Chapter 9

Darkness is mantling the earth, and the men at the Glen camp have all gone, save a few, including the boys and Neville, who are still anxiously waiting. The striking of iron on the flints of the creek-bed breaks the dismal silence, as a group of horsemen steal out of the surrounding gloom, and stand half-revealed in the light of the camp fire. Yellow Billy is perched on the croup behind one of the men, while, with a stock whip converted into a halter, Jacky leads the bone and soul sore warrigal, who, in this abject spectacle, drinks the cup of humiliation to its bitterest dregs.CHAPTER XXIIIA DAY'S SHOOT"Alas! that, when the changing yearBrings round the blessed day,The hearts of little native boysWax keen to hunt and slay,As if the chime of Christmas timeWere but a call to prey."BRUNTON STEPHENS."S-a-n-d-e-e! S-a-n-d-e-e!""H-e-ll-o! H-e-ll-o!""Where—are—you?""Down—here.""Where's here?""Find—out!""Where's that horrid Sandy, Joe?" exclaimed Jessie M'Intyre to Joe Blain, as she came out into the back yard, shortly after breakfast, one fine morning a few days after the brumby hunt."Can't split on me mates, Jess.""You're a nasty, good-for-nothing boy, Joe Blain: that's what I think ofyou, and I don't care if youdoknow it.""Tweedlum, tweedlum, tweedlum twee,The cat and the rat ran up the tree,"quoth Joe, as he capered about just out of reach of the girl, who chased him round the room with a broom.It so happened that as Joe was dancing past the kitchen window, Ah Fat the cook was in the very act of throwing out a dish of kitchen slops, and the contents struck him fair on the head and shoulders.This unintended but well-delivered blow came so swiftly and so unexpectedly that for the moment Joe was stupefied, gasping and spluttering between wind and water, so to speak. He cut so ludicrous a figure that Jessie had to fairly hold her sides with laughter. Meanwhile the innocent Ah Fat stood gazing at the spectacle in amazement."Oh, Missee Joe, I welly solly. Me neffer see you when me tlew um——""You jolly Chinaman!" cried Joe, in great wrath. "You—you—yellow joss!"With that the irate boy jumped through the window and vigorously assaulted the cook with hands and feet."Oh!—Missee Joe—welly solly. O—h! Oh, Clismus! O-u-c-h!"At first genuine sorrow controlled the Celestial. And indeed the onset was so furious and determined that the Chinaman had enough to do in fending blows, and was not a little alarmed. But when Joe, in closing, clutched him by the head, and essayed to unwind his pig-tail, alarm yielded to horror at this unexpected indignity. An ominous glitter came into his eye, and a string of curses in his native tongue flew from the angry heathen.The boy, having loosened the tail, wound a coil of it round his hand, and began to give fierce tugs. Passion in an Oriental may take any turn. A passion-fired Chinaman, however well-disposed and peaceably inclined at other times, will wreak his vengeance regardless of moral issues. With a yell of mingled pain and rage the maddened man executed a Chinese edition of Jiu-jitsu, sending his youthful antagonist whirling through the air, to come down with a rattling bump that shook the breath from his body. Fortunately for Joe, the part of his anatomy which bore the brunt of the contact was that least susceptible to damage.This act would have been followed by one severer still had not Mrs. M'Intyre at that moment run into the kitchen, and, seeing the fallen boy at the mercy of the rage-possessed Chow, who was in the act of assault and battery, made for the man with a shrill scream, and hauled him off the prostrate lad. All the while, John Chinaman was in a state of wild excitability, sending forth a torrential stream of pidgin-English.Joe tumbled to his feet none the worse for the bout save a bruise or two. The sight of Ah Fat with flowing pig-tail and grotesque gesticulation sent the lad into fits of laughter. This only the more incensed his adversary, who made another effort to get at him, being hardly prevented by Mrs. M'Intyre. In this hilarity Joe was joined by Jess, who had followed her mother and stood first in terror, but now with hearty laughter."Joe Blain, get out of this kitchen this moment, you wicked boy! Be quiet, Ah Fat, or I'll call for one of the men! Stop laughing at once, Jess, you bold hussy, or I'll box your ears!"Both Joe and Jess disappeared in a flash, and this had the effect of calming the Chinaman, who told the tale to his mistress as well as his perturbed condition and broken English would allow."Me thlo dirtee watah outa window. Joee comin' plast. Me no see him. Watah 'it 'im head and soljer. He jumpee tloo window, pullee hair, welly angly. Me get angly too, and thlo 'im down.""Quite true," said Joe, who suddenly appeared at the window. "It's all my fault. He didn't see me, I'm sure, when he pitched the stuff out. My paddy got up, an' I went for him like a terrier. I think the terrier's got the worst of it, eh, Ah Fat?"The quick acknowledgment of wrong produced an immediate effect on Ah Fat. There was a winning grace about Joe that few could withstand. Hitherto he had been the cook's favourite. And now, no sooner did he express his sorrow for the summary proceedings, and own his defeat, than the mantling frown of anger on the Chinaman's forehead vanished, and his dingy and stolid countenance lit up with a smile."Me welly solly——""Oh, stow that! No harm done. I'm off to get rid of this muck," cried Joe, as he disappeared from the window. A few moments later, Joe was in the act of passing this same opening to convey a message to Sandy, who was doing a job for his father in the carpenter's room, at the rear of the stables.The act was observed by Ah Fat, who made a rapid move to the window."Hello, Joe!""Hello, Ah Fat!""Come here, Joe," said the Flowery-Lander, beckoning as he spoke."No more soap-suds, Ah Fat?""No mo dirtee watah," said he of the pig-tail grinningly. "See a-here, Joe"—displaying a jam pasty, hot from the oven. "You takee dis plastee. Stlawbelly jam, welly good.""By Cæsar! Ah Fat, you're no end of a brick!" cried Joe, as he received the peace-offering with eager hands and glistening eyes."Saundy, ye scoondrel!" shouted he a moment later, bursting in upon Sandy, who was spoke-shaving a piece of timber designed for a swingle bar. "Didn't you hear Jess call you a few minutes ago?""I did hear some sort of a cackling an' flustration. What's up?""We've got to go an' shoot some ducks.""That all?""That all, ye cauld-blooded Scotchman!""An' when have we to go?""Now, at once, immediately, if not sooner, ye spalpeen.""Ye're an odd mixture of Scotch an' Irish this morn, me hairy-breasted hero, an' a bad hand at either. But why all the hurry about the ducks?""Your mother's just got word to say some chaps are coming out from Tareela to dinner this evening, an' they're sure to expect game.""All serene. Tom comin'?""No, he ain't. He's out with Harry on the run. There's only you an' me for't.""I'll be with you in a jiff, my son. Just finishing this bar.""Where'll we go for the birds, Sandy?""Up the creek, I s'pose. Too far out to the swamp if it's to-night they want them. There's a mob o' woods I'd like to get a smack at—the ones we saw when we were fishin'.""Jacky told me yesterday he saw 'em the other night roosting on the old dead gum just at the junction of Mosquito Crick an' the Crocodile. How far d'ye call that?""'Bout three mile.""Your mother said we are to try and get some pigeons when we're out.""Used to be a lot o' pigeons in the scrub; but the last time Dickson and some other coves came out shooting, they went through the scrub, but didn't see a feather—so they said.""No good goin' there, then?""Well, I don't know. We can give it a try, I s'pose. What's the time, Joe?""Struck ten as I came along; so we'd bes' be off in less'n no time, sonny."In a few minutes the boys were loaded up with guns, ammunition, sculls, and the tucker bag. They decided to take the skiff and try their luck on the water, instead of stalking the game along the banks."Don't be later than four o'clock. Try and be back before, if possible.""All serene, mother; we'll be back on time, luck or no luck.""We'll fetch you some shags anyhow for fish soup," yelled back Joe as the lads walked briskly along.Sandy took the oars at the start, Joe sitting in the stern with his muzzle-loader. Breech-loaders were at that time a rarity in Australia. There were handicaps in shooting in those days of the muzzle-loader, the powder-horn, and the shot belt, when compared with the modern choke-bore, smokeless powder, etc. But there were compensations. Men were far more careful of their ammunition. Loading itself was an art in which the expert took considerable pride. To every novice the formula was carefully given by the senior—"Ram your powder well, but not your lead,If you want to kill dead."But, beyond all other considerations, there was more of the element of sport in it. There was a greater call for skill. The very limitations of gunnery in those days put the game on a nearer footing of equality with the hunter. There were greater chances for the quarry, and therefore greater merit in the kill. These are the days of machinery, and even in gunnery there is a disposition to do the work by turning a handle—"pumping the lead into 'em," as the moderns put it.Sandy's father was the possessor of a renowned Joe Manton, and many were the tales told by the lad of his father's prowess and the wonderful distances at which this Joe Manton could kill.The creek on both sides was lined for the most part with rushes, weeds, and water-reeds, which afforded fine cover and food for the wild-fowl. It was possible to pass within short distances of the ducks in the rushes without being aware of their presence."Keep your eyes skinned along here, Joe," remarked Sandy, after rowing some distance. "Might start a brace at any time."The words were hardly out of the boy's mouth when a bird rose out of the reeds with a great flutter. Joe's gun was up in a trice, and before it had flown a dozen yards, it fell into the water with a splash."Good shot, Joe; but what's the use of wasting powder and shot over a red-bill? Thought you knew a coot from a duck.""Well—I—I'm blest! If I'm not a dumplin'-headed, double-dyed duffer! As if I hadn't shot tons of 'em. Well, well, well!""It's not well at all," answered Sandy with a grin, as the boat glided past the beautiful glossy black and purple-hued bird, which, though edible enough, generally ran to toughness, and was not classed as game. Yet a plump red-bill that has fattened on the river-end patch of the settlers' maize is by no means to be despised.Joe quietly reloaded, and was doubly on thequi viveafter the misadventure. He had his revenge before long, for on rounding the point they ran into a mob of teal which were camping on a shady mud-beach. The teal rose in a very alert fashion, flying back over the boat. Quickly turning, Joe poured the contents of right and left barrels into the retreating birds. Three of them soused into the water, two of which were stone-dead. The third, though badly wounded, was nevertheless exceedingly agile in dodging the boat by diving. After some trouble the boys managed to secure it, and so a good start towards a full bag was made.Then their luck departed for a while. Two or three pairs of black duck rose, but out of range."Here, Sandy, let me take the oars and give you a spell," said Joe, after proceeding about two miles from the landing. The positions were reversed, and the boat sped on its way to the junction."Pull easy, Joe," said Sandy, as that point came in sight. "There's a chance of the wood-duck on the spit. We mustn't miss this lot, anyway. You'd best land me here, ole man, an' I'll stalk 'em."Joe, whose back faced the spit, to coin an Irishism, turned round to survey the birds, which clustered thickly on the spit-end."See 'em, Joe," said Sandy excitedly. "It's a grand mob. If I don't knock half a dozen, you may——""Bag the whole bloomin' lot if you like, Sandy M'Intyre," replied the rower, who had been gazing intently on the birds, and now turned to his mate with an amused smile."Why—why—whatcher mean?""Mean! Mr. Alexander Duff M'Intyre, bushman, waterman, sportsman, and naturalist by profession, but only a Scotch mixture of bat an' mole for all that! Why——""Do you mean to insinuate, Joe Blain, that yon's not a mob of wood-duck?""Yes; and ready to swear to it till all's blue. Ididthink you knew the difference between a duck of any sort and a plover!""You call 'em plov——?"Here one of the birds stretched its neck, flapped its wings, gave a hop and a short run, plover-ways, and finished with the typical harsh note."Great Donald! you're right, man!" finished the boy, in a mortified tone and with a considerable amount of disgust."Oh, well," he resumed, after a moment's silence, "a few plover won't come amiss, especially if we don't collar any more duck. Like 'em myself, grilled, as well as anything; they've such plump little breasts. Pull on, Joe."Joe made for the spit, coming in so quickly with a few quiet but vigorous strokes that Sandy was able to get in a pot and a flying shot, accounting for no fewer than five."I vote," exclaimed that youth, when they had bagged the plover, "that we pull into the mouth of 'Skeeter Crick, tie up to the bank, an' stalk the crick for a mile or so; then we can cross over to the scrub by the old tree. We'll chance to get a pigeon or two, or I'm mistaken. P'r'aps we'll have better luck with the ducks on our way back. Never saw 'em so scarce on the Crocodile before."Accordingly, they landed a hundred yards or so up the creek, assailed the contents of the tucker bag, and then proceeded to skirt the right bank, on the look out for duck. A single bird, a very fine drake, fell to Joe's gun near the fallen log which bridged the narrow stream. This crossed, the boys entered into a belt of virgin scrub that extended back a mile or so from Crocodile Creek, abutting Mosquito Creek along its breadth."We'd bes' separate, Joe," said Sandy, when they had gone a little distance into the jungle. "You keep on a few hundred yards, and then bear on the left towards the Crocodile. I'll make straight for there from here. It'll be hard if we don't account for a bird or two."The scrub was very thick and interwoven in places. It contained a number of native fig trees of great height and spread. These trees were in fruit, therefore there was a better chance of getting pigeon, some varieties of which are exceedingly fond of the native fig.The umbrageous trees formed a lofty canopy whose cool shades were very agreeable after a couple of hours on the water under a January sun. The lawyer and other cane vines hung from the great trees in long festoons, varying in thickness from ropes no thicker than one's little finger to the great cables extending downward from the huge limbs of the fig trees. Besides these growths were scrub bushes, many of which were covered with blossom, and still others with berries, blue and red. There were also spaces of bare ground, occupied only by giant fig and other columnar trees. These, by natural formation, made arched aisles, whose loftiness, lights, distances, and vistas constituted a grandeur, and even splendour, unapproached by any of the great cathedrals of earth. These, however ancient, are but things of yesterday when compared with nature's porticoes, cloisters, and altar spaces.The boys, however, took little heed of these things. They were in the scrub neither for architectural nor devotional purposes. Pigeons and other scrub game alone had any attractions for them.After separating they walked warily, listening with both ears and scanning with both eyes. Sounds there were in abundance. The ubiquitous minah, as the noisy and saucy soldier-bird is called, is as widespread as the gum tree itself. The thrush, though smaller than its English namesake, and with a differing note, is equally melodious. Then peculiar to scrub country are the musically metallic notes of the pretty but exceedingly coy bell-bird.Henry Kendal, the greatest of Australian nature poets, has limned it in song. Here is a stanza—"The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of daytime,They sing in September their songs of the Maytime.When shadows wax strong and the thunder-bolts hurtle,They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;They start up like fairies that follow fair weather,And straightway the hues of their feathers unfoldenAre the green and the purple, the blue and the golden."There is also the merry Coachman, who cracks his whip with his beak, so to speak, in such verisimilitude that the wandering new chum looks round eagerly for a coach-team.Added to these are the soft coo-coo of the doves and the stronger and booming note of the pigeon tribe. And beyond all these, the calls, chirpings, and chatterings of scores of feathered favourites. They who call the Australian bush songless libel it.The pigeon has a coo that is as monotonous and far-reaching as a fog horn. For this sound the boys are now cocking their ears. Presently the loved note reaches Sandy's ears: coo—coo—coo!"A wonga for a dollar, and where's one is sure to be another."To locate a pigeon by its note is often a most difficult thing in the scrub. It may be on the tree under which one happens to be standing, or hundreds of yards away. To run down a pigeon by its note is a work that needs experience and patience.Sandy listened intently, mind as well as ears working. "Not high up, that's certain. Seems to be right behind me. Bet tuppence he's on that white cedar," said the boy to himself after a further scrutiny in the supposed direction. Away in the locality indicated, distant a hundred yards or so, rising above a clump of myrtles, was a white cedar tree, its shining yellow berries revealing its presence as seen through the tree boles and shrubs.Stealthily moving through the undergrowth and timber, the lad cautiously advanced towards the cedar. Gaining the myrtle cluster, he was thereby screened to some extent even when viewed from above. Just then a coo gave him the location. Moving to the edge of the saplings, he now got a fair view of the tree beyond; and there, on a lateral limb, distant from him not more than thirty-five yards, sat a glorious wonga-wonga, the finest species of Australian pigeon, not to be beaten for table purposes throughout the wide world. The specimen before Sandy was a male bird as big as three ordinary pigeons."That fellow's calling his mate, and she's not far off, by the way he's noddin' his head," surmised the youth. "Shall I pot him, or wait for his mate and cop 'em both?"The question was soon settled, for suddenly, and with a great whirr, the hen rose from the ground, or rather, tiny water pool: for she had been drinking and bathing and admiring her reflected image in the glassy water. Her return, alas! is the signal of death, for what time she alighted on the bough at her spouse's side, the remorseless hunter, with hasty but true aim, brought both fluttering to the ground.Their necks are wrung and they are bagged instanter, with a laconic but satisfied grunt from the sportsman: "Not so bad."At this moment a double shot broke on Sandy's ears. This was immediately followed by a deep, mellow sound that formed the common signal of the pals. Putting his two hands with hollowed palms together, conch-shell fashion, the boy raised them to his lips and blew a prolonged and resonant note followed by three short notes staccato, which conveyed to the other's ears the answer: "Heard you, am coming.""Joe wants me for something. Got into a covey of bronze-wings, or maybe a mob o' flocks," muttered the lad as he made in the direction of the sound.He soon espied his mate at the butt of an enormous fig tree, and signalled his advent. The moment Joe perceived Sandy he stooped down and picked up a couple of large black-looking birds, and waved them excitedly."My word! ole Joe's run into a flock of turkeys. Hurrah! here's luck."Yes, Joe had been fortunate enough to "rise" a fine lot of tallagalla, to call them by their native name, better known as scrub turkey.Unlike the so-called turkey of the plains—which, indeed, is not a true turkey, but a bustard—the scrub turkey is true to its title, being seldom or never seen out of thickly wooded country. Its breeding home is a huge mound raised by scratching together the dry leaves and bits of rotten bark and wood. On the top of this elevation of débris the eggs are laid, some scores of them, and barely covered. As the birds use the same spot for many years, the nests become in time mounds of vast dimensions. Turkey nest, as it is called, becomes in time a rich compost of leaf-mould, and is eagerly sought for garden purposes.The bird itself is stronger in the legs than in the wings. Unless startled and rushed, it will not rise, but scuttles through the undergrowth with inconceivable speed, and he is a fortunate man who is able to draw a bead as it darts through the thousand obstacles of the scrub. Hence the necessity of a good dog to rush the birds pell-mell and startle them into immediate flight, when they almost invariably seek refuge in the trees near by.Joe, fortunately, heard the drumming and clucking of a turkey gobbler before he was seen of them. Moving with intense caution through the bush, which was very thick at this spot, he saw at last through the intervening leaves, on a patch of bare ground, scratching among the decayed vegetable matter for grubs, a flock of turkeys containing a score or more.They were exceedingly active, running hither and thither; many of them, just at the pullet stage, indulging in mimic warfare. The elder ones were busily engaged grubbing. Joe could easily have shot two or three of them as he stood an unseen watcher. There was a better way than that, however. Once "tree" them, and one could leisurely pick his birds. How are they to be got into the trees? He'll be his own dog.Bursting out from his cover with a hair-raising and blood-curdling yell, making at the same time a high jump and wildly waving his arms, the stalker rushed into the midst of the mob, catching, indeed, a young one by the leg, and generally making such a hullabaloo as to scare them into instant flight.It is a peculiarity of this bird, like that of its American brother, when once "treed," to remain there. Wanton shooters, taking advantage of this trait, will often shoot a flock right out.The birds put up by Joe, with one or two exceptions, flew into the trees surrounding them. The lad's first act was to slip a piece of string round the captured turkey's legs and swing it from a tree limb. This done, he took a couple of pot shots, bringing down a young gobbler each time. Having made sure of a brace, he signalled to his mate, as described.The shooters, with true sporting instinct, refrained both from wanton destruction and from shooting at the hens. They picked out half a dozen of the biggest males, leaving the others on their perches.Needless to say, the boys were greatly pleased with their success in the scrub. On their way home good fortune followed them. Though they did not sight the mob of woods, they surprised a pair, which they promptly secured. Though the bag could not be considered a big one for those days, it was a good one for variety.Greatly to Mrs. M'Intyre's delight, the boys reached home a little after three o'clock. During their absence of five hours they accounted for the following game: one black duck, two wood-duck, three teal, five spur-wing plover, six fat turkey gobblers, two plump pigeon, and the captured turkey."You are dear, good boys," was Mrs. M'Intyre's comment as the game lay side by side on the bench at the rear of the kitchen. "What fine birds! what a lovely variety!"Mrs. Mac., while not an epicure, was a noted housewife, and dispensed hospitality in such a whole-hearted fashion and in such an acceptable manner that her dinners were things to be remembered with delight."Go into the kitchen, boys, and get a snack: you'll be dying for something to eat. After you've finished you can bear a hand with the plucking and cleaning, as Denny's the only one about. Come here, Ah Fat! What do you think of the birds, Ah Fat?""Dem welly good, missee.""Yes, they'll do very well. The boys'll clean them for you—at least the ones we're using to-night. We'll hang the rest. Let me see! they had better clean the pigeons and plover first. You can put them on to stew: we'll turn them into a game pie. Grill the teal, and roast a pair of ducks and two gobblers.""Allee lita, missee; I do 'em. That all? I mos go back an' look after puddens."Denny and the boys set to work on the fowl, and were soon feathers and down from head to foot.[image]"Retreating one moment and advancing the following, uttering war-cries."—See p.219."Tell me, Joe, me bhoy, did ye or Sahndy here shute the most b-i-rr-ds?""Honours are easy, Denny.""Begorra! phwat th' divvil's thot?""It means that each shot an equal quantity.""An e-qu-a-al quantitee! Be jabers, wheres did ye put 'em?""Put what?""Whoi, th' pair iv e-qu-a-al quan—— Be Saint Michael, it's a new sort iv a b-i-rr-d ye've shuted!"Denny was not so dense as he pretended to be."You're a downy cove, Denny," laughed Joe, who caught a twinkle in the young Irishman's eye."That's true for ye, Joe," retorted the wit, surveying himself; "but, bhoys, why doan't ye's take me wid youse? Sure an' it's a foine shot Oi am.""That's news, Denny. Didn't know you'd ever let off a gun.""Manny an' manny's th' wan Oi've seen me farther bang off, annyways. Did youse never hear tell iv me farther's shutin'? Shure he was a sealabrity in Killarney!""Never. Tell us.""Well, la-ads, wan da' he was rowin' th' Dook iv Dublhin, who was a g-rr-a-at sport, on th' woild la-a-kes iv Killarney. They was lukin' for dooks.""Set a duke to catch a 'dook,' eh, Denny?""Be aisy, Marsther Joe. It's th' flyin' dooks Oi'me dascribin'. Be jabers! farther rowed about a tousan' moile, and th' only dook th' g-rr-a-at mahn shuted was a gull, though they was there in g-rr-a-at mobs.""The gulls or the ducks, Denny?""If you'd 'a' bin there they wud 'a' bin two gulls, annyhow, me mahn.""Good for you, Denny. Let him finish, Joe.""Well, shure, saays farther at last, ses he, 'If y're Riall Hoiness wud let me have wan shot, maybe Oi'd bring ye luck.' An' he did it. So farther, he gits th' Dook's big gun, an' th' Dook he tuk th' pathles, an' bynby they see a mob iv dooks all in a loine acrost th' boat's bows, saalin' for all th' warld loike th' owld loin-iv-batthle ships in th' pictures, stim an' starn."'Howld aisy,' saays farther, ses 'e, whin they got abreast thim fowls. With that he pinted th' gun at th' la-adin' dook, an owld dr-a-ake be th' same token—pulled th' thrigger an' let her off. Wud ye bela-ave me, so quick was he that before all th' shot had got out iv th' way-pon he'd got her down to th' tail-most birr-d, an' betune you an' me an' little Garr-ge Washintong in th' Bible, ivry sowl iv thim dooks lay spaachless dead upon th' wather. Now thin, phwat div ye think iv that f'r shutin', ye gosoons?""Think of it, Denny," said Maggie, who had been standing at the kitchen door, unobserved of the boys, an amused listener. "Why, you'll be writing a book one day that will put the Kybosh on Baron Munchausen.""Well, if iver Oi does, Miss Maggie," replied the incorrigible Irish boy, "Oi'll pit y'reself in as th' laaden acthress—Oi mane th' herr-owyne.""Maggie!""Coming, mother."CHAPTER XXIVTHE CORROBBERIE"Deep in the forest depths the tribeA mighty blazing fire have spread:Round this they spring with frantic yells,In hideous pigments all arrayed.* * * * *One barred with yellow ochre, oneA skeleton in startling white,Then one who dances furiouslyBlood-red against the great fire's light.* * * * *Like some infernal scene it is—The forest dark, the blazing fire,The ghostly birds, the dancing fiends,Whose savage chant swells ever higher."WILLIAM SHARP."Jacky and Willy want to know if they can have some raddle,[#] whitning, and blue: can they, dad?"[#] Raddle: a red pigment used for marking sheep, etc."They're very reasonable, I maun say. And what are they aifter noo, the scamps?""Oh, I thought you knew, dad! There's going to be a grand corrobberie to-night. Old Tarpot has sent in a messenger for them to go out, and take this stuff with them, and——""Precious cool cheek on the pairt of Tarpot, and o' the boys as weel. Why couldna they come oure and ask me properly?""Dunno, dad.""It's the blacks' way all over, dad," said Maggie."Dad, dad," interrupted Jessie, who was eagerly waiting a chance to get in a word, "you said, the last time there was a corrobberie, when you refused to let us go, that you would the next time. Now then, dado, you can't refuse to let us this time. Say you will. Ah, I know by your eyes you will say yes! You dear thing, it's worth a kiss and a hug."When the ardent girl had bestowed these filial pledges she turned round to Sandy and the others, out of whose sails she had taken the wind in a manner."There now, young people, we are all going, for which I ought to be thanked. Only for my good memory, I'm afraid the dear man would have said no! wouldn't you, dadums? We'll make up a party, and Mr. Neville will, I am sure, be delighted at the exhibition.""My stars, Jess, but you're gettin' 'em bad! You will be applying for a school teacher's billet next. Such consideration for Mr. Neville, too! Why——""Oh, brither mine, bless your poor thick skull; it's positively no use you trying to be funny—you simply can't. Oh, it'll be glorious fun," continued she, turning to the Englishman."But, Miss Jessie, please! In the first place, what is this corbobbery? Is that the way it is pronounced?""No, sir, it is not; though to be sure they do kick up a tremendous bobbery.""Well, whatever the name, I suppose it stands for an aboriginal ceremonial or pastime?" said Neville smilingly."Exactly. Cor-rob-ber-ie is their Café Chautant, a free-and-easy; with this difference, though—all their performers appear in full dress; got up to kill by the aid of the tribe tonsorial artists and valets. The young bucks are perfect pictures, I do assure you; and as for the girls——""Don't take any notice of the saucy kid, Mr. Neville," broke in Sandy, who felt that he owed his young sister one. "She's only jigging you. It's their native dance and song by the firelight; she's right there. The men do the dancing, and the women simply play the music.""Music! I had no idea that they were——""Musicians. Oh well, not exactly that. They beat time for the men. They, the men, are all painted up and armed. It's a sort of action song, but it's jolly fine, a tiptop sight, especially when there's a big mob of them. Sometimes four or five tribes get together for what they call the 'great corrobberie.' Then you see something; for there's generally ructions before they finish, particularly if there has been any grog in the camp. In that case they usually wind up with a fight, and then there's the killed and wounded to count when the cleaning-up's done. It's all right to-night, though. There will be only two tribes in it, and they've always been friendly. Would you like to come?""Come! I wouldn't miss it for the world. Yes, you may reckon on me for one—that is, of course, if your father is agreeable for us to go.""I suppose, dad," said Sandy, turning to his father, "we may all go? It's to be held at the old spot.""Oh, weel, I suppose you'd think me hard-herted if I said no? I'll jist mak' one condeetion, and that is, dinna interfere wi' the blacks. You maunna mak' ony attempt to boss them. Let them cairry oot things in their ain way.""All serene, dad.""Can the boys have the whitnin' and other things from the store?" repeated Sandy.Consent is given, and the heart of Tarpot, the King of Bullaroi, is made glad with a goodly parcel of pigments.That night after tea the party, including Denny Kineavy, mount their steeds and ride out to the corrobberie grounds, a matter of three miles.It was situated on a lightly timbered box-tree flat, where a cleared space occurred forming a natural amphitheatre, wherein the aboriginal tribes foregathered periodically and disported themselves in their national characters and games at night time.The blacks make a distinction in these festivals. There is the corrobberie and the cobborn (or great) corrobberie. It was one of the former that the whites were to witness. The latter occurred only at long intervals, and was a time of feasting as well as amusement; both feasting and play being prolonged often for weeks, and generally attended by all the tribes within a radius of hundreds of miles.Each tribe would bring its song and dance (corrobberie), in many cases composed for the special occasion. This produced the exciting element of competition. A corrobberie of exceptional excellence would be learned by the other tribes, and on their return to their own country passed on to the surrounding tribes. Thus it happened sometimes that a corrobberie of singular merit travelled round and through the continent.These folk-songs were associated with the dances, and treated on elemental themes, as war, the chase, the feast, love, birth, death. Often some humorous theme would be introduced, causing immense fun. As a rule each tribe had clowns, whose grotesque attitude and voice intonations were mirth-provoking to a degree. The Australian native manifests a keen appreciation of a joke and has an inborn tendency to laughter.The preparations were far advanced by the time the station party arrived at the camp. The gins, to whom fell all labour of a manual sort, were lighting the fires, while the bucks were busy "dressing" for their parts.The girls remained in the clearing talking to some of the old gins, while the males proceeded to the outskirts of the forest, where the work of adorning went on apace.For this no pains were spared. The naked bodies of the dancers were treated by the tribe experts, and some fearfully and wonderfully startling effects were produced. Take His Majesty, Tarpot, as a sample. The ordinary court dress of the King consisted of a tattered police uniform, together with a crescent-shaped brass plate that adorned his breast, where it hung, suspended by a chain from his neck. The plate—presented to him on one occasion as a joke—bore upon it the inscription—

CHAPTER XXIII

A DAY'S SHOOT

"Alas! that, when the changing yearBrings round the blessed day,The hearts of little native boysWax keen to hunt and slay,As if the chime of Christmas timeWere but a call to prey."BRUNTON STEPHENS.

"Alas! that, when the changing year

Brings round the blessed day,

The hearts of little native boys

Wax keen to hunt and slay,

As if the chime of Christmas time

Were but a call to prey."BRUNTON STEPHENS.

Were but a call to prey."

BRUNTON STEPHENS.

"S-a-n-d-e-e! S-a-n-d-e-e!"

"H-e-ll-o! H-e-ll-o!"

"Where—are—you?"

"Down—here."

"Where's here?"

"Find—out!"

"Where's that horrid Sandy, Joe?" exclaimed Jessie M'Intyre to Joe Blain, as she came out into the back yard, shortly after breakfast, one fine morning a few days after the brumby hunt.

"Can't split on me mates, Jess."

"You're a nasty, good-for-nothing boy, Joe Blain: that's what I think ofyou, and I don't care if youdoknow it."

"Tweedlum, tweedlum, tweedlum twee,The cat and the rat ran up the tree,"

"Tweedlum, tweedlum, tweedlum twee,

The cat and the rat ran up the tree,"

quoth Joe, as he capered about just out of reach of the girl, who chased him round the room with a broom.

It so happened that as Joe was dancing past the kitchen window, Ah Fat the cook was in the very act of throwing out a dish of kitchen slops, and the contents struck him fair on the head and shoulders.

This unintended but well-delivered blow came so swiftly and so unexpectedly that for the moment Joe was stupefied, gasping and spluttering between wind and water, so to speak. He cut so ludicrous a figure that Jessie had to fairly hold her sides with laughter. Meanwhile the innocent Ah Fat stood gazing at the spectacle in amazement.

"Oh, Missee Joe, I welly solly. Me neffer see you when me tlew um——"

"You jolly Chinaman!" cried Joe, in great wrath. "You—you—yellow joss!"

With that the irate boy jumped through the window and vigorously assaulted the cook with hands and feet.

"Oh!—Missee Joe—welly solly. O—h! Oh, Clismus! O-u-c-h!"

At first genuine sorrow controlled the Celestial. And indeed the onset was so furious and determined that the Chinaman had enough to do in fending blows, and was not a little alarmed. But when Joe, in closing, clutched him by the head, and essayed to unwind his pig-tail, alarm yielded to horror at this unexpected indignity. An ominous glitter came into his eye, and a string of curses in his native tongue flew from the angry heathen.

The boy, having loosened the tail, wound a coil of it round his hand, and began to give fierce tugs. Passion in an Oriental may take any turn. A passion-fired Chinaman, however well-disposed and peaceably inclined at other times, will wreak his vengeance regardless of moral issues. With a yell of mingled pain and rage the maddened man executed a Chinese edition of Jiu-jitsu, sending his youthful antagonist whirling through the air, to come down with a rattling bump that shook the breath from his body. Fortunately for Joe, the part of his anatomy which bore the brunt of the contact was that least susceptible to damage.

This act would have been followed by one severer still had not Mrs. M'Intyre at that moment run into the kitchen, and, seeing the fallen boy at the mercy of the rage-possessed Chow, who was in the act of assault and battery, made for the man with a shrill scream, and hauled him off the prostrate lad. All the while, John Chinaman was in a state of wild excitability, sending forth a torrential stream of pidgin-English.

Joe tumbled to his feet none the worse for the bout save a bruise or two. The sight of Ah Fat with flowing pig-tail and grotesque gesticulation sent the lad into fits of laughter. This only the more incensed his adversary, who made another effort to get at him, being hardly prevented by Mrs. M'Intyre. In this hilarity Joe was joined by Jess, who had followed her mother and stood first in terror, but now with hearty laughter.

"Joe Blain, get out of this kitchen this moment, you wicked boy! Be quiet, Ah Fat, or I'll call for one of the men! Stop laughing at once, Jess, you bold hussy, or I'll box your ears!"

Both Joe and Jess disappeared in a flash, and this had the effect of calming the Chinaman, who told the tale to his mistress as well as his perturbed condition and broken English would allow.

"Me thlo dirtee watah outa window. Joee comin' plast. Me no see him. Watah 'it 'im head and soljer. He jumpee tloo window, pullee hair, welly angly. Me get angly too, and thlo 'im down."

"Quite true," said Joe, who suddenly appeared at the window. "It's all my fault. He didn't see me, I'm sure, when he pitched the stuff out. My paddy got up, an' I went for him like a terrier. I think the terrier's got the worst of it, eh, Ah Fat?"

The quick acknowledgment of wrong produced an immediate effect on Ah Fat. There was a winning grace about Joe that few could withstand. Hitherto he had been the cook's favourite. And now, no sooner did he express his sorrow for the summary proceedings, and own his defeat, than the mantling frown of anger on the Chinaman's forehead vanished, and his dingy and stolid countenance lit up with a smile.

"Me welly solly——"

"Oh, stow that! No harm done. I'm off to get rid of this muck," cried Joe, as he disappeared from the window. A few moments later, Joe was in the act of passing this same opening to convey a message to Sandy, who was doing a job for his father in the carpenter's room, at the rear of the stables.

The act was observed by Ah Fat, who made a rapid move to the window.

"Hello, Joe!"

"Hello, Ah Fat!"

"Come here, Joe," said the Flowery-Lander, beckoning as he spoke.

"No more soap-suds, Ah Fat?"

"No mo dirtee watah," said he of the pig-tail grinningly. "See a-here, Joe"—displaying a jam pasty, hot from the oven. "You takee dis plastee. Stlawbelly jam, welly good."

"By Cæsar! Ah Fat, you're no end of a brick!" cried Joe, as he received the peace-offering with eager hands and glistening eyes.

"Saundy, ye scoondrel!" shouted he a moment later, bursting in upon Sandy, who was spoke-shaving a piece of timber designed for a swingle bar. "Didn't you hear Jess call you a few minutes ago?"

"I did hear some sort of a cackling an' flustration. What's up?"

"We've got to go an' shoot some ducks."

"That all?"

"That all, ye cauld-blooded Scotchman!"

"An' when have we to go?"

"Now, at once, immediately, if not sooner, ye spalpeen."

"Ye're an odd mixture of Scotch an' Irish this morn, me hairy-breasted hero, an' a bad hand at either. But why all the hurry about the ducks?"

"Your mother's just got word to say some chaps are coming out from Tareela to dinner this evening, an' they're sure to expect game."

"All serene. Tom comin'?"

"No, he ain't. He's out with Harry on the run. There's only you an' me for't."

"I'll be with you in a jiff, my son. Just finishing this bar."

"Where'll we go for the birds, Sandy?"

"Up the creek, I s'pose. Too far out to the swamp if it's to-night they want them. There's a mob o' woods I'd like to get a smack at—the ones we saw when we were fishin'."

"Jacky told me yesterday he saw 'em the other night roosting on the old dead gum just at the junction of Mosquito Crick an' the Crocodile. How far d'ye call that?"

"'Bout three mile."

"Your mother said we are to try and get some pigeons when we're out."

"Used to be a lot o' pigeons in the scrub; but the last time Dickson and some other coves came out shooting, they went through the scrub, but didn't see a feather—so they said."

"No good goin' there, then?"

"Well, I don't know. We can give it a try, I s'pose. What's the time, Joe?"

"Struck ten as I came along; so we'd bes' be off in less'n no time, sonny."

In a few minutes the boys were loaded up with guns, ammunition, sculls, and the tucker bag. They decided to take the skiff and try their luck on the water, instead of stalking the game along the banks.

"Don't be later than four o'clock. Try and be back before, if possible."

"All serene, mother; we'll be back on time, luck or no luck."

"We'll fetch you some shags anyhow for fish soup," yelled back Joe as the lads walked briskly along.

Sandy took the oars at the start, Joe sitting in the stern with his muzzle-loader. Breech-loaders were at that time a rarity in Australia. There were handicaps in shooting in those days of the muzzle-loader, the powder-horn, and the shot belt, when compared with the modern choke-bore, smokeless powder, etc. But there were compensations. Men were far more careful of their ammunition. Loading itself was an art in which the expert took considerable pride. To every novice the formula was carefully given by the senior—

"Ram your powder well, but not your lead,If you want to kill dead."

"Ram your powder well, but not your lead,

If you want to kill dead."

But, beyond all other considerations, there was more of the element of sport in it. There was a greater call for skill. The very limitations of gunnery in those days put the game on a nearer footing of equality with the hunter. There were greater chances for the quarry, and therefore greater merit in the kill. These are the days of machinery, and even in gunnery there is a disposition to do the work by turning a handle—"pumping the lead into 'em," as the moderns put it.

Sandy's father was the possessor of a renowned Joe Manton, and many were the tales told by the lad of his father's prowess and the wonderful distances at which this Joe Manton could kill.

The creek on both sides was lined for the most part with rushes, weeds, and water-reeds, which afforded fine cover and food for the wild-fowl. It was possible to pass within short distances of the ducks in the rushes without being aware of their presence.

"Keep your eyes skinned along here, Joe," remarked Sandy, after rowing some distance. "Might start a brace at any time."

The words were hardly out of the boy's mouth when a bird rose out of the reeds with a great flutter. Joe's gun was up in a trice, and before it had flown a dozen yards, it fell into the water with a splash.

"Good shot, Joe; but what's the use of wasting powder and shot over a red-bill? Thought you knew a coot from a duck."

"Well—I—I'm blest! If I'm not a dumplin'-headed, double-dyed duffer! As if I hadn't shot tons of 'em. Well, well, well!"

"It's not well at all," answered Sandy with a grin, as the boat glided past the beautiful glossy black and purple-hued bird, which, though edible enough, generally ran to toughness, and was not classed as game. Yet a plump red-bill that has fattened on the river-end patch of the settlers' maize is by no means to be despised.

Joe quietly reloaded, and was doubly on thequi viveafter the misadventure. He had his revenge before long, for on rounding the point they ran into a mob of teal which were camping on a shady mud-beach. The teal rose in a very alert fashion, flying back over the boat. Quickly turning, Joe poured the contents of right and left barrels into the retreating birds. Three of them soused into the water, two of which were stone-dead. The third, though badly wounded, was nevertheless exceedingly agile in dodging the boat by diving. After some trouble the boys managed to secure it, and so a good start towards a full bag was made.

Then their luck departed for a while. Two or three pairs of black duck rose, but out of range.

"Here, Sandy, let me take the oars and give you a spell," said Joe, after proceeding about two miles from the landing. The positions were reversed, and the boat sped on its way to the junction.

"Pull easy, Joe," said Sandy, as that point came in sight. "There's a chance of the wood-duck on the spit. We mustn't miss this lot, anyway. You'd best land me here, ole man, an' I'll stalk 'em."

Joe, whose back faced the spit, to coin an Irishism, turned round to survey the birds, which clustered thickly on the spit-end.

"See 'em, Joe," said Sandy excitedly. "It's a grand mob. If I don't knock half a dozen, you may——"

"Bag the whole bloomin' lot if you like, Sandy M'Intyre," replied the rower, who had been gazing intently on the birds, and now turned to his mate with an amused smile.

"Why—why—whatcher mean?"

"Mean! Mr. Alexander Duff M'Intyre, bushman, waterman, sportsman, and naturalist by profession, but only a Scotch mixture of bat an' mole for all that! Why——"

"Do you mean to insinuate, Joe Blain, that yon's not a mob of wood-duck?"

"Yes; and ready to swear to it till all's blue. Ididthink you knew the difference between a duck of any sort and a plover!"

"You call 'em plov——?"

Here one of the birds stretched its neck, flapped its wings, gave a hop and a short run, plover-ways, and finished with the typical harsh note.

"Great Donald! you're right, man!" finished the boy, in a mortified tone and with a considerable amount of disgust.

"Oh, well," he resumed, after a moment's silence, "a few plover won't come amiss, especially if we don't collar any more duck. Like 'em myself, grilled, as well as anything; they've such plump little breasts. Pull on, Joe."

Joe made for the spit, coming in so quickly with a few quiet but vigorous strokes that Sandy was able to get in a pot and a flying shot, accounting for no fewer than five.

"I vote," exclaimed that youth, when they had bagged the plover, "that we pull into the mouth of 'Skeeter Crick, tie up to the bank, an' stalk the crick for a mile or so; then we can cross over to the scrub by the old tree. We'll chance to get a pigeon or two, or I'm mistaken. P'r'aps we'll have better luck with the ducks on our way back. Never saw 'em so scarce on the Crocodile before."

Accordingly, they landed a hundred yards or so up the creek, assailed the contents of the tucker bag, and then proceeded to skirt the right bank, on the look out for duck. A single bird, a very fine drake, fell to Joe's gun near the fallen log which bridged the narrow stream. This crossed, the boys entered into a belt of virgin scrub that extended back a mile or so from Crocodile Creek, abutting Mosquito Creek along its breadth.

"We'd bes' separate, Joe," said Sandy, when they had gone a little distance into the jungle. "You keep on a few hundred yards, and then bear on the left towards the Crocodile. I'll make straight for there from here. It'll be hard if we don't account for a bird or two."

The scrub was very thick and interwoven in places. It contained a number of native fig trees of great height and spread. These trees were in fruit, therefore there was a better chance of getting pigeon, some varieties of which are exceedingly fond of the native fig.

The umbrageous trees formed a lofty canopy whose cool shades were very agreeable after a couple of hours on the water under a January sun. The lawyer and other cane vines hung from the great trees in long festoons, varying in thickness from ropes no thicker than one's little finger to the great cables extending downward from the huge limbs of the fig trees. Besides these growths were scrub bushes, many of which were covered with blossom, and still others with berries, blue and red. There were also spaces of bare ground, occupied only by giant fig and other columnar trees. These, by natural formation, made arched aisles, whose loftiness, lights, distances, and vistas constituted a grandeur, and even splendour, unapproached by any of the great cathedrals of earth. These, however ancient, are but things of yesterday when compared with nature's porticoes, cloisters, and altar spaces.

The boys, however, took little heed of these things. They were in the scrub neither for architectural nor devotional purposes. Pigeons and other scrub game alone had any attractions for them.

After separating they walked warily, listening with both ears and scanning with both eyes. Sounds there were in abundance. The ubiquitous minah, as the noisy and saucy soldier-bird is called, is as widespread as the gum tree itself. The thrush, though smaller than its English namesake, and with a differing note, is equally melodious. Then peculiar to scrub country are the musically metallic notes of the pretty but exceedingly coy bell-bird.

Henry Kendal, the greatest of Australian nature poets, has limned it in song. Here is a stanza—

"The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of daytime,They sing in September their songs of the Maytime.When shadows wax strong and the thunder-bolts hurtle,They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;They start up like fairies that follow fair weather,And straightway the hues of their feathers unfoldenAre the green and the purple, the blue and the golden."

"The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of daytime,

They sing in September their songs of the Maytime.

When shadows wax strong and the thunder-bolts hurtle,

They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;

They start up like fairies that follow fair weather,

And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden

Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden."

There is also the merry Coachman, who cracks his whip with his beak, so to speak, in such verisimilitude that the wandering new chum looks round eagerly for a coach-team.

Added to these are the soft coo-coo of the doves and the stronger and booming note of the pigeon tribe. And beyond all these, the calls, chirpings, and chatterings of scores of feathered favourites. They who call the Australian bush songless libel it.

The pigeon has a coo that is as monotonous and far-reaching as a fog horn. For this sound the boys are now cocking their ears. Presently the loved note reaches Sandy's ears: coo—coo—coo!

"A wonga for a dollar, and where's one is sure to be another."

To locate a pigeon by its note is often a most difficult thing in the scrub. It may be on the tree under which one happens to be standing, or hundreds of yards away. To run down a pigeon by its note is a work that needs experience and patience.

Sandy listened intently, mind as well as ears working. "Not high up, that's certain. Seems to be right behind me. Bet tuppence he's on that white cedar," said the boy to himself after a further scrutiny in the supposed direction. Away in the locality indicated, distant a hundred yards or so, rising above a clump of myrtles, was a white cedar tree, its shining yellow berries revealing its presence as seen through the tree boles and shrubs.

Stealthily moving through the undergrowth and timber, the lad cautiously advanced towards the cedar. Gaining the myrtle cluster, he was thereby screened to some extent even when viewed from above. Just then a coo gave him the location. Moving to the edge of the saplings, he now got a fair view of the tree beyond; and there, on a lateral limb, distant from him not more than thirty-five yards, sat a glorious wonga-wonga, the finest species of Australian pigeon, not to be beaten for table purposes throughout the wide world. The specimen before Sandy was a male bird as big as three ordinary pigeons.

"That fellow's calling his mate, and she's not far off, by the way he's noddin' his head," surmised the youth. "Shall I pot him, or wait for his mate and cop 'em both?"

The question was soon settled, for suddenly, and with a great whirr, the hen rose from the ground, or rather, tiny water pool: for she had been drinking and bathing and admiring her reflected image in the glassy water. Her return, alas! is the signal of death, for what time she alighted on the bough at her spouse's side, the remorseless hunter, with hasty but true aim, brought both fluttering to the ground.

Their necks are wrung and they are bagged instanter, with a laconic but satisfied grunt from the sportsman: "Not so bad."

At this moment a double shot broke on Sandy's ears. This was immediately followed by a deep, mellow sound that formed the common signal of the pals. Putting his two hands with hollowed palms together, conch-shell fashion, the boy raised them to his lips and blew a prolonged and resonant note followed by three short notes staccato, which conveyed to the other's ears the answer: "Heard you, am coming."

"Joe wants me for something. Got into a covey of bronze-wings, or maybe a mob o' flocks," muttered the lad as he made in the direction of the sound.

He soon espied his mate at the butt of an enormous fig tree, and signalled his advent. The moment Joe perceived Sandy he stooped down and picked up a couple of large black-looking birds, and waved them excitedly.

"My word! ole Joe's run into a flock of turkeys. Hurrah! here's luck."

Yes, Joe had been fortunate enough to "rise" a fine lot of tallagalla, to call them by their native name, better known as scrub turkey.

Unlike the so-called turkey of the plains—which, indeed, is not a true turkey, but a bustard—the scrub turkey is true to its title, being seldom or never seen out of thickly wooded country. Its breeding home is a huge mound raised by scratching together the dry leaves and bits of rotten bark and wood. On the top of this elevation of débris the eggs are laid, some scores of them, and barely covered. As the birds use the same spot for many years, the nests become in time mounds of vast dimensions. Turkey nest, as it is called, becomes in time a rich compost of leaf-mould, and is eagerly sought for garden purposes.

The bird itself is stronger in the legs than in the wings. Unless startled and rushed, it will not rise, but scuttles through the undergrowth with inconceivable speed, and he is a fortunate man who is able to draw a bead as it darts through the thousand obstacles of the scrub. Hence the necessity of a good dog to rush the birds pell-mell and startle them into immediate flight, when they almost invariably seek refuge in the trees near by.

Joe, fortunately, heard the drumming and clucking of a turkey gobbler before he was seen of them. Moving with intense caution through the bush, which was very thick at this spot, he saw at last through the intervening leaves, on a patch of bare ground, scratching among the decayed vegetable matter for grubs, a flock of turkeys containing a score or more.

They were exceedingly active, running hither and thither; many of them, just at the pullet stage, indulging in mimic warfare. The elder ones were busily engaged grubbing. Joe could easily have shot two or three of them as he stood an unseen watcher. There was a better way than that, however. Once "tree" them, and one could leisurely pick his birds. How are they to be got into the trees? He'll be his own dog.

Bursting out from his cover with a hair-raising and blood-curdling yell, making at the same time a high jump and wildly waving his arms, the stalker rushed into the midst of the mob, catching, indeed, a young one by the leg, and generally making such a hullabaloo as to scare them into instant flight.

It is a peculiarity of this bird, like that of its American brother, when once "treed," to remain there. Wanton shooters, taking advantage of this trait, will often shoot a flock right out.

The birds put up by Joe, with one or two exceptions, flew into the trees surrounding them. The lad's first act was to slip a piece of string round the captured turkey's legs and swing it from a tree limb. This done, he took a couple of pot shots, bringing down a young gobbler each time. Having made sure of a brace, he signalled to his mate, as described.

The shooters, with true sporting instinct, refrained both from wanton destruction and from shooting at the hens. They picked out half a dozen of the biggest males, leaving the others on their perches.

Needless to say, the boys were greatly pleased with their success in the scrub. On their way home good fortune followed them. Though they did not sight the mob of woods, they surprised a pair, which they promptly secured. Though the bag could not be considered a big one for those days, it was a good one for variety.

Greatly to Mrs. M'Intyre's delight, the boys reached home a little after three o'clock. During their absence of five hours they accounted for the following game: one black duck, two wood-duck, three teal, five spur-wing plover, six fat turkey gobblers, two plump pigeon, and the captured turkey.

"You are dear, good boys," was Mrs. M'Intyre's comment as the game lay side by side on the bench at the rear of the kitchen. "What fine birds! what a lovely variety!"

Mrs. Mac., while not an epicure, was a noted housewife, and dispensed hospitality in such a whole-hearted fashion and in such an acceptable manner that her dinners were things to be remembered with delight.

"Go into the kitchen, boys, and get a snack: you'll be dying for something to eat. After you've finished you can bear a hand with the plucking and cleaning, as Denny's the only one about. Come here, Ah Fat! What do you think of the birds, Ah Fat?"

"Dem welly good, missee."

"Yes, they'll do very well. The boys'll clean them for you—at least the ones we're using to-night. We'll hang the rest. Let me see! they had better clean the pigeons and plover first. You can put them on to stew: we'll turn them into a game pie. Grill the teal, and roast a pair of ducks and two gobblers."

"Allee lita, missee; I do 'em. That all? I mos go back an' look after puddens."

Denny and the boys set to work on the fowl, and were soon feathers and down from head to foot.

[image]"Retreating one moment and advancing the following, uttering war-cries."—See p.219.

[image]

"Retreating one moment and advancing the following, uttering war-cries."—See p.219.

"Tell me, Joe, me bhoy, did ye or Sahndy here shute the most b-i-rr-ds?"

"Honours are easy, Denny."

"Begorra! phwat th' divvil's thot?"

"It means that each shot an equal quantity."

"An e-qu-a-al quantitee! Be jabers, wheres did ye put 'em?"

"Put what?"

"Whoi, th' pair iv e-qu-a-al quan—— Be Saint Michael, it's a new sort iv a b-i-rr-d ye've shuted!"

Denny was not so dense as he pretended to be.

"You're a downy cove, Denny," laughed Joe, who caught a twinkle in the young Irishman's eye.

"That's true for ye, Joe," retorted the wit, surveying himself; "but, bhoys, why doan't ye's take me wid youse? Sure an' it's a foine shot Oi am."

"That's news, Denny. Didn't know you'd ever let off a gun."

"Manny an' manny's th' wan Oi've seen me farther bang off, annyways. Did youse never hear tell iv me farther's shutin'? Shure he was a sealabrity in Killarney!"

"Never. Tell us."

"Well, la-ads, wan da' he was rowin' th' Dook iv Dublhin, who was a g-rr-a-at sport, on th' woild la-a-kes iv Killarney. They was lukin' for dooks."

"Set a duke to catch a 'dook,' eh, Denny?"

"Be aisy, Marsther Joe. It's th' flyin' dooks Oi'me dascribin'. Be jabers! farther rowed about a tousan' moile, and th' only dook th' g-rr-a-at mahn shuted was a gull, though they was there in g-rr-a-at mobs."

"The gulls or the ducks, Denny?"

"If you'd 'a' bin there they wud 'a' bin two gulls, annyhow, me mahn."

"Good for you, Denny. Let him finish, Joe."

"Well, shure, saays farther at last, ses he, 'If y're Riall Hoiness wud let me have wan shot, maybe Oi'd bring ye luck.' An' he did it. So farther, he gits th' Dook's big gun, an' th' Dook he tuk th' pathles, an' bynby they see a mob iv dooks all in a loine acrost th' boat's bows, saalin' for all th' warld loike th' owld loin-iv-batthle ships in th' pictures, stim an' starn.

"'Howld aisy,' saays farther, ses 'e, whin they got abreast thim fowls. With that he pinted th' gun at th' la-adin' dook, an owld dr-a-ake be th' same token—pulled th' thrigger an' let her off. Wud ye bela-ave me, so quick was he that before all th' shot had got out iv th' way-pon he'd got her down to th' tail-most birr-d, an' betune you an' me an' little Garr-ge Washintong in th' Bible, ivry sowl iv thim dooks lay spaachless dead upon th' wather. Now thin, phwat div ye think iv that f'r shutin', ye gosoons?"

"Think of it, Denny," said Maggie, who had been standing at the kitchen door, unobserved of the boys, an amused listener. "Why, you'll be writing a book one day that will put the Kybosh on Baron Munchausen."

"Well, if iver Oi does, Miss Maggie," replied the incorrigible Irish boy, "Oi'll pit y'reself in as th' laaden acthress—Oi mane th' herr-owyne."

"Maggie!"

"Coming, mother."

CHAPTER XXIV

THE CORROBBERIE

"Deep in the forest depths the tribeA mighty blazing fire have spread:Round this they spring with frantic yells,In hideous pigments all arrayed.* * * * *One barred with yellow ochre, oneA skeleton in startling white,Then one who dances furiouslyBlood-red against the great fire's light.* * * * *Like some infernal scene it is—The forest dark, the blazing fire,The ghostly birds, the dancing fiends,Whose savage chant swells ever higher."WILLIAM SHARP.

"Deep in the forest depths the tribe

A mighty blazing fire have spread:

Round this they spring with frantic yells,

In hideous pigments all arrayed.* * * * *

In hideous pigments all arrayed.

* * * * *

One barred with yellow ochre, one

A skeleton in startling white,

Then one who dances furiously

Blood-red against the great fire's light.* * * * *

Blood-red against the great fire's light.

* * * * *

Like some infernal scene it is—

The forest dark, the blazing fire,

The ghostly birds, the dancing fiends,

Whose savage chant swells ever higher."WILLIAM SHARP.

Whose savage chant swells ever higher."

WILLIAM SHARP.

"Jacky and Willy want to know if they can have some raddle,[#] whitning, and blue: can they, dad?"

[#] Raddle: a red pigment used for marking sheep, etc.

"They're very reasonable, I maun say. And what are they aifter noo, the scamps?"

"Oh, I thought you knew, dad! There's going to be a grand corrobberie to-night. Old Tarpot has sent in a messenger for them to go out, and take this stuff with them, and——"

"Precious cool cheek on the pairt of Tarpot, and o' the boys as weel. Why couldna they come oure and ask me properly?"

"Dunno, dad."

"It's the blacks' way all over, dad," said Maggie.

"Dad, dad," interrupted Jessie, who was eagerly waiting a chance to get in a word, "you said, the last time there was a corrobberie, when you refused to let us go, that you would the next time. Now then, dado, you can't refuse to let us this time. Say you will. Ah, I know by your eyes you will say yes! You dear thing, it's worth a kiss and a hug."

When the ardent girl had bestowed these filial pledges she turned round to Sandy and the others, out of whose sails she had taken the wind in a manner.

"There now, young people, we are all going, for which I ought to be thanked. Only for my good memory, I'm afraid the dear man would have said no! wouldn't you, dadums? We'll make up a party, and Mr. Neville will, I am sure, be delighted at the exhibition."

"My stars, Jess, but you're gettin' 'em bad! You will be applying for a school teacher's billet next. Such consideration for Mr. Neville, too! Why——"

"Oh, brither mine, bless your poor thick skull; it's positively no use you trying to be funny—you simply can't. Oh, it'll be glorious fun," continued she, turning to the Englishman.

"But, Miss Jessie, please! In the first place, what is this corbobbery? Is that the way it is pronounced?"

"No, sir, it is not; though to be sure they do kick up a tremendous bobbery."

"Well, whatever the name, I suppose it stands for an aboriginal ceremonial or pastime?" said Neville smilingly.

"Exactly. Cor-rob-ber-ie is their Café Chautant, a free-and-easy; with this difference, though—all their performers appear in full dress; got up to kill by the aid of the tribe tonsorial artists and valets. The young bucks are perfect pictures, I do assure you; and as for the girls——"

"Don't take any notice of the saucy kid, Mr. Neville," broke in Sandy, who felt that he owed his young sister one. "She's only jigging you. It's their native dance and song by the firelight; she's right there. The men do the dancing, and the women simply play the music."

"Music! I had no idea that they were——"

"Musicians. Oh well, not exactly that. They beat time for the men. They, the men, are all painted up and armed. It's a sort of action song, but it's jolly fine, a tiptop sight, especially when there's a big mob of them. Sometimes four or five tribes get together for what they call the 'great corrobberie.' Then you see something; for there's generally ructions before they finish, particularly if there has been any grog in the camp. In that case they usually wind up with a fight, and then there's the killed and wounded to count when the cleaning-up's done. It's all right to-night, though. There will be only two tribes in it, and they've always been friendly. Would you like to come?"

"Come! I wouldn't miss it for the world. Yes, you may reckon on me for one—that is, of course, if your father is agreeable for us to go."

"I suppose, dad," said Sandy, turning to his father, "we may all go? It's to be held at the old spot."

"Oh, weel, I suppose you'd think me hard-herted if I said no? I'll jist mak' one condeetion, and that is, dinna interfere wi' the blacks. You maunna mak' ony attempt to boss them. Let them cairry oot things in their ain way."

"All serene, dad."

"Can the boys have the whitnin' and other things from the store?" repeated Sandy.

Consent is given, and the heart of Tarpot, the King of Bullaroi, is made glad with a goodly parcel of pigments.

That night after tea the party, including Denny Kineavy, mount their steeds and ride out to the corrobberie grounds, a matter of three miles.

It was situated on a lightly timbered box-tree flat, where a cleared space occurred forming a natural amphitheatre, wherein the aboriginal tribes foregathered periodically and disported themselves in their national characters and games at night time.

The blacks make a distinction in these festivals. There is the corrobberie and the cobborn (or great) corrobberie. It was one of the former that the whites were to witness. The latter occurred only at long intervals, and was a time of feasting as well as amusement; both feasting and play being prolonged often for weeks, and generally attended by all the tribes within a radius of hundreds of miles.

Each tribe would bring its song and dance (corrobberie), in many cases composed for the special occasion. This produced the exciting element of competition. A corrobberie of exceptional excellence would be learned by the other tribes, and on their return to their own country passed on to the surrounding tribes. Thus it happened sometimes that a corrobberie of singular merit travelled round and through the continent.

These folk-songs were associated with the dances, and treated on elemental themes, as war, the chase, the feast, love, birth, death. Often some humorous theme would be introduced, causing immense fun. As a rule each tribe had clowns, whose grotesque attitude and voice intonations were mirth-provoking to a degree. The Australian native manifests a keen appreciation of a joke and has an inborn tendency to laughter.

The preparations were far advanced by the time the station party arrived at the camp. The gins, to whom fell all labour of a manual sort, were lighting the fires, while the bucks were busy "dressing" for their parts.

The girls remained in the clearing talking to some of the old gins, while the males proceeded to the outskirts of the forest, where the work of adorning went on apace.

For this no pains were spared. The naked bodies of the dancers were treated by the tribe experts, and some fearfully and wonderfully startling effects were produced. Take His Majesty, Tarpot, as a sample. The ordinary court dress of the King consisted of a tattered police uniform, together with a crescent-shaped brass plate that adorned his breast, where it hung, suspended by a chain from his neck. The plate—presented to him on one occasion as a joke—bore upon it the inscription—

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