The whole camp generally appeared with sticks and stones, and when the cook had pointed out which fowls were to be caught, a most exciting chase took place. Off the birds went at the first alarm, followed by a shrieking, yelling crowd, flying over and under everything, and dodging round corners, till they were at last run down. I tried often to prevent it, but no matter how carefully the birds were shut up over night, they always managed to get out. The blacks enjoyed the chase so thoroughly that I suspect the fowls were assisted in their escape. Bett-Bett and Sue were of course in the worst of it this day, and by some mishap a stone, meant for one of the fowls, struck Sue on the front legs. She ran yelping and limping to Bett-Bett, and then I heard shrieks of—

“Missus! Missus! Sue bin break him arm. Stone bin kill him,” and they both appeared at the door. I took the poor little dog, and found it was only too true; one of her arms—as the blacks insist on calling the front legs—was hanging limp and broken. I bound it up as well as I could, and Bett-Bett cried piteously because I hurt the little creature.

When everything was made quite comfortable, she took Sue and sat nursing and crooning over her all the morning.

In the afternoon the Maluka and I were starting out for a ride, when Bett-Bett appeared with the lubras.

They were going to travel “per boot” or on foot. Slung across Bett-Bett’s back was a most ingenious sack-like affair, and from it peeped Sue’s comical little face; for Bett-Bett could not bear either to leave her at home, or to see her limping about.

We were only going about three miles, and as it was too rough and too hot to travel quickly, the lubras kept up with us easily. I noticed that Murraweedbee was with them, and was still dragging her branch. I asked her if she had seen anything of her husband, and she said— “You eye. Him Monkey longa Willeroo.”

Then I was told that Murraweedbee was really our Big Jack’s lubra, but that Monkey had carried her off, the day that we had found Bett-Bett. Monkey had been very cruel to her, and so she had watched her chance and run back to Jack. It was a most interesting love-story, and the exciting part was that Monkey was supposed to be somewhere rather near. Suspicious tracks had been seen. When we arrived at the Warlock Ponds—our destination—we found that some of the homestead blacks were there—all lubras, gathering lily-roots for their husbands’ supper.

When lubras go “looking out lily-root,” as they call it, they take with them tiny little wooden canoes, about two feet long, called coolamuns. They leave these floating about on the top of the water, while they themselves drop down to the bottom for the bulbs. As soon as their hands are full, they come up again, and putting the roots into the little vessels, disappear for more.

The Warlocks are always very beautiful ponds, all fringed round with pandanus palms, and dotted everywhere with magnificent purple waterlilies, but this day they looked like a peep into fairyland. As I sat on my horse looking at it, I thought I had never seen anything prettier than the little, dainty, rocking canoes, sailing among the blossoms, as the bobbing, curly, black heads of the lubras appeared and disappeared.

When the lubras saw us, they swam over, pushing the coolamuns before them, and as they came nearer I saw that in two of them were wee black piccaninnies; for a coolamun may be either a cradle or a tucker basket. There is no fear of their upsetting, for they are beautifully balanced, and even on land are very hard to overturn; besides, if the baby did scramble out, it would not matter, for most likely it would only swim about till its mother came up. I think if I were a baby, I would like to lie in my little canoe, as it rocked and danced among the lilies.

Suddenly Bett-Bett gave the alarm, and the air was filled with earsplitting shrieks and yells, as every one pointed to a nigger’s tracks, and said they were a Willeroo’s, and that he was running quickly. Murraweedbee pushed forward to see, and then giving a yell of “Monkey!” started for the homestead like an arrow from a bow, the branch bobbing and dancing and leaping behind her.

It looked as though an explosion of dynamite had taken place, for every one, seizing the nearest coolamun or tucker basket, ran helter-skelter after her. Only Bett-Bett and a poor blind lubra, “Lose-’em Eye,” as she was called, stayed behind. Bett-Bett preferred white folk and revolvers when Willeroos were about; perhaps she was also thinking of poor Sue’s foot.

We started for home with Bett-Bett and Lose-’em Eye between the horses for safety. At the creek a valiant army met us, setting out to overtake and conquer Monkey. It was headed by old Jimmy, who had borrowed an old rusty revolver, and was full of courage to the finger-tips. He also had old Nellie in tow, to show where the tracks had been seen.

About sundown the valiant army returned, still thirsting for Monkey’s blood; for although they followed him a long way, his tracks were always new, and running westward. He evidently was doing a quick passage home.

After much excitement we were of course told most awful stories of Willeroos, particularly of Monkey, and Murraweedbee was the heroine of the hour.

Bett-Bett said that once she had been caught by them with some lubras and piccaninnies, and all the lubras said they remembered it well. It was a fearful tale, and a fearful experience. They were made to travel very quickly because of pursuit, and at supper time there was no tucker, so the Willeroos killed some of the piccaninnies and ate them, and then went to sleep. Fortunately in the morning some stockmen, who had been following the tracks, rode into the camp, and the Willeroos took to their heels, and that time the Roper River lubras escaped, Bett-Bett among them.

I asked her how it had happened that she had not been killed and eaten, and she answered with a chuckle—

“Me too muchee all day bone fellow”—she had evidently not been worth eating, when fatter piccaninnies were about! “Me all day bone fellow,” she repeated, holding out a thin little arm. She seemed to think she had been very clever in being thin, and she certainly had been fortunate!

Poor little mite! she had seen some fearful doings in her short life.

When I asked her if she had eaten any of these piccaninnies, she said that the blackfellows had not left any for her. “Blackfellow bin finissem, Missus,” was all she said, and I don’t believe she would have refused to have eaten her share.

She lay for a while looking up at the sky, and then changed the conversation by saying—

“Missus, I think big-fellow blackfellow close up finissem, that one moon.”

“What?” I said, looking at the thin little strip of new moon.

“I think big-fellow blackfellow close up finissem, that one moon,” she repeated, jerking her voice, as she jerked her finger, towards it,

“Whatever are you talking about, Bett-Bett?” I asked.

She sat up and looked at me in surprise, and asked what did happen to the moon if a “big-fellow, big-fellow blackfellow”—a giant, I suppose—didn’t cut it up to make the stars? All the lubras sat up too, and agreed with her, saying, “Straightfellow, Missus.” Even Sue joined in the conversation, but perhaps that was because some one had planted an enthusiastic elbow on her tail.

“Me plenty savey,” said Bett-Bett, lying down again. Then she told me that away out east there is a beautiful country, where a big tribe of moons live, hundreds of them. They are very silly creatures, and will wander about in the sky alone—you never see two moons at once, you know! Whenever a new moon wanders into the west—she called a full moon a new one—a great big giant who lives there, catches it and snips big pieces off and makes stars with them. Some of the moons get away before he can cut them all up, but this poor moon had been “close up finissem,” first thing.

“Spose me moon,” said Bett-Bett, “me stay in my country; me no more silly fellow.”

The suns live out east too, and are a very powerful tribe of “cheeky fellows.” Every day one of them goes straight across the sky, and nobody knows what happens to him. At least no lubra knows. Of course the wise men know everything.

I suggested that perhaps the sun went back at night, but the lubras said if he did everybody would see him, and so, I supposed, they would.

Stars are very frightened of the sun. They say he is a “cheeky fellow,” and will “round them up,” if he finds them in the sky; so they hide all day, and towards night send two or three of the bravest of them to peep out, and see if he is really gone.

“Look, Missus,” said Bett-Bett, pointing up at the sky. “Littlefellow star come on now. Him look this way. Him look that way. Him talk which way sun sit down,” and it seemed, as I watched, as if they really were peeping cautiously about. Suddenly raising her voice to its very highest and shrillest pitch, she called— “Sun bin go away alright.”

After she had called, a great number of stars came quickly one after the other, and she got very excited about it.

“Him bin hear me, Missus,” she cried. “Straightfellow! Him bin hear me.” After a long silence Bett-Bett said—“Might it God bin make star longa you country, Missus?”

I only said, “You eye, God bin make my star,” Long ago I had given up trying to make them understand anything, excepting that God was a great good Spirit, who was not afraid of the fiercest of Debbil-debbils, and would chase them away from any one if they would ask Him. I had made them understand that much, and after many months they were beginning to believe it. In my first experiences with them I had told them that God had made all things; and of course they had wanted to know how He made them, and what He had made them of. They assured me He had not made anything in the blackfellow’s country. The wise men had an explanation of how everything there had been made, but I knew nothing of God’s mysterious ways, and could explain nothing; so I decided to teach them first to believe in God Himself, and to let the other things alone.

Bett-Bett’s thoughts were evidently on those early lessons, for soon she asked why God had not made any “bush” in the white man’s country. A country without a “bush” was a constant puzzle to her. Old Goggle Eye had once gone a trip to a big town as “boy” with a mob of cattle, and had come back with the astonishing news that in the white man’s country there was no “bush,” only tracks and humpies.

Goggle Eye had gone to Western Australia in a steamer with these cattle, but had walked home, because, he said, the steamer had “Too muchee jump-up jump-up, too muchee jump-down jump-down; me all day barcoo” (sick).

Before Bett-Bett went to bed she once more repeated— “Blackfellow bin make this one mob star, Missus.” Poor mite! she had no idea that her “mob” and my “mob” were the same “mob.”

Rolly lingered behind every one, and asked if she might sleep under the verandah this night. Poor Rolly was often very ill, and then was very frightened of Debbil-debbils and liked to sleep near me. She said Debbil-debbils could not come near where I was, because “Bigfellow God all day look out longa you, Missus.” So, you see that after all my trouble in teaching them, I had given them the idea that I was God’s especial care.

It is very, very hard work to teach any blackfellow the truth of God’s goodness and love. They have no god of any sort themselves, and they cannot imagine one.

After our Willeroo scare we did not wander “out bush” at all, for two reasons. The fear of Monkey was upon us, and Sue’s foot needed rest.

One morning, a few weeks after our Willeroo scare, Bett-Bett came scampering up from the creek as fast as her thin little legs would carry her.

“Missus! Missus!” she shouted, “Topsy bin catch newfellow piccaninny boy, Topsy bin catch newfellow piccaninny boy,” and she sank down in a little breathless heap beside me.

Fast on her heels came some of the camp lubras bringing me an invitation to the christening party.

“You eye,” they gasped, “him bin catch him alright,” and then they told me that Topsy, Sambo’s lubra, wanted me to come and see it, and christen it with a white man’s name. “Topsy bin talk, spose Missus come on, give piccaninny whitefellow name.”

Of course I went at once, taking a good supply of “chewbac” and a big red handkerchief, for we did not have a christening every day. Besides, I was curious to see this baby, for I had not yet seen a very tiny piccaninny.

Sambo met us at the creek, grinning widely with delight. We gave the proud father a new pipe and some “chewbac,” and he tried hard to grin a little wider in thanks, but found that even a blackfellow’s grin has its limits. Topsy was sitting among the lubras, and looked round when she heard us approaching, On her knee was her eldest son “Bittertwine,” a chubby little rascal about two years old. Beside her lay a coolamun, nearly filled with fresh green leaves and grass. As I came nearer she lifted up some of the leaves and showed me the tiniest, tiniest atom of a baby lying sound asleep; cool, and safe from flies, in its pretty leafy cradle.

I stood for some minutes, too astonished to speak, for instead of the shiny jet-black piccaninny I had expected, I found one just about the colour of honey.

“What name, Topsy?” I asked at last. “Him close up whitefellow, I think.”

“No more, Missus,” she answered, touching the little sleeping baby lovingly. “Him blackfellow alright. Look, Missus, him blackfellow alright,” she added, showing me one thin jet-black line running right round the mouth and others round the eyes and nails.

Then the lubras all joined in, and explained that a little black baby when it is first born, is always of a very light golden brown but with thin black lines, just as this baby had. They said that steadily and surely these lines would widen and spread till in a few days he would be like all other shiny black piccaninnies.

“All day likee that, Missus,” they assured me in chorus, so I put a handful of tobacco in the baby’s cradle, and spread a big red handkerchief on top. I said he was a man baby and Mr. Thunder Debbil-debbil would be delighted to see he had a nice red handkerchief. The lubras laughed merrily at this, and the old men smiled on the Missus with approval.

Then Topsy asked for a “whitefellow name” for her baby, and I said he should be called “Donald.”

“Tonald!” cried Topsy. “Tonald! Him good-fellow name, that one.”

Every one repeated “Tonald” after her, and then called to each other. “Missus bin talk Tonald,” and the whole camp agreed it was a “goodfellow name alright.” For some reason, best known to themselves, the name pleased them.

Topsy said that her baby had a kangaroo’s spirit, and Jimmy was very pleased and important about it.

You see, Jimmy was head man of the Kangaroo-spirit family, and it would be his duty to see that “Tonald” was properly brought up, for he must be taught all the laws of his Totem, as well as how to throw his boomerang and use his throwing-stick. Jimmy was a sort of godfather to him, and Tonald would have to obey him even more than his own father and mother.

“By and by me make him grow, Missus,” said Jimmy, meaning that he would perform some very important ceremony to make the Debbil-debbils keep away so that Tonald could grow into a strong wise blackfellow. It was Jimmy’s duty to do this, and a blackfellow always does his duty to his tribe.

After the christening I passed round some “chewbac” and every one’s pipe was filled, and Tonald’s health was smoked. Every now and then an old blackfellow would nod his head and chuckle.

“Tonald! Him goodfellow name that one.”

But Donald slept peacefully on, and Bittertwine sat on his mother’s knee, looking from me to the piccaninny, with big wondering eyes. Every little while he took his mother’s pipe out of her mouth, and put it in his own for a few sucks—smoking Donald’s health, I suppose.

Bittertwine was a wild little nigger boy or “myall,” and terrified of white men, but I don’t think it was the white man’s fault. I fancy his mother used to tell him that the white man would catch him if he were naughty. Just as some white mothers say “the black man” will catch their piccaninnies.

When we called on “Tonald” next morning I found that Sambo was wearing his handkerchief and that his friends had smoked his tobacco.

Topsy was very proud of her piccaninny. “Look, Missus,” she said. “Him close up blackfellow now.” So he was, and a day or two afterwards he was black all over, all excepting the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet. These would be a pale grey all his life.

There was a visitor in the camp, quite a civilized blackfellow called Charlie, who was a great authority on christenings, for he had once been in a Catholic Mission School. He told us that when a white piccaninny got a name that “whitefellow chuck em water longa piccaninny.” He had been christened himself once, and water had been “chucked” on him, and he seemed to think he knew all about it. The priests used to tell a great joke about him. Charlie had been taught that he must not eat meat on a Friday, but one Friday he was found with a piece of beef.

“Charlie,” said the priest sternly, “you are eating meat.”

“No more,” said Charlie, seriously. “This one fish alright.”

The priest then said it was very wicked to say what was not true, but Charlie insisted that his beef was fish.

“Yes,” he said, arguing it out. “This one fish alright,” and then he told the priest that they had christened him with water, and called him Charlie, so he had christened his beef with water and called it fish. “You bin chuck ‘em water longa me, you bin call me Charlie. Alright me bin chuck ‘em water longa beef, me bin call fish,” and he quietly went on eating his fish.

Charlie came up to the house a few days after the christening, and very rudely demanded a “big mob of chewbac.”

I felt very angry with him for coming to me like this when he knew I was alone, so I said as quietly as I could—

“Very well, I’ll give you a big mob of something, Charlie,” and before he quite knew what had happened he was looking at my revolver, as I pointed it straight at him.

Poor Charlie, he could hardly be seen for the dust he made, in his hurry to get out of revolver range. That was the first and last time I had to take my revolver to a blackfellow, but Charlie was supposed to be civilized, you see. You cannot change a blackfellow into a white man, if you try; you only make a bad cunning sly old blackfellow. I don’t mean you can’t make a blackfellow into a better blackfellow. I know that can be done, if he is kept a blackfellow, true to his blackfellow instincts.

After this I expected that Charlie would keep out of my way, but he didn’t; he now seemed to consider himself a very special friend of mine.

“My word, Missus! you cheeky fellow alright,” he said next morning, when I went down to the camp, and he sat in front of a little circle of blackfellows, looking up at me in admiration.

“My word!” echoed the old fellows, for Charlie had told his story, and my old friends, being blackfellows, were full of reverence for any one who was a “cheeky fellow.”

As we sat talking, Charlie told us that God made everything a white man has—trains and watches and horses, and that He showed him how to know miles. A blackfellow can see nothing to mark a mile, and wonders how the white man can. “Me plenty savey,” said Charlie, “me savey count all about,” and he began to count his fingers. He kept getting mixed, and that meant beginning at his thumb again, and it was not till after many struggles that he managed to count to five.

“My word!” everybody said, and Charlie swelled with pride. You see a blackfellow only counts up to two. His arithmetic is very simple, just—One, Two, Little Mob, Big Mob, so it was no wonder we were all amazed at Charlie.

He then told us in confidence that a little Debbil-debbil “sat down” inside the telegraph wire, and ran messages “quickfellow,” from one telegraph station to another. “Me savey,” he said wisely; “me bin hear him talk-talk longa Daly Waters.” Then, looking gravely round, he added: “Him bite alright, that one little fellow Debbil-debbil.”

I laughed at this, and the old men giggled nervously, for we all knew that he had done what nearly every nigger has done—he had climbed up a telegraph pole to break off a piece of wire for a spear, and had found out that the Debbil-debbil could bite when he got an electric shock! He said it didn’t bite the white man because he was its master. The very fiercest dog never bites his master, you know!

Charlie knew all about that telegraph line. It was really a fence to keep the kangaroos in. That was why it was so high—too high for them to jump over. Unfortunately, the white man used up all the wire he had for the two top rails, and couldn’t finish it. When the little Debbil-debbil “jumped in,” he made him run messages “quickfellow” for him.