Pund-jel, who was Maker of Men, sat in his high place one day and looked at the world. The blacks believed that in the very long ago he had made the first men and women out of clay; and from there they had spread over all the earth. Pund-jel had made them to be good and happy, and for a long while he had been satisfied with them. But now it was different, and he was angry.
All over the world he could see his black people. They had grown tall and strong, and he thought them beautiful. They were skilled in hunting, and fierce in battle: the women were clever at making rugs of skins, at cooking, at weaving curious mats and baskets of pliant rushes. The forests were full of game for them—-birds, beasts and reptiles, all good to eat: there were fish in the lakes and rivers, fat mud-eels in the creeks and swamps, and gum and manna to be found on every hill-side. The world was a good, green world, and there should have been only happiness. But the people themselves had grown wicked.
Pund-jel bent his brows with anger as he looked down upon them. Instead of being peaceful and content, his people had grown fierce and savage. They thought only of fighting and conquest, and were too lazy to work. The laws that he had made for them were as naught in their eyes. They said, "Oh, Pund-jel is very far away. He will never come down into our world to see what we do. Why should we obey him?" So they did just as they pleased, and all the world was evil because of their wickedness.
Pund-jel thought gravely as he looked down into his world, and all the sky was dark with the blackness of his frown.
"My people have grown too many," he said. "When they were few, each helped the other: there was no time for feuds or fighting, for all had to work together in order to live. Now all is changed. They are many and powerful, and they over-run the world, and each man hates his brother. It were better if I made them fewer, and scattered them far and wide. I will send my whirlwinds upon the earth."
So Pund-jel caused storms and fierce winds to arise often, and they swept across the world. In the flat lands there came suddenly whirlwinds of great force, that twisted and eddied through the plains, carrying men aloft in their choking embrace, and letting them fall, broken and dead, miles away from the places where they had lived. On the mountains great hurricanes blew shrieking from peak to peak, tearing up the largest trees by their roots, and tossing them down into the fern-strewn gullies far below. Huge boulders were loosened and went crashing down; and often a landslip followed them, when all the soil would be stripped from a hill-side and fall, thundering, carrying with it hundreds of people and leaving the bare rock behind it, like a scar upon the side of the mountain. Thunder and lightning came and shook the world with terror: mighty trees were riven and shattered, and fires swept through forest and plain, leaving blackness and desolation behind. Then came floods, that covered the low-lying parts of the earth, and made of the rivers roaring torrents, that ran madly to the sea. The world trembled in the terror of the wrath of Pund-jel.
And yet, men had grown so wise and cunning that not very many died. When the whirlwinds and hurricanes came, they crept into holes in the hill-sides, or sheltered themselves in deep gullies. They strengthened their houses, so that the wind should not blow them away. Sometimes they floated down the rivers in bark canoes; and a great number found refuge in caves. Those who were killed were the careless ones, who would not take the trouble to protect themselves against the fury of the storms, thinking that they would only be ordinary gales; but though they died, innumerable people were left.
Just for a little while, they were afraid. They knew they were wicked, and that Pund-jel must be angry with them; and the thought that possibly the storms were the message of his wrath made them careful for awhile. But as time passed they forgot the storms and whirlwinds, and the fate of their brothers and sisters who had been killed; and they went back to their wickedness, becoming worse than they had been before.
And then there came a day when Pund-jel's anger broke anew.
One morning a blackness came out of the sky, and in the blackness a flame of gleaming fire. The people clustered together, in terror, and there were cries of "Pund-jel! Pund-jel is coming!" Then the magic-men began to chatter and make Magic, hoping to turn the wrath of the Maker of Men; and the people flung themselves upon the ground, crying aloud, and calling upon the good Spirits to save them.
The blackness swooped down upon the earth. In the air were strange whisperings and mutterings, as if even the rustling leaves and the boughs of the trees were crying, "Pund-jel is coming!" And then, out of the glowing heart of the cloud came Pund-jel himself, that he might see these men and women that he had made. He spoke no word. His glance was like lightnings, playing about the stricken eyes of those that gazed. But he trod among the black multitudes, and the noise of the trampling of his feet shook the earth.
In his hand he carried his great stone knife, and the sight of it was very terrible. Those who looked upon it fell back blindly. But as he walked on he cut his way among the people, with great sweeps of the cruel weapon, sparing none that came in his way, and cutting them into small fragments. And then the blackness of the cloud received him again, and hid him from the people of the world.
But the pieces of the slain were not dead. Each fragment moved, as Tur-ror, the worm, moves; and from them rose a cry. It came from the fragments of those who had been good men and good women, yet who had met Death at the knife of Pund-jel with the guilty ones.
Then a great and terrible storm came out of the sky, sweeping over the places where Pund-jel had trod; and with it a whirlwind, that gathered up the pieces of those who had been men, women and children, and they became like flakes of snow, white and whirling in the blackness of the air. They were carried away into the clouds.
And when they came to where Pund-jel sat, once more looking down upon the world, he took the flakes that had been bad men and women, and with his hand scattered them so far over the earth that no man could say where they fell. So they passed for ever from the sight of man, and now they lie in the waste places of the world, where there is neither light nor day.
But Pund-jel took the snowflakes that had been good men and women, and he made them into stars. Right up into the blue sky he flung them; and the sky caught them and held them fast, and the light of the sun fell upon them so that they caught some of his brightness. There they stay for ever, and you would not know that they are in any way different from the other stars that twinkle at you on a frosty night when the sky is all blue and silver. Only the magic-men, who know everything, can tell you which among the stars were once good men, women and children, before Pund-jel left his high seat to punish the wickedness of the world.
The blacks believed that the earth was quite flat, with the sky arched above it. They had an idea that if anyone could get beyond the edge of the sky he would come to another country, with rivers and trees, where live the ghosts of all the people who have died. Some thought that there was water all round the edge of the earth. They were taught that at first the sky had lain flat on the ground, so that neither sun, moon, nor stars could move, but the magpies came along and propped it up with long sticks, resting some parts on the mountains near the edge. And sometimes word was sent from tribe to tribe, saying that the props were growing rotten, and unless the people sent up tomahawks to cut new props, the sky would fall. In its falling it would burst, and all the people would be drowned. This used to alarm the blacks greatly, and they would make the magic-men weave charms so that the sky should not fall.
At first, all the earth was in darkness; and at that time there lived among the blacks a man called Dityi. In his tribe was a very beautiful woman whose name was Mitjen; and she became Dityi's wife.
At first Dityi and Mitjen were very happy. They had plenty to eat, and the camp was warm and comfortable, and they loved each other very much. There were no white men, at that time: the blacks ruled all their country, which they thought was the whole world. The forests were full of game, and the rivers of fish: every one had enough, so there was no fighting. And Dityi thought he was the luckiest man in the world, because he had won the love of Mitjen.
But a stranger came to the camp: a tall dark-eyed man named Bunjil. He told stories of far-away forests and wonderful things to be found there. The other blacks used to listen to him, greatly interested; and no one listened more attentively than Mitjen, for she had a great longing to see the wonderful places of which Bunjil spoke. When she heard him tell stories of these strange lands of the Bush, she burned to leave her quiet home and go exploring. Dityi could not understand this feeling at all. It interested him to hear Bunjil's tales, but he had no wish to do more than hear them. He was very well satisfied with his life, and thought that his own home was better than any other place could possibly be.
But Bunjil soon noticed the dark-eyed girl who never lost a word of his stories. It amused him to see her face light up and her eyes sparkle at his talk; and so he told more and more stories, and did not always trouble to make them true, so long as he could make Mitjen look interested. Sometimes he would meet her wandering alone outside the camp, and then he would tell her, as if he were sorry for her, that this quiet camp was no place for her at all. "You are so beautiful," he would say, "that you should be far away in my wonderful country, where you would see many great men and lovely women; but none more lovely than Mitjen. In this dull hole you are buried alive."
None of this was true, but Bunjil spoke exactly as if it were, and after a time Mitjen began to be very discontented. The simple happy life in the Bush pleased her no longer; she only wanted the exciting things of which Bunjil told. At home, everybody was good to her and liked her, but she was only a girl who had to obey other people all the time, and no one but Dityi had ever troubled about telling her that she was beautiful. Moreover, she could see that Bunjil did not think much of Dityi. He called him one day to Mitjen, "an ignorant black fellow," and though Mitjen could not imagine any people who were not black, it sounded very uncomplimentary, and she could not forget it. As soon as he had said it, Bunjil apologized, saying that it was only a slip of the tongue—but in her heart Mitjen knew this was not true. It made her look down on Dityi a little, and wonder if he were really worthy of her.
One day she asked him if he would take her to Bunjil's country, and his surprise prevented him from speaking for some time. He could only look at her, with his mouth open.
"Go away from home!" he said at last. "Why? What is there to go for?"
"To see the world," said Mitjen, tossing her head. "I do not want to stay for ever in this weary place."
"But it is the world—or most of it," returned Dityi. "I do not know where Bunjil's country is—but the men there cannot be up to much if they are like him, for he is more useless than anyone I ever saw. He cannot throw a boomerang better than a girl, and with a spear I could beat him with my left hand!"
"You are boastful," said Mitjen coldly. "Throwing weapons is not everything."
"Well, I don't know how things are managed in Bunjil's country, but it is very important in ours that a man should know how to throw," said Dityi. "Perhaps Bunjil's game comes close to him to be killed, but here a man has to hunt it. Did Bunjil mention if it came ready cooked too? I don't suppose you would want to do any work in that country of his!"
This made Mitjen very angry, and she quarrelled fiercely with Dityi for making fun of her; and then Dityi lost his temper and beat her a little, which was quite a usual thing to happen to a woman among the blacks. But Mitjen had been told by Bunjil that in his country a man never raised his hand against a woman. So it made her furious to be beaten by Dityi, though he cared for her too much really to hurt her, and she broke away from him and ran to the camp, sobbing that she hated him and did not want to see him any more.
Near the camp she met Bunjil, who asked her why she was crying; and when she told him, he was kind to her, patting her gently, and pretending to be very angry with Dityi. He was safe in doing this, for Dityi had gone off whistling into the Bush—not sorry that he had beaten Mitjen, if it should make her sensible again, but sorry that she was unhappy, and resolved to bring her back a snake or something equally nice for supper. So Bunjil ran no risk in abusing him, and he did it heartily. When they had finished talking, Mitjen walked away from him into the camp with a very determined face. She went straight to her wurley, and though Dityi brought her home a beautiful young snake and a lace-lizard, she would eat nothing and refused to come out of the wurley to speak to him. So Dityi went back to the young men's huts, angry and offended, and Mitjen lay down, turning her face to the wall. She was just as determined; but only her own heart knew how much she was afraid.
When the people of the camp awoke, she was gone. Nowhere was there any trace of her. And when the blacks went to look for Bunjil, in his wurley, he was gone, too. Then they fell into a great rage, and the young men painted themselves in white stripes with pipeclay, and went forth in pursuit, carrying all their arms, and led by Dityi. But though they looked for many days, they could never come upon a track; and so at last the other young men gave up the search, and went back to the camp. But Dityi did not go back. There was nothing for him at home now that he had lost Mitjen; and so he went on, hunting through the dark forests for his lost love.
Bunjil and Mitjen had fled far into the Bush. For a long time they walked in the creek, so that they would leave no tracks, and if they came to deep holes, they swam them. They were far away from Mitjen's country before they dared to leave the water, and already the girl was tired. But Bunjil would not let her stop to rest, for he knew that they would be pursued. He hurried her on, forgetting now to be gentle when he spoke to her.
It was not many days before Mitjen realized the terrible mistake she had made. They fled deeper and deeper into the Bush, but no wonderful country came in sight. She was often cold and hungry, and Bunjil made her work harder than she had ever worked before, doing not only the woman's work, but a large share of the man's. She found out that he was almost too lazy to get food, and if she had not hunted for game herself, she would never have had enough to eat. Bunjil had told her that he loved her, but very soon she knew that this was not true, and that all he had wanted was a woman to cook for him and help him procure food.
At first she used to ask him when they would come to his own country, and he would put her off, saying, "Presently—pretty soon." But before long she found that it made him angry to be asked about it; and at last, if she spoke of it, he beat her cruelly. So Mitjen did not ask any more.
Then all the memories of Dityi and his love came crowding upon her, and her heart quite broke. She did not want to live any more. She lay down under a big log, and when Bunjil spoke to her there was no answer. So he kicked her, and left her. But after he had slept, he went to see why she lay so still; and he found that she was dead.
As he looked at her, a great storm came out of the Bush and whirled him away. It flung him far up in the sky, where you may see him now, if you look closely: a lonely, wandering star, finding no rest anywhere, and no mate. Always he must wander on and on, and never stop, no matter how tired he may be; and the other stars shrink from him, hurrying away if they cross his path.
The storm took Mitjen also, and carried her gently into the sky; and there she saw Dityi, who lit it all up, for he had been turned into the Sun, and was giving light to the earth. But always, the blacks say, he is seeking Mitjen. Like a great fire, he leaps through the sky, mourning for his love and going back and forth in ceaseless quest of her. His wurley is in Nganat, just over the edge of the earth; and the bright colour of sunset is caused by the spirits of the dead going in and out of Nganat, while Dityi looks among them for his lost love. But he never finds her; and so next day he begins to hunt again, and goes tramping across the sky. Sometimes he shouts her name—"Mitjen! Mitjen!"—and it is then that we hear Thunder go rolling round the world. But Mitjen never answers.
She has been made the Moon, and always she mourns far away and alone. When she sees the glory of the Sun, and hears his trampling feet, she hides herself, for now she is ashamed to let him find her. She only comes from her hiding-place when he sleeps; and then she hurries through the sky, so that she may have the comfort of going in his footsteps, though she knows now that she can never hope to overtake him. Sometimes she sighs, and then a soft breeze flutters over the earth; and the big rain is the tears that relieve her grief.
Before Pund-jel, Maker of Men, peopled the earth with the black tribes, and very long before the first white man came to Australia, the animals which inhabited the land fell into a great trouble. And this is how it happened. Old Conara, the black chief, told it to me while we were fishing for cod in the Murray one hot night; and he had it from his father, whose mother had told him about it; while to her the story had come from her grandfather, who said he was a little boy when his grandfather had told him, saying he had had the story from Conara, the magpie, after whom he was named. And the magpies learn everything, so you see he ought to know.
Conara said that once in the long-ago time, all the animals were living very cheerfully together, when suddenly all the water disappeared. They went to sleep with the creeks and swamps full, and the rivers running; and when they woke up, everything was dry. Of course, this was the most terrible thing that could happen to the animals, for though they can manage with very little food in Australia, at a pinch, they must always have plenty of water. They searched everywhere for it, through the scrub and over the plains; and the birds flew great distances, always seeking with their eyes for a gleam of water. But it had quite gone.
So the animals held a council of war, and Mirran, the Kangaroo, spoke to them. At a council, some one must always speak first, to tell those present what they know already; and Mirran did this very thoroughly, so that little Kur-bo-roo, the Native Bear, went to sleep and began to climb up the legs of the Emu in his sleep, thinking she was a tree. This led to a disturbance, and it was some time before Mirran could go on again with his speech. Then he found he had forgotten the rest of what he meant to say, so he contented himself by asking them all what they meant to do about it, and remarking that the matter was now open for discussion. This is a remark often made at meetings.
Then Mirran sat down thankfully, but in his relief at finishing his speech he sat on Kowern, the Porcupine; and Kowern is the most uncomfortable seat in the Bush. Mirran got up more quickly than he had sat down, and again there was disorder in the meeting, especially as the Jackass was unfeeling enough to laugh.
When matters were more quiet, Kellelek, the Cockatoo, made a long speech, but it was hard to understand what he said, because all his brothers would persist in speaking at the same time. Every one knew that he wanted water, but as every one was in the same fix, it did not seem to help along matters to have him say so. Booran, the Pelican, was even more troubled about it than Kellelek, for of course he lived on the water, and he wanted fish badly. All the fish had disappeared, and the eels had buried themselves deep in the soft mud of the beds of the rivers and creeks, and none of the water-fowl had any food. The Red Wallaby, Waat, and old Warreen, the bad-tempered Wombat, made speeches, and so did Meri, the black Dingo, and Tonga, the 'Possum, and a great many other animals. But not one could suggest any means of getting water back, or form an idea as to how it had gone away.
They were all talking together, getting rather hot and excited, and very thirsty, when they heard a sudden whirr of wings overhead, and a bird came dropping down into their midst. It was Tarook, the Sea Gull, and though at first they were inclined to be angry at his sudden appearance, they soon saw that he had news to communicate, and so they crowded round him and begged him to speak. Tarook was a proud bird, and did not often leave his beloved sea; so they knew that something important must have brought him so far inshore.
He stood in their midst, dainty and handsome, with his snowy feathers and scarlet legs, and carefully brushed a fragment of grass from his wing before replying.
"Waga, the Fish-Hawk, came along this morning—in a shocking temper, too—and told me of your difficulties," he said. "Well, we of the sea know what has caused them!"
There was an instant hubbub. All the animals and birds cried out at once, saying, "What is it?" Tarook looked at them all calmly.
"If you make such a clatter, how can I tell you?" he asked crossly. "I have not much time either, because my mate and I have youngsters to look after, and it is nearly time I got back to find their dinner."
The animals became silent at once, and looked at him anxiously.
"Three nights ago," said Tarook, "Tat-e-lak, the big Frog, came out of the sea. Every one knows he lives there, but none of us had ever seen him—and he is as large as many wurleys. All the sea was troubled at his coming, and big waves rolled in and beat upon the shore, so that we could scarcely see the rocks for spray. A hollow booming sound came from under the sea, and all our young ones were very much alarmed. Then a wave larger than all the rest put together crashed into the beach, and when it began to roll back we saw Tat-e-lak waddling up the shore. Most frogs hop, but he is so huge that he gets along in a kind of shuffle."
"But where did he go?" cried Kadin, the Inguana-lizard.
"He waddled away into the plains beyond, and when I flew in to look for him, for awhile I could not find him. Then I heard a strange noise of water sucking, and I flew to where it came from. There was a hollow in the creek bank, and Tat-e-lak was sitting there, with his head in the water, sucking it all up; and as he sucked, he swelled. It was not a nice sight, and soon I flew away."
"But where is he now? And what did he do?" asked the animals anxiously.
"I did not watch him any more. But the West Wind knows all about him, and he told me when I was out fishing last night. It seems that Tat-e-lak lives under the sea, because of his former sins, and that is why he has grown so huge. But he always wants to come back to land, and sometimes he breaks away from his prison under the sea and gets up to the surface—and a great stir his coming makes: it's very annoying if you're fishing, for it scares all the fish away into the farthest corners of the rocks. But the salt water he has drunk for so long makes him terribly thirsty, and unless he can get fresh water to drink he has to go back to his sea-prison."
"Then that is why he has drunk all of ours!" cried the animals.
Tarook nodded very hard.
"Yes," he said. "It is very seldom that he gets a chance of coming up; and his last three landings have been made in the desert, where he has had no water at all, and has been forced to hurry back meekly to the sea. So he is now more thirsty than he ever was before. The West Wind says he did not stop drinking until this morning—and now there is no water anywhere, as you know."
"Then how shall we ever get any more? Are we to die of thirst?"
"Well, that I do not know. I have told you all that I know," said Tarook. "Tat-e-lak is somewhere on shore, and so far as I can tell, all the water is inside him. But I do not know where he is, nor if you can do anything. Now I must go back to my young ones, for they will certainly be hungry, and my mate will be cross." He bowed to the Kangaroo, and flew up into the air. Then he went skimming over the forest to the sea.
When he had gone, the animals talked again, but there was great grief among them, and they did not know what to do. At last it was agreed that Malian, the Eaglehawk, should fly to the shore and find out anything he could about Tat-e-lak. So huge a Frog, they thought, could not hide himself from the eyes of an Eaglehawk, which can see even a little shrew-mouse in the grass as he flies. So Mirran, the Kangaroo, bade Malian be as quick as possible, and he flew off, while all the people awaited his return as patiently as they could. But they were too thirsty to be very patient.
It was evening when Malian returned. The day had seemed very long, and he was tired, for it is not easy to fly for a long while without water.
"Tat-e-lak is the most terrible Frog you could imagine," he said. "He is squatting on a rise not far from the sea, and he has drunk so much that he cannot move. His body is swelled up so that he is bigger than anything that ever existed: bigger than the little hill on which he sits. Nothing could possibly be so large as he is. He does not speak at all."
"But what is to be done?" cried the other animals.
"I asked every one I met, but they could not tell me. So at last I found old Blook, the Bullfrog, for it struck me that he would know more of the ways of other Frogs than anyone else. I found him with great difficulty, and for a long time he was too angry to speak, for he has now no water to remain in, and none to drink. But he knows all about Tat-e-lak. He says that now he has inside him all the waters that should cover the waste places of the earth, but that we shall never have water unless he can be made to laugh!"
"To laugh!" cried the animals. "Who can make a Frog laugh?"
"Blook knows he cannot, so that is why he is angry," answered Malian. "But that is the only way. If Tat-e-lak laughs, all the water will run out of his mouth, and there will once more be plenty for every one. But unless he laughs he will sit there for ever, unable to move; and soon we shall all die of thirst."
The animals talked over this bad news for a long time, and at last they agreed that every one who could be at all funny must go and try to make Tat-e-lak laugh. A great many at once said that they could be funny; but when they were tried, their performances were so dull that most of those who looked on were quite annoyed, and refused to let them go near the Frog, for fear he should lose his temper instead of laughing. However, every one was too thirsty to wait to try all those willing to undertake to make him merry: and they set off through the Bush in a queer company, the animals running, hopping or walking, the snakes and reptiles crawling, and the birds flying overhead. "The water will run back to you before we do!" they cried to the wives and young ones they were leaving behind. But that was just a piece of brave talk, for in reality they did not feel at all sure about it. They hurried through the scrub, getting more and more scattered as they went along, for the swift ones would not wait for those who were slower. In the early morning the leaders came out of the trees, and found themselves on a swampy plain leading to the sea. All the water had dried up, and a creek that had its course through it was also dry. It was a very dreary-looking place.
Not far from the beach there was a little hill; and, sitting on it, they saw the monster Frog. He was a terrible creature in appearance, for he was so immense that the hill was lost under him, just like a hugely fat man sitting on a button mushroom. He was so swelled up that it seemed that if anything pricked him he would burst like a balloon; but when they came near him they saw how thick his skin was, and knew that no prick would go through it. His beady eyes were bulging out, and though they tried to attract his attention, he only gazed out to sea and took no notice of them at all.
"Well, he has certainly had a great drink, but he does not look as if he had enjoyed it," remarked Mirran, hopping round him.
"I should think he would find himself more comfortable under the sea than sitting on that poor little hill!" said Merkein, the Jackass.
"He will probably go back to the sea," the Native Companion answered. "Let us hope he will not take all the water with him."
"How uncomfortable he must be!—why, he is like a mountain!" hissed Mumung, the Black Snake. "May I not go and bite him?"
"Certainly not!" said Mirran hastily. "It might make him angry; or he might die, and we do not want the water poisoned. Unless you can make him laugh, you had better get into your hole!" So Mumung subsided, muttering angrily to himself.
Then the animals began to try to make the Frog laugh. It was the first circus that ever was in Australia. They danced and capered and pranced before him, and the birds sang him the most ridiculous songs they could think of, and the insects sat on his head and told him the funniest stories they had gathered in flying round the world: but he did not take the smallest notice of any of them. His bulging eyes saw them all, but not a word did he say.
It is very hard to be funny when nobody laughs, and the animals soon became rather disheartened. But Mirran would not let them stop. He himself did most wonderful jumps before the Frog, and once hopped right over the Emu, who looked so comical when she saw the great body sailing over her that all the animals burst out laughing; but the Frog merely looked as though he would like to go to sleep. Then Menak, the Bandicoot, brought his brothers, and performed all kinds of antics; and the 'Possums climbed up a little tree and hung from its boughs, and were very funny in their gymnastics; and the Dingo and his tribe held a coursing match round the hill on which the Frog sat, going so fast that no one could see where one yellow dog ended and the next began; but none of these things amused the Frog at all. He stared straight in front of him, and, if possible, he looked a little more bulgy. But that was all.
The animals held another council, and tried to think of other funny things. Mirran remembered how the Jackass had laughed when he had sat down on Kowern, the Porcupine, and though that had been a most unpleasant experience for him, he bravely offered to do it again. Kowern, however, did not like the idea, and scuttled away into a hole, and they had great difficulty in finding him—and when they did find him, it was quite another matter to make him come out. At last they induced him to appear, and to let Mirran sit on him. But it was not a successful experiment. Perhaps Mirran was nervous, for he knew how it felt to sit on Kowern's quills; and so he let himself down gently, and Kowern gave a heavy groan, but no one even smiled. As for the Frog, he was heard to snore. It was all rather hard on Mirran, for the experiment hurt him just as much as if it had been quite successful.
So the day went on, and when it was nearly evening, the animals could do no more: and still Tat-e-lak sat and stared stupidly before him, and looked more and more huge and bulgy in the gathering darkness; and Waat, the Red Wallaby, declared that the little hill he sat on was beginning to flatten under his weight. They were quite hopeless, at last. All were so tired and thirsty that they could not have attempted more antics, even had they known any, but, indeed, they had done everything they knew. They sat in a half-circle round the great Frog and looked at him sadly; and the Frog sat on his hill and did not look at anything at all.
Just about this time, Noy-Yang, the great Eel, woke up. He was lying in a deep crack in the muddy bed of the creek, and when the mud dried and hardened it pinched him, and he squirmed and woke. To his surprise, there was no water anywhere. Noy-Yang wriggled out of his crack, very astonished and indignant.
He found all the creek-bed dry, as you know; so he wriggled across it and up the bank, and came out on a little mud-flat by the sea. There he looked about him. On one side the sea rippled, but Noy-Yang knew that its water was no good for him. On the other was only dry land—the swampy ground he knew and loved, but now there was no water in it. It was very puzzling to a sleepy Eel.
He looked a little farther and saw the great Frog sitting on his hill. But he looked so huge that Noy-Yang thought the hill had simply grown bigger while he slept; and though that was surprising, it was not nearly so surprising as finding no water. Then he saw all the animals sitting about him, but he took no notice of them. All he cared for was to get away from this hot, dry mud, and find a cool creek running over its soft bed.
So he wriggled on, making very good time across the flat. Nobody saw him, for all the animals were looking miserably at the Frog.
Kowern, the Porcupine, had felt very sore and bruised after Mirran had sat on him for the second time. He was a sulky fellow, and he did not want to be sat on any more, even if it were for the good of all the people. "Mirran will be making a habit of this soon," he said crossly; "I will get out of the way." So he hurried off, and got into the nearest hole, which happened to be near the edge of the mud-flat. There he went to sleep.
Noy-Yang came wriggling along, hating the hard ground, and only wanting to get to a decent creek. He was in such a hurry that he did not see Kowern, and he wiggled right across him—and it seemed to him that each of Kowern's spines found a different place in his soft body.
Noy-Yang cried out very loudly and threw himself backwards to get off those dreadful spikes. He was too sore to creep at all: the only part of him that was not hurt was the very point of his tail, and he stood up on that and danced about in his wrath and pain, with his body wriggling in the air, and his mouth wide open. And when the monster Frog caught sight of the Eel dancing on his tail on the mud-flat, he opened his mouth and let out such a great shout of laughter as had never been heard before in the world or will ever be heard again.
Then all the waters came rushing out of the Frog's mouth, and in a moment the dry swamp was filled with it, and a sheet of water rushed over the mud-flat where Noy-Yang was dancing, and carried him away—which was exactly what Noy-Yang liked, and made him forget all his sores. It was not so nice for Kowern, the Porcupine, for he was swept away, too, and as he could not swim, he was drowned. But he was so bad-tempered that nobody cared very much.
Tat-e-lak went on laughing, and the water kept pouring out of his open mouth; and as he laughed he shrank and shrank, and his skin became flabby and hung in folds about him. He shrank until he was only as large as a few ordinary frogs put together: and then he gave a loud croak, and dived off into the water. He swam away, and none of the animals ever saw him again.
At that moment the animals were much too busy with their own affairs to think much about Tat-e-lak. When the water first appeared they rushed at it eagerly, and each drank as much as he could. Then they felt better, and looked about them. Mirran, the Kangaroo, was the first to make a discovery.
"Ky! It will be a flood!" said he.
"A flood—nonsense!" said Warreen, the Wombat. "Why, ten minutes ago it was a drought!"
"Yes, and now it will be a flood," said Mirran, watching keenly. "Look!"
The water had run all over the plain, filling up the swamp, and already the creek showed like a line of silver where but a few moments ago there had been only dry mud. But it was plain that the water could not get away quickly enough. All the plain was like a sea, and there were big waves washing round the little hills.
"Save yourselves!" cried Mirran, to the people. "Soon there will be no dry land at all!"
He set off with great bounds, thinking of his mate and the little ones he had left in the forest. Behind him came all the people, running, jumping and crawling; and behind them came the water, in one great wave. Some reached the high ground of the forest first, and found safety, and others took refuge on hills, while those that could climb fled up trees. But many could not get away quickly, and the waters caught them, and they were drowned.
Next morning the animals who were saved gathered at the edge of the forest and looked over the flood. It stretched quite across the plain, and between it and the sea was only the yellow line of the sand-hummocks. Nearer to the forest were a few little hills, and on these could be seen forlorn figures, huddling together for warmth—for the air had become very cold.
"There are some of our people!" cried Mirran in a loud voice. "How are we to rescue them?"
No one could answer this question. None of the animals could swim, and if they had been able to do so, they had still no way of getting the castaways to dry land. They could only look at them and weep because they were so helpless.
After awhile, Booran, the Pelican, came flying up, in a state of great excitement.
"Have you seen them?" he cried. "Waat is there, and little Tonga, the 'Possum, and old Warreen, and a lot of others; and soon they will die of cold and hunger if they are not saved. So I must save them."
"You!" said all the animals.
"There's no need to say it in that tone!" said Booran angrily. "I can make a canoe and sail over quite easily. It will please me very much to save the poor things."
So Booran cut a big bark canoe, which he called Gre. He was very proud of it, and would not let anyone touch it or help him at all; and when it was finished he got in and paddled over to the little islands where the animals shivered and shook, with soaked fur and heavy hearts. They grew excited when they saw Booran coming, and when he arrived, with his canoe, they nearly tipped it over by all trying to get in at once. This was repeated at each island, and at last Booran lost his temper altogether and threatened to leave them all where they were. This dreadful idea made them very meek, and they were quite silent as Booran paddled them towards the shore.
Now, Booran had not a pleasant nature. It did not suit him to find people meek, for it at once made him conceited and inclined to be a bully. He felt very important, to be taking so many animals back in his boat; and so he began to say rude things to them, and in every way to be unpleasant. The animals bore this quietly for a time, for they were too cold to want to dispute with him, and besides, they were really very grateful for being saved. But after a while, he became so overbearing that Waat, the Red Wallaby, answered him back sharply, and others joined in. Before they got to shore, they were all quarrelling violently, and when they had only a few yards to go Booran suddenly stopped paddling, and jumped out so quickly that he upset the canoe, and threw all the animals into the water. He swam off, chuckling, and saying, "That will help to cool your bad tempers!"
The water was not deep, and the animals escaped with only a ducking. They struggled to the dry land, very wet and miserable.
"That was a mean trick to play on us," said little Tonga, his teeth chattering. "I would like to fight Booran, if only he would come ashore. But he will keep out of our way now."
"Ky! Look at him!" said Waat.
They looked, and they saw Booran coming in rapidly, as though he were floating on the water, and had no power to stop himself. His eyes were fixed and glassy, and his great beak wide open. A wave brought him right up on the shore, and blew over him in a cloud of spray. When the spray had gone, Booran had gone, too; and where he had lain on the bank was a big rock, shaped something like a pelican.
That was the story old Conara told me, as we fished for Murray cod together. He said that all his people knew the rock, and called it the Pelican Rock; and it stood on the plain long after Booran and his children's children's children were almost forgotten. To-day the plain is dry, and no water ever lodges there; but when the blacks see the Pelican Rock they think of the time when it was all in flood, when Tat-e-lak, the great Frog, nearly caused all the animals to die of thirst, and when Noy-Yang, the Eel, saved them by dancing on his tail on a mud-flat by the sea.
CHAPTER I
Very long ago, before the white man came to conquer the land, a tribe of black people lived in a great forest. Beyond their country was a range of mountains which separated them from another tribe of fierce and warlike blacks, and on one side they were bounded by the sea. They were a prosperous tribe, for not only was there plenty of game in the forest, to give them food and rugs of skins for clothing, but the sea gave them fish: and fish were useful both to eat and for their bones. The blacks made many things out of fish-bones, and found them very useful for tipping spears and other weapons.
Being so powerful a tribe, they were not much molested by other blacks. The mountains to the north were their chief protection. No wandering parties of fighting men were likely to cross them and surprise the tribe, for they were steep and rugged and full of ravines and deep gullies that were difficult to cross, unless you knew the right tracks. The nearest tribe had come over more than once, and great battles had taken place; but the sea-tribe was always prepared, for the noise of their coming was too great to be hidden. There had been great fights, but the sea-tribe had always won. Now they were too strong to fear any attack. So strong were they, indeed, that they did not trouble about fighting, but only wished to be peaceful. Their life was a very simple and happy one, and they did not want anything better.
The tribe was called the Baringa tribe, and the name of its chief was Wadaro. He was a tall, silent man, very proud of his people and their country, and of his six big sons—all strong fighting-men, like himself—but most of all, he was proud of his daughter, Miraga.
Miraga was just of woman's age, and no girl in all the tribe was so beautiful. She was straight and supple as a young sapling, lissom as the tendrils of the clematis, and beautiful as the dawn striking on the face of the waters. Her deep eyes were full of light, and she was always merry. The little children loved her, and used to bring her blossoms of the red native fuchsia, to twine in her glossy black hair.
Most blacks, men and women, look on everything they meet with one thought. They ask, "Is it good to eat?" But Miraga was different. She had made friends with many of the little animals of the Bush, and they were her playmates: bandicoots, shrew-mice, pouch-mice, kangaroo-rats, and other tiny things. They were quite easy to tame, if anyone tried; even snappy little Yikaura, the native cat, with its spotted body and fierce sharp head, became quite gentle with Miraga, and did not try to touch her other pets. She begged the tribe not to eat the animals she loved, and they consented. Of course, in many tribes it would have been necessary to go on using them for food, and any woman who tried to save them would only have been laughed at. But the Baringa folk had so much food that they could easily afford to spare these little furry things. Besides, it was Miraga who asked, and was she not the chief's daughter?
However, it was not only because she was the chief's daughter that the people loved Miraga and did what she asked them. She was always kind and merry, and went about the camp singing happily, generally with a cluster of children running after her. If anyone were sick she was very good, bringing food and medicines. Being the daughter of Wadaro, the chief, she might have escaped all work; but instead, she did her share, and used to go out digging for yams and other roots with the other girls of the tribe, the happiest of them all.
The tribe beyond the northern hills was called the Burrin. They were very fierce and had many fighting-men; but their country was not so good as that of the Baringa, and they were very jealous of the happy sea-tribe. One time they came to the conclusion that it was long since they had had a fight—and that it would be a very good thing to try and win the Baringa country. They did not want to go over the mountains unprepared. So they sent a picked band of young men, telling them to cross into the land of the Baringas and find out if they were very strong, and if there were still much game in the forest. They were not to fight, but only to prowl in the forest and watch the sea-tribe stealthily. Then they were to return over the mountains with their report, so that the head-men of the Burrin could decide whether it were wise to send all their fighting-men over to try and conquer the Baringa.
The little band of Burrin men set off with great pride. Their leader was the chief's son, Yurong, who was stronger than any man of his tribe, and of a very fierce and cruel nature. He was not yet married, although that was only due to an accident. Once he had been about to take a wife, and had gone to her camp and hit her on the head with a waddy, which was one of the blacks' customs in some tribes, before carrying her to his own wurley. But he hit too hard, and the poor girl died—which caused Yurong a great deal of inconvenience, because her parents wanted to kill him too. It was only because he was the chief's son that he escaped with his life. Now he was still unmarried, because no girl would look at him. It made Yurong more bad-tempered than he was naturally, and that is saying a good deal. He had great hopes from the expedition into the Baringa country. If he came back successful, and won a name for himself as a fighter, he thought that all the maidens of his tribe would admire him, and forget that he had been so ready with his stick when he was betrothed first.
Yurong and his band left the plain where the Burrin tribe roamed, and journeyed over the mountains. They did not find any great difficulties, for they had been told where to find the best tracks, and they had scarcely any loads to hamper them. It was summer-time, and the lightest of rugs served them for covering at night, even in the keener air of the hills. There was no difficulty in finding food or water, and the stars were their guides.
When they came to the country of the Baringas they went very cautiously, for they did not wish to encounter any of Wadaro's men. In the daytime they hid themselves in gullies or in bends of the creek, only coming out when their scouts knew that no enemies were near; but at night they travelled fast, and before long they climbed up a great hill that lay across their path, and from its topmost peak they saw the gleaming line of the sea. Then, watching, they saw camp-fire smoke drifting over the trees; and they knew they had found Wadaro's camp.
They became more careful than ever, knowing that now was their greatest danger. Sometimes they hid in trees, or in caves in the rocks, all the time watching, and noting in their memories the number of the men they saw and the signs of abundance of game. There was no doubt that this was a far better country than their own, and they thirsted to possess it. At the same time they could see how strong the Baringas were. Even their womenfolk were tall and straight and strong, and would help to fight for their land and their freedom. The Burrin men used to see them when they went out to dig in the Bush, a merry, laughing band. Always with them was a beautiful girl with red flowers in her hair. Yurong would watch her closely from his hiding-place, and he made up his mind that when the fighting was over this girl should be the chief part of his share of the spoils. He was so conceited that he never dreamed that his tribe would not win.
But misfortune fell upon Yurong and his little band. They were prowling round the outskirts of Wadaro's camp one night when a woman, hushing her crying baby to sleep, caught a glimpse of the black forms flitting among the trees. She gave the alarm silently, and silently the fighting-men of the Baringas hurled themselves upon the intruders. There was no time to flee: the Burrin men fought fiercely, knowing that escape was hopeless. One by one, they were killed.
Yurong was the last left alive. He turned and ran, when the last of his comrades fell, a dozen Baringas at his heels. The first he slew, turning on him and striking him down; then he ran on wildly, hearing behind him the hard breathing of the pursuing warriors.
Suddenly the ground under his feet gave way. He fell, down, down, into blackness, shouting as he went; then he struck icy water with a great splash. When he came to the surface he could see the moonlight far above him, and hear the voices of the Baringa men, loud and excited. Then he went under once more.
On the river-bank, steep and lofty, the Baringas watched the black pool where Yurong had disappeared. There was no sign of life there.
"He is gone," they said at last. "No man ever came alive out of that place. Well, it is a good thing." They watched awhile longer, and then turned back to the camp, where songs of victory were ringing out among the trees.
CHAPTER II
But Yurong did not die.
When he sank for the second time, he did it on purpose. The fall had not hurt him, and his mind worked quickly, for he knew that only cunning could save him. He swam under water for a few moments, letting himself go with the current. But presently a kind of eddy dragged him down, and he found himself against a wall of rock, which blocked the way, so that there seemed to be no escape. But even in his agony he remembered that so long as the current ran there must be some way out; and he dived deeply into the eddy. It took him through a hole in the rock, far under the water, scraping him cruelly against the edges; but still, he was through, and on the other side he rose, gasping. Here the river was wider and shallower, and not so swift. Yurong let it carry him for awhile; then he scrambled out on one side, and found a hiding-place under a great boulder. He rubbed himself down with rushes, shivering. Then, crouching in his hole, he slept.
When he awoke, he knew that now he should not lose a moment in getting back to his tribe. He had learned the fighting strength of the Baringas, with all else that he had come to find out; but, besides that, he had now the deaths of his comrades to avenge. And yet, three days later, Yurong was still in hiding near the enemy's camp. He had made up his wicked mind that when he went away he would take with him the beautiful girl he had so often seen in the forest with her companions.
Quite unconscious of her danger, Miraga went about her daily work. The sight of her, and the beauty of her, burned into Yurong's brain; often in the forest he dogged her footsteps, but the other girls were always near her, and he dared not try to carry her away. He knew now she was the chief's daughter, and he smiled to think that through her he could deal the cruellest blow to Wadaro, besides gaining for himself the loveliest wife in all the Bush.
But out in the scrub the girls clustered about Miraga, and in the camp the young men were never far from her. There was not one of them who would not have gladly taken her as his bride, but she told her father that she was too young to think of being married, and Wadaro was glad enough to keep her by his side. But Yurong, fiercely jealous, could see that there was one man on whom Miraga's eyes would often turn when he was not looking in her direction—a tall fellow named Konawarr—the Swan—who loved her so dearly that indeed he scarcely gave her a chance to look at him, since he so rarely took his gaze from her! He was the leader of the young fighting-men, and a great hunter; and Yurong thirsted to kill him, as the kangaroos thirst for the creeks in summer, when Drought has laid his withering hand upon the waters.
So five days went by. In the forest Yurong hid, living on very little food—for he dared not often go hunting—and always watching the camp; and Miraga, never dreaming of the danger near her, lived her simple, happy life. The children always thronged round her when she moved about the camp, and she would pause to fondle the little naked black babies that tumbled round the wurleys, tossing them in the air until they shouted with laughter. Yurong saw with amazement how the little animals came to her and played at her feet, and it impressed him greatly with a sense of the wealth of the Baringa tribe. "Ky!" he said to himself, "they are able to use food for playthings!" Never before had he dreamed of such a thing.
One evening the girls went out into the scrub, yam-digging, each carrying her yam-stick and dilly-bag—the netted bag into which the black women put everything, from food to nose-ornaments. Miraga's was woven of red and white rushes, with a quaint pattern on one side, and she was very proud of it, for it had been Konawarr's gift. She was thinking of his kind eyes as she walked through the trees, brushing aside tendrils of starry clematis and wild convolvulus, and finding a way through musk and hazel thickets. He had looked at her very gently when he gave her the bag, and she knew that she could trust him. She was very happy as she wandered on—so happy that she did not notice for a while that she had strayed some distance from the other girls, and that already the shadows were creeping about the forest to make the darkness.
"I am too far from camp," she said aloud. "I must hurry back, or my father will be angry."
She turned to retrace her steps, pausing a moment to make sure of her direction. Then, from the gloom of a tall clump of dogwood, something sprang upon her and seized her. She struggled, sending a stifled cry into the forest—but it died as a heavy blow from a waddy took away her senses. Yurong carried her swiftly away.
Day came, and found them still fleeing, Miraga a helpless burden in her captor's arms. Days and nights passed, and still they travelled northwards, across the rivers, the forest, and the mountains. They went slowly, for at length Yurong could carry the girl no farther, and at first she was too weak to walk much. Even when she grew stronger she still pretended to be weak, doing all in her power to delay their flight—always straining her ears in the wild hope that behind her she might hear the feet of the men coming to save her—led by Wadaro and by Konawarr. Somewhere, she knew, they were searching for her. But as the days went by, and no help came, her heart began to sink hopelessly.
Yurong was not unkind to her. He treated her gently enough, telling her she was to be his wife, but she hated him more and more deeply each hour. Thinking her very weak, he let her travel slowly, and helped her over the rough places, though she shrank from his touch. But he took no risks with her. He kept his weapons carefully out of her reach, and at night, when they slept, he bound her feet and hands with strips of kangaroo-hide, so that she might not try to escape.
Then they came to the topmost crest of the mountains, and below them Yurong could see the country of his people. At that, Miraga gave up all hope. They camped on the ridge that night; and for the first time she sobbed herself to sleep.
She woke up a while later, with a sound of little whispers in her ears. It was quite dark inside the wurley; but she heard a patter of tiny, scurrying feet, and a few faint squeaks. Miraga lay very still, trembling. Then a shrill little voice came, very close to her.
"Mistress—oh, mistress!"
"Who is it?" she whispered.
"We are your Little People," came the faint voice. "Lie very still, and we will set you free!"
On her hand, Miraga felt a patter of tiny feet, like snowflakes falling. They ran all over her body; she felt them down at her bare ankles, and near her face. She knew them now, though it was dark—little Padi-padi, the pouch-mouse, and Punta, the shrew-mouse, and Kanungo, the kangaroo-rat, with the bandicoot, Talka. They were all her friends—her Little People. Dozens of them seemed to be there in the dark, nibbling furiously at the strips of hide on her wrists and ankles.
How long the time seemed as she lay, trembling, in great fear lest Yurong should awaken! The very sound of her own breathing was loud in her ears, and the faint rustlings of the Little People seemed a noise that must surely wake the sleeping warrior. But Yurong was tired, and he slept soundly: and the Little People worked hard. At last the bonds fell apart and she was free.
Gliding like a snake, she crept out of the wurley, and ran swiftly into the forest that clothed the mountains. But scarcely had she gone when Yurong woke and found she was not there.
He sprang to his feet with a shout, grasping his weapons, and rushed outside. There was no sign of Miraga—but his quick ear caught the sound of a breaking twig in the forest, and he raced in pursuit. Again he heard it, this time so close that he knew she could not be more than a few yards away. Then he found himself suddenly on the edge of a great wall of rock, and there was no time to stop. He shouted again, in despair, as he fell—down, down. Then no more sounds came.
But just on the edge of the precipice three bandicoots came out of a heap of dry sticks, laughing.
"That was easily done," said one. "It was only necessary to jump up and down among the sticks and break a few, and the silly fellow made sure it was Miraga."
"Well, he will not make any more foolish mistakes," said his brother. "But is it not surprising to find how simple these humans are!"
"All but our mistress," the first said. "Come—we must make haste to follow her, or else we shall have another long hunt. And nobody knows what mischief she may fall into, if we are not there to look after her!"
CHAPTER III
Miraga ran swiftly into the heart of the forest, glancing back in terror, lest at any moment she should see Yurong. She heard him shout, and the crash of his feet in pursuit as he plunged out of the wurley; and for a moment she gave herself up for lost. He was so swift and so strong: she knew that she could never escape him, once he was on her track.
Another cry reached her presently, not so close. It gave her her first throb of hope that Yurong had taken the wrong turning among the trees. Still she was far too terrified to slacken speed. She fled on, not knowing where she was going.
A great mountain peak loomed before her, and she fled up it. It was hard climbing, but it seemed to her safer than the dark forest, where at any moment Yurong's black face might appear. Here, at least, she might be safe; at least, he would not think of looking for her in this wild and rugged place. Perhaps, if she hid on the mountain for a few days he would grow tired of looking for her, and go away, back to his own people; and then she could try to find her way home. At the very thought of home, poor Miraga sobbed as she ran: it seemed so long since the happy days in the camp by the sea.
The way was strange. She climbed up, among great boulders and jagged crags of rock. Above her the peaks seemed to pierce the sky. Deep ravines were here and there, and she started away from their edges: somewhere, water fell swiftly, racing down some narrow bed among the rocks. So she went on, and the moonlight grew stronger and stronger, until it flooded all the mountain. She fought her way, step by step, up the last great peak. And, suddenly, in the midnight, she came out upon a great and shining tableland: then she knew that in her journeyings she had found the Moon!
"Then she knew that in her journeyings she had found the Moon!""Then she knew that in her journeyings she had found the Moon!"
She wandered on, in doubt and fear—fear, not of this strange new land, but of the men she dreaded to find there. But for a long time she saw no people. Only in the dim hours, when the earth-world glowed like a star, but all the moon-country was dark, there came about her the Little People that she knew and loved—Padi-padi, and Punta, Talka and Kanungo. And because she was very lonely, and a lonely woman loves the touch of something small and soft, she took some of them up and carried them with her in her dilly-bag.
"How did you know I was lost?" she asked them.
"How did we know?" they said, laughing at her. "Why, all the forest sang of it! The magpie chattered it in the dewy mornings, and Moko-Moko, the Bell-Bird, told all about it to the creeks in the gullies. Moko-Moko would not leave his quiet places to tell the other animals, but he knew the creeks would carry the story. Soon there was no animal in all the Bush that did not know where you had gone. Only we could not tell your own stupid people, for they would not understand."
"And are they looking for me?" Miraga asked.
"They seek for you night and day. Your father has led a party of fighting-men to the east, and Konawarr has gone north with all his friends. They never rest—all the time they seek you. And the women are wailing in the camp, and the little children crying, because you are gone."
That made Miraga cry, too.
"Can you not take me back?" she begged. "I can go if you will show me the way."
But the Little People shook their heads.
"No, we cannot do that," they said. "We can help you, and we can talk to you, but we may not take you back. You must find the way yourself."
So Miraga wandered on through the Moon-Country. It was very desolate and bare, strewn with rocks and craggy boulders, and to walk long upon it was hard for naked feet. There were no rivers, and no creeks, but a range of mountains rose in one place, and were so grim and terrible that Miraga would not try to climb them. She found stunted trees, bearing berries, which she ate, for she was very hungry.
"Perhaps they are poisonous, and will kill me," she said. "I do not think that greatly matters, for I begin to feel that I shall never get home."
But the berries were not poisonous. Indeed, Miraga felt better when she had eaten them. Her strength came back to her, and her limbs grew less weary. She put some of the berries into her dilly-bag for the Little People. Then she set off on her wanderings again.
She did not know how long she had been in the Moon-Country, after a while. It seemed that she had never done anything but find her way across its rugged plains, seeking ever for the track back to the green Earth-World. So silent and strange was it that she began to think there was no living being upon it but herself and the Little People she carried with her.
One day, wandering along a rocky edge, she quite suddenly came upon the camp of the Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon. She cried out in fear, and fled. But he was awake, and when he saw this beautiful girl, he rose and gave chase.
But Miraga was fleet of foot; and the Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon was a fat man, and heavy: for, as the blacks know, he never goes hunting, as men do, but always sits down in the shadow of his mountains. Presently, he saw that the girl was escaping; she drew farther and farther ahead, running like a dingo, and already he was puffing and panting. So he stamped his foot and called to his dogs, and they came out of the holes of the hills—great savage brutes, lean and hungry-looking, of a dark colour. They came, running and growling, and sniffing angrily at the air. Their master waved his hand, and they uttered a long howl and followed swiftly after Miraga.
Now, indeed, she thought that her end had come. Mists swam before her eyes, and her feet stumbled: she, whose limbs were so lithe and strong, tottered like a weary old woman. Behind her, the long howls of the dogs woke terror in her heart. They drew nearer; almost she could feel their hot panting breath. But just as she was about to sink down, exhausted, the Little People in the dilly-bag chattered and called to her. "Mistress! Oh, Mistress!" they cried. "Let us out, that we may save you!"
She heard them, and fumbled with shaking fingers at the fastening of the bag. It slipped from her shoulders, and fell to the ground; and as it fell, the animals burst out and fled in many directions, some here and some there, squeaking and chattering. And when the fierce Dogs of the Moon saw them, they forgot to pursue Miraga, but turned and coursed swiftly after the animals.
Behind them the Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon shouted vainly to them. There are no animals in the Moon-Country, and so the Dogs have no chance of hunting; but the sight of the scampering Little People woke their instincts, and they dashed after them wildly. They caught some, and swiftly slew them; others dodged, and leaped, and twisted, escaping into little rockholes, where the dogs could not follow them. The noise of the hunting and the deep baying of the Dogs echoed round the Moon and made thunder boom among the Stars.
But Miraga ran on, stumbling for weariness. She knew that the Dogs were no longer close upon her, but she dreaded to hear them again at any moment, for she did not see how such feeble Little People could keep them off for long. So she ran, and as she went, her tears fell for the little friends who had given their lives for her. At last, too tired to see where her stumbling feet had led her, she came to the brink of a great precipice, and fell down and down, until her senses left her.
But when she opened her eyes again, it was to meet those of Konawarr; and he was holding her in his arms and calling her name over and over, with his voice full of pity and love; and behind him were his friends—all the band who had been seeking her with him. They were all smiling to her, with welcome and joy on each friendly face. For in her fall she had come back to the dear Earth-World once more, and her sorrows were at an end.
So, when the tribes look up to the sky on moonlit nights and see the great shape that looms across the brightness, they say it is the mighty Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon; who, like themselves, is black, but grown heavy and slothful with much idleness and sitting-down. The parents scare idle children with his name, saying that if they do not bestir themselves they, too, will become fat and useless like him. But Miraga used to tell her children another story, and when she told it her eyes would brim with tears. It was the story of the Little People she loved, who followed her to the Moon-Country, and there gave up their lives for her, saving her first from Yurong, and then from the teeth of the Dogs of the Moon. And the children would shiver a little, clustering more closely—all save little Konawarr, who would grasp his tiny boomerang and declare that he would kill anything that dared to hurt his mother.
The great dogs still crouch around the Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon, waiting to do his bidding. You can see them, if you look closely—dark spots, near the huge figure in the midst of the brightness. They are the fierce Dogs that guard the lonely country in the sky: the Dogs that long ago hunted, howling, after Miraga the Beautiful, across the shining spaces of the Moon.