When the kittens were big enough, I sent Billy Muck with one of them to my next-door neighbour. With a bottle of milk and a saucer under one arm, and the kitten under the other, he started for his hundred-mile walk as cheerfully as though he were just going round the corner, and in two days reached the Katherine, his journey’s end.

On his return I asked him why he had hurried so.

“Milk close up finissem,” was all he said.

Good kind old Billy Muck! He wouldn’t let even a kitten suffer from hunger or thirst, if he could help it.

“Missus!” a thin, cracked old voice whispered close to me as I sat sewing one evening. I looked up to see an old, old grey-haired blackfellow standing beside me.

“What name?” I said, feeling rather startled, and then something in his face made me look more closely at him, and I saw that it was Goggle Eye; but oh, such a worn old scarecrow! There was hardly a trace of the merry, laughing rogue, who had gone off, a few weeks before, with his bag of sugar tied round his neck.

“Poor old Goggle Eye!” I said, “whatever has happened?”

“Blackfellow bin sing me deadfellow longa bush,” he croaked in a hoarse whisper. “Flour-bag bin come on quickfellow longa me cobra,” he added, pointing to his grey old head, with its thickly-sprinkled “flour-bag,” as he called the white hairs.

I knew what this singing meant. He had been cursed —as completely as the little thieving “Jackdaw of Rheims”—by the magic men of the tribe. They had bewitched him by singing magic, and pointing death-bones at him, and he would die. Nothing that I could do would save him.

He looked so weak and worn that I gave him some brandy, and he lay down under the verandah. As he lay there, he told me that Tommy Dod, a blackfellow, had carried him thirty miles on his back to bring him in to me and the homestead. Tommy Dod was his younger blood-brother, and it was his duty to help the poor old fellow.

I called Tommy, and told him to make a bark humpy at the camp. He did this, and then carried Goggle Eye up to it, and lit his fire. Then we rolled him up in a blanket and gave him some food, and very soon the poor tired old King was asleep.

In the morning I took him up some arrowroot, and persuaded him to eat it all, telling him that it often killed blackfellow’s magic. I knew that if only I could make him believe this, I might cure him. After he had finished, I sat down in the camp, and Billy Muck, Jimmy, Tommy Dod and Goggle Eye told me all sorts of wonderful tales about “singing magic” and “bone-pointing.”

There are many ways of killing by magic, and if a blackfellow wants to get rid of an enemy, it is a much safer way than spearing, because he will not run any chance of being hurt himself, unless some one finds out who did the bone-pointing; when, of course, he would be “sung” in turn by way of revenge.

The way of killing by bone-pointing is this:—the blackfellow takes a sharp-pointed bone—the Roper blacks prefer a kangaroo’s, but some tribes say that a dead man’s bone is best; this bone is stuck in the ground, and the would-be murderer bends over it, and “sings magic” into it.

Supposing that he was going to make Goggle Eye die by magic, this is what he would sing: —

Kill Goggle Eye, kill Goggle Eye, make him deadfellow;
Pull away his fat, make him bone fellow;
Shut him up throat, shut him up throat;
Break him out heart, break him out heart;
Kill him deadfellow, kill him deadfellow;
Spose him eat fish, poison him with it;
Spose him eat bird, poison him with it.

And he would keep on singing, till he had sung or cursed everything he could think of; but he would not try to “sing water,” for nobody can do that.

Any one can “sing magic,” even lubras, but of course the wise old magic men do it best. It never fails with them, particularly if they “sing” and point one of the “Special Death-bones,” or “Sacred Stones” of the tribe. Generally a blackfellow goes away quite by himself when he is “singing magic,” but very occasionally a few men join together, as they did in the case of Goggle Eye.

When enough magic has been “sung” into the bone, it is taken away to the camp, and very secretly pointed at the unconscious victim. The magic spirit of the bone runs into the man who is pointed at, and gradually kills him.

Everything must be done very secretly, for if the man’s relatives had any idea who had done the bone-pointing, they would go and “sing” him in revenge. You must be particularly careful that there are no Willy-Waggle-tails or “Jenning-gherries” about, for these little mischief-makers would go and tell the cockatoos, who in their turn would make a dream about it, and carry it to the bewitched man when he was asleep, to let him know who had “sung” him.

Cockatoos make all the dreams, and carry them to the sleepers in the night. If you are lying awake, you may often hear them moving in the dark, for they are very restless birds. The best time to point bones is at night, for then all “Jenning-gherries” are asleep.

Of course the man who has been “sung” must be told somehow, or he will not get a fright and die. There are many ways of managing this; one very good way is to put the bone where he will be sure to find it, in his dilly-bag, or near his fire, or through the handle of his spear. There are many ways of telling him, without letting him know who has “sung” him; but the man who leaves the bone about must, of course, be very careful to destroy his own tracks.

Have you ever heard of faith-healing? well, dying from bone-pointing is faith-dying! Goggle Eye, after he had found the bones lying about, knew exactly what was going to happen to him—and of course it did. His throat got very sore, and he grew so thin and weak that he could barely stand.

A man can be cured by magic men charming the “bone” away again; but Goggle Eye was old, and what was worse, he was getting very cross, and too fond of ordering people about, so the blackfellows thought that it would be the best plan not to cure him, and a few more sneaked away into the bush and “sang” some more “bones” and pointed them at him, to make quite sure about his dying.

It was fearfully cruel. Poor old Goggle Eye suffered so dreadfully, and the only friend he had—excepting the Missus—was Tommy Dod! Nobody else would do anything for him, because they were afraid of the curse coming to them. It couldn’t touch Tommy, because he was his blood-brother, and had to do all he could to help.

Old Jimmy and Billy Muck said they would like to help, but that if they made Goggle Eye’s fire for him, their own would never burn again. Nobody could even carry his food to him. To make matters worse, Tommy Dod had to go “bush” on some private business—perhaps he was singing some of his own enemies dead—and then I had to do everything myself.

Day after day I took his food to him, and made his fire, but I soon saw that it was too late. He ate anything that I brought him, and ordered me about generally, and growled at me for not putting enough sugar in his tea— he didn’t want sugar in his tea, what he preferred was a little tea in his sugar!

Sometimes a glimpse of the merry old rogue would peep out from the gaunt old skeleton. One day I was on my hands and knees at his fire, blowing hard at it.

“My word, Missus,” he laughed merrily, “you close up blow him all away,” and he showed me the proper way to blow, and chuckled to himself at my clumsy attempts; for a blackfellow can make a fire better than any one else.

It sounds very grand being a Lady-in-waiting to a King, but it really was very smelly and disagreeable. His humpy was in fact only a sheet of bark leaning against a fallen tree, and I had to crawl about on my hands and knees, and everything was dreadfully close and stuffy. But I had plenty of Eue de Cologne, and used it freely. One day when Bett-Bett smelt it, as I was sprinkling it over my dress, she screwed up her little black nose, and after half-a-dozen very audible sniffs, said—

“My word, Missus! That one goodfellow stink all right!”

I said I was glad she liked it, and as Goggle Eye also remarked on it, I always used plenty of this “good-fellow stink” before I visited him.

At last Tommy Dod came back, and I had not so much to do. One evening, when I went up with some arrowroot, all the blacks in the camp were sitting round in a circle, looking at Goggle Eye. They had taken away the sheet of bark, so as to see him better, and were talking about him, and wondering when he would die, and if Debbil-debbils would take him away.

“I think him die to-night, Missus,” said Billy Muck cheerfully as I came up. “I think him die fowl sing out.”

Goggle Eye gave a little glad cry when he saw me. “Missus,” he called weakly, and I went to him and gave him a little brandy and arrowroot.

“Be quiet!” I said angrily, as the old men began talking about him again. They looked surprised, but obeyed, wondering, I think, why I objected to such an interesting topic of conversation.

Soon the poor old fellow asked me if I would tell my “Big-Fellow God” to chase away the Debbil-debbils. I was very touched, and did exactly as he wished, in queer pidgin English. Then Goggle Eye was happy and contented, and the strange prayer was answered, for he was no longer afraid of his fearsome Debbil-debbils.

Soon after supper he fell asleep, and I left him, and never saw my strange old friend again. Billy Muck was right, and at “fowl sing out” or cock-crow, Ebimel Wooloomool, King of Dullinarrinarr, died, and with him died many strange, weird old legends, and a good big slice of the history of the Blacks of the Never-Never.

Billy Muck, the Rainmaker, was now King, and I suppose that Bett-Bett was Queen Consort. But the tribe will never be afraid of the new King, for he is neither cute nor clever, and I don’t think the wise men will take much notice of him. He is head man, of course, and knows all his Corrobborees, but he is only a kind, simple-hearted old blackfellow, and will never be the absolute monarch that Goggle Eye was.

They buried the poor old King in a very shallow grave, just where he had died. They laid his spears, and his pipe, and all that belonged to him on the top of his grave, covering them over with a sheet of paper-bark, which was kept in place with a few large stones. After that they built his bark humpy over him again, and then went away, leaving him all alone in the deserted camp; for a camp is always deserted after a death. Their new camp was two or three hundred yards away, and never again would any one willingly enter the old one.

South of the Roper River dead men are always put away in the branches of a tree for a long time before burial, but I never heard of this being done at the Roper. I know Goggle Eye was buried at once, and there was a big “cry-cry” in the camp. Every one ran about and pretended to cut themselves with knives, but I noticed that it was nearly all pretence. I don’t believe that any one of them cared as much as I did.

Next day Tommy Dod started on a journey to try and find out, by different magic signs, who had “sung” his brother, so that he could “sing” them in revenge. That was his duty, you know. As far as I could find out, somebody was always looking for somebody else, in order to “sing” him. If Tommy found the murderer he would “sing” him, and if the murderer died his relatives would all “sing” Tommy, and then Tommy’s relatives would “sing” the murderer’s relatives, and that is how it goes on, till the wonder is that anybody is left alive.

Nobody ever mentioned Goggle Eye’s name again. It really didn’t matter, but it was just as well not to do so, because if he heard his name he might think some one was calling him, and come to see.

When they needed to speak of him, they gave his name in the sign language. To do this, they crooked up all their fingers till their hand looked like a bird’s claw, and then suddenly jerked it forward, and that meant—

“Ebimel Wooloomool Neckberrie,” or “Goggle Eye the Deadfellow!”

For some days Bett-Bett had wandered about in an aimless, listless way, doing nothing and saying nothing, but just looking “out bush” with big dreamy eyes.

She did not know what had happened to her, but I, who had seen this many times in her people, knew.

She was homesick—“bush hungry”—hungry for her own ways, and her own people; for the bush talks, and the camps, and the long long wanderings from place to place, for the fear of Debbil-debbils, for anything that would make her a little bush nigger once more, for anything—if only she could shake off the white man for a little while, and do nothing but live.

We whites sometimes grow very weary and “bush hungry” when we are taken away to the towns, but we can never even guess at the pain of a blackfellow’s longing for his own people, and his beloved “bush.”

Poor little Bett-Bett! as I watched her I knew that sooner or later I must let her go, for there was no other cure for her. If I tried to keep her, she would only run away or be ill.

At last she came to me saying—

“Missus! me sick-fellow, I think,” and sat down at my feet.

I talked to her quietly for a little while about her people, and their long walk-abouts; for the sooner she went, the quicker she would be cured.

All at once she knew what she needed.

“Missus,” she cried, springing to her feet, all life and energy again, “Missus, me want walk-about. No more longa you, Missus, longa blackfellow.”

That was all—and I only asked—

“How long, Bett-Bett?”

“Me no more savey, Missus,” she answered, her eyes burning like stars. She could not tell. She only knew that she must stay till she was cured.

Next morning at “sun up” she went. She took nothing with her but the little bag made from her “Shimy Shirt” string, for in that were her most precious treasures. She stuffed all her clothes into her box, wearing only a gaily-striped handkerchief wound round her middle. Even that would soon be gone, for she was going to be just a little black nigger girl for a while.

Sue didn’t like the look of things at all. She sat down and whined miserably, trying to say that the homestead was quite good enough for her, as long as Bett-Bett was in it. Poor little Sue! It was really only her body that was so miserably ugly, for her comical little face was brimful of beautiful love and devotion for her little mistress.

I went as far as the camp with them, where Bett-Bett was to meet her friends. Then I stood and watched this tiny black Princess of the Never-Never, with her faithful speckled subject at her heels, fade away into her wonderful, lonely Palace. Once Sue sat down and whined, and Bett-Bett, looking round, saw me still watching her. She ran back, and without speaking, thrust a little pearl mussel-shell, one of her most treasured belongings, into my hand; then scampering after her friends, disappeared in the forest.

Then I walked back to the homestead, feeling strangely lonely, for I had grown accustomed to the little black shadow that was always chattering at my heels; but when I looked at the little pearl-shell, as it lay in my hand, I knew that in a little while Bett-Bett would need her “Missus,” and come back bright and happy again.

Richard Clay and Sons, Limited, London Bungay.