The Burning Of The Crows

The Chief Wonkawala was a powerful man, who ruled over a big tribe. They were a fierce and warlike people, always ready to go out against other tribes; and by fighting they had gained a great quantity of property, and roamed unmolested through a wide tract of country--which meant that all the tribe was well-fed.

Wonkawala had not always been a chief. He had been an ordinary warrior, but he was fiercer and stronger than most men, and he had gradually worked his way up to power and leadership. There were many jealous of him, who would have been glad to see his downfall; but Wonkawala was wary, as well as brave, and once he had gained his position, he kept it, and made himself stronger and stronger. He had several wives, and in his wurleys were fine furs and splendid weapons and abundance of grass mats. Every one feared him, and he had all that the heart of a black chief could desire, except for one thing. He had no son.

Five daughters had Wonkawala, tall and beautiful girls, skilled in all women's work, and full of high courage, as befits the daughters of a chief. Yillin was the eldest, and she was also the bravest and wisest, so that her sisters all looked up to her and obeyed her. Many young warriors had wished to marry her, but she had refused them all. "Time enough," she said to her father. "At present it is enough for me to be the daughter of Wonkawala."

Her father was rather inclined to agree with her. He knew that her position as the eldest daughter of the chief--without brothers--was a fine thing, and that once she married she would live in a wurley much like any other woman's and do much the same hard work, and have much the same hard time. The life of the black women was not a very pleasant one--it was no wonder that they so soon became withered and bent and hideous. Hard work, the care of many babies, little food, and many blows: these were the portion of most women, and might well be that even of the daughter of a chief, when once she left her father's wurley for that of a young warrior. So Wonkawala, who was unlike many indigenous folk in being very fond of his daughters, did not urge that Yillin should get married, and the suitors had to go disconsolately away.

But there came a time when Wonkawala fell ill, and for many weeks he lay in his wurley, shivering under his fur rugs, and becoming weaker and weaker. The medicine-men tried all kinds of treatment for him, but nothing seemed to do him any good. They painted him in strange designs, and cut him with shell knives to make him bleed: and when he complained of pain in the back they turned him on his face and stood on his back. So Wonkawala complained no more; but the back was no better.

After the sorcerers had tried these and many other methods of healing, they declared that some one had bewitched Wonkawala. This was a favourite device of puzzled sorcerers. They had made the tribes believe that if a man's enemy got possession of anything that had belonged to him--even such things as the bones of an animal he had eaten, broken weapons, scraps of furs he had worn, or, in fact, anything he had touched--it could be employed as a charm against him, especially to produce illness. This made the indigenous folk careful to burn up all rubbish before leaving a camping-place; and they were very keen in finding odd scraps of property that had belonged to an unfriendly tribe. Anything of this kind that they found was given to the chief, to be carefully kept as a means of injuring the enemy. A fragment of this description was called a wuulon, and was thought to have great power as a charm for evil. Should one of the tribe wish to be revenged upon an enemy, he borrowed his wuulon from the chief, rubbed it with a mixture of red clay and emu fat, and tied it to the end of a spear-thrower, which he stuck upright in the ground before the camp-fire. Then all the indigenous folk sat round, watching it, but at some distance away, so that their shadows should not fall upon it, and solemnly chanted imprecations until the spear-thrower fell to the ground. They believed that it would fall in the direction of the enemy to whom the wuulon belonged, and immediately they all threw hot ashes in the same direction, with hissing and curses, and prayers that ill-fortune and disease might fall upon the owner.

The sorcerers tried this practice with every wuulon in Wonkawala's possession; but whatever effect might have been produced on the owners of the wuulons, Wonkawala himself was not helped at all. He grew weaker and weaker, and it became plain that he must die.

The knowledge that they were to lose their chief threw all the indigenous folk into mourning and weeping, so that the noise of their cries was heard in the wurley where Wonkawala lay. But besides those who mourned, there were others who plotted, even though they seemed to be crying as loudly as the rest. For, since Wonkawala had no son, some other man must be chosen to succeed him as chief, and there were at least half a dozen who thought they had every right to the position. So they all gathered their followings together, collecting as many supporters as each could muster, and there seemed every chance of a very pretty fight as soon as Wonkawala should breathe his last.

The dying chief was well aware of what was going on. He knew that they must fight it out between themselves, and that the strongest would win; but what he was most concerned about was the safety of his daughters. Their fate would probably be anything but pleasant. Once left without him, they would be no longer the leading girls of the tribe, and much petty spite and jealousy would probably be visited upon them by the other women. Or they might be made tools in the fight for the succession to his position, and mixed up in the feuds and disputes which would ensue: indeed, it might easily happen that they would be killed before the fighting settled down. In any case it seemed to Wonkawala that hardship and danger were ahead of them.

He called them to him one evening, and made them kneel down, so close that they could hear him when he spoke in a whisper.

"Listen," he said. "I am dying. No, do not begin wailing now--there will be time enough for that afterwards. My day is done, and it has been a good day: I have been a strong man and my name will be remembered as a chief. What can a man want more? But you are women, and my heart is uneasy about you."

"Nothing will matter to us, if you die!" said Yillin.

"You may think so now," said the chief, looking at her with affection in his fierce eyes. "But my death may well be the least of the bad things that may happen to you. You will be as slaves where you have been as princesses. Even if I am in the sky with Pund-jel, Maker of Men, I shall be unhappy to see that. Therefore, it seems to me that you must leave the tribe."

"Leave the tribe!" breathed Yillin, who always spoke for her sisters. "But where should we go?"

"I have dreamed that you shall go to the east," said her father. "What is to happen to you I do not know, but you must go. You may fall into the power of another tribe, but I believe they would be kinder to you than your own would be, for there will be much fighting here after I have gone to Pund-jel. I think any other tribe would take you in with the honour that is due to a chief's daughters. In any case, it is better to be slaves among strangers than in the place where you have been rulers."

"I would rather die than be a slave here!" said Yillin proudly.

"Spoken like a son!" said the old chief, nodding approval. "Get weapons and food ready secretly, all that you can carry: and when the men are away burying me, make your escape. They will be so busy in quarrelling that they will not notice soon that you have gone; and then they will be afraid to go after you, lest any should get the upper hand during their absence. Go to the east, and Pund-jel will decide your fate. Now I am weary, and I wish to sleep."

So Yillin and her sisters obeyed, and during the next few days they hid weapons in a secret place outside the camp, and crammed their dilly-bags with food, fire-sticks, charms, and all the things they could carry. Already they could see that there was wisdom in their father's advice. There was much talk that ceased suddenly when they came near, and the women used to whisper together, looking at them, and bursting into rude laughter. Yillin and her sisters held their heads high, but there was fierce anger in their hearts, for but a week back no one would have dared to show them any disrespect.

At last, one evening, Wonkawala died, and the whole tribe mourned for him. For days there was weeping and wailing, and all the time the chief's daughters remained within their wurley, seeing no one but the women who brought them food. As the time went on, the manner of these women became more and more curt, and the food they brought less excellent, until, on the last day of mourning, Yillin and her sisters were given worse meals than they had ever eaten before.

"Our father spoke truth," said Yillin. "It is time we fled."

"Time, indeed," said Peeka, the youngest sister. "Did you see Tar-nar's sneering face as she threw this evil food in to us?"

"I would that Wonkawala, our father, could have come to life again to see it," said Yillin with an angry sob. "He would have withered her with his fury. But our day, like his, is done--in our own tribe. Never mind--we shall find luck elsewhere."

After noon of that day the men of the tribe bore the body of Wonkawala away, to bury it with honour. The women stayed behind, wailing loudly as long as the men were in sight; but as soon as the trees hid them from view they ceased to cry out, and began to laugh and eat and enjoy themselves. They fell silent, presently, as the five daughters of Wonkawala came out of their wurley and walked slowly across the camp. They were muffled in their 'possum-rugs, scarcely showing their faces.

For a moment there was silence, and then one of the women said something to another at which both burst into a cackle of laughter. Then another called to the five sisters, in a familiar and insolent manner.

"Where do you go, girls?"

"We go to mourn for our father in a quiet place," answered Yillin haughtily.

"Oh--then the camp is not good enough for you to mourn in?" cried the woman with a sneer "But do not be away too long--there will be plenty of work to do, for you, now. Remember, you are no longer our mistresses."

"No--it is your turn to serve us, now," cried another. "Bring me back some yams when you come--then perhaps there will not be so many beatings for you!" There was a yell of laughter from all the women, amidst which Yillin and her sisters marched out of the camp, with disdainful glances.

When they drew near their hiding-place they kept careful watch, in case anyone had followed them. As a matter of fact, all the women were by that time busily engaged in ransacking their wurley, and dividing among them the possessions the sisters had not been able to carry away; so that they were quite safe. They collected their weapons and hurried off into the forest.

They had obeyed their father and gone east, and the burial-place was west of the camp, so they met nobody, and their flight was not discovered that night. The men came back to the camp in the evening, hungry and full of eagerness about the fight for the leadership of the tribe, and the women were kept busy in looking after them. The first fight took place that very evening, and though it was not a very big one, it left no time for anyone to wonder what had become of the five sisters. Not until next day did the tribe realize that they had run away; and then, as Wonkawala had foreseen, no one wanted to run after them. Certain young warriors who had thought of marrying them were annoyed, but they could only promise themselves to pursue and capture them when the tribe should again have settled down under new leadership.

The five sisters were very sad when they started on their journey, for the Bush is a wide and lonely place for women, and there seemed nothing ahead of them but difficulty and danger. They wept as they hurried through the forest, nor did they dare to sleep for a long time. Only when they were so weary that they could scarcely drag themselves along, did they fling themselves down in a grassy hollow, where tall ferns made a screen from any prying eyes, and a stream of water gave them refreshment. They slept soundly, and dreamed gentle dreams; and when they awoke in the morning it seemed that a great weight had been lifted from their hearts.

"I feel so happy, sisters," said Yillin, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "Our father came to me in my sleep, and told me to be of good courage and to smile instead of weeping."

"He came to me, also," said Peeka, "and told me there was good luck ahead."

"After all," said another of the girls, "what have we to fret about? It is a fine thing to go out and see the world. I am certain that we are going to enjoy ourselves."

"It will be interesting, at any rate," said Yillin. "But we must hurry onward, for we are not yet safe from pursuit--though I do not think it will come."

They made as much haste as possible for the next few days, until it seemed certain that no one was tracking them down; and with each dawn they felt happier and more free from care. They were lucky in finding game, so that they were well-fed; and on the fifth day they came upon trees loaded with mulga apples, which gave them a great feast. They roasted many of the apples and carried them with them in their food-bowls. Sometimes they came to little creeks, fringed with maidenhair fern, where they bathed; sometimes they passed over great, rolling plains, where they could see for miles, and where kangaroos were feeding in little mobs, dotted here and there on the kangaroo-grass they loved. Flocks of white cockatoos, sulphur-crested, flew screaming overhead, and sometimes they saw the beautiful pink and grey galahs, wheeling aloft, the sunlight gleaming on their grey backs and rose-pink crests. Then they went across a little range of thickly-wooded hills, where the trees were covered with flocks of many-coloured parrots, and the purple-crowned lorikeets flew, screeching--sometimes alighting, like a flock of great butterflies, on a gum-tree, to hang head downwards among the leaves, licking the sweet eucalyptus honey from the flowers with their brush-like tongues.

Sometimes, when they had lain very quietly through a hot noon-tide hour, they saw the lyre bird, the shyest bird of all the Bush, dancing on the great mound--twenty or thirty feet high--which it builds for its dome-shaped nest; mocking, as it danced, the cries of half the birds in the country, and waving its beautiful lyre-shaped tail. The magpie woke them in the dawn with its rich gurgling notes; the beautiful blue-wren hopped near them, proud of his exquisite plumage of black and bright blue, chirping his happy little song. They passed swamps, where cranes and herons fished, stalking in the shallows, or flew lazily away with dangling legs; and sometimes they heard the booming of the bittern, which made them very much afraid. At evening they would hear a harsh, clanging cry, and, looking up, they would see a long line of black swans, flying into the sunset. There were other birds too, more than any white boy or girl will ever know about: for these were the old days of Australia, long before the white men had come to settle the country and destroy the Bush with their axes. But there were no rabbits, and no thistles, for Australia was free from them until the white men came.

Gradually the daughters of Wonkawala lost all fear. They were perfectly happy, and the Bush no longer seemed lonely to them; they had enough to eat, they were warm at night, and so strong and active, and so skilled in the use of weapons, had their woodland life made them, that they did not seem to mind whether they met enemies or not. They often danced as they went on their way, and made all the echoes of the forest ring with their songs.

At last, one day, they found their way barred by a wide river which flowed from north to south. They could, of course, all swim; but it was not easy to see how to get their furs across. They were talking about it, wondering whether they could make a canoe or a raft, when they heard a friendly hail, and, looking across, they saw five girls standing on the opposite bank.

"Who are you?" shouted the strangers.

"We are the daughters of Wonkawala," they cried. "Who are you?"

"We are girls of the Wapiya tribe, out looking for adventures."

"Why, so are we, and we have found many." They shouted questions and answers backwards and forwards, until they began to feel acquainted. "What do you eat?" "What furs have you?" "What songs do you sing?" That led to singing, and they sang all their favourite songs to each other, beating two boomerangs together as an accompaniment. When they had finished they felt a great desire to travel together.

"It is really a great pity that the river flows between us," cried the daughters of Wonkawala. "How can we join you?"

The Wapiya girls laughed.

"That is quite easy," they answered. "This is a magic river, and when once your feet have touched it you will be Magic too. Dance straight across!"

"You are making fun of us," cried Yillin.

"No, indeed, we are not. We cannot cross to you, for on your side there is no Magic. But if you will trust us, and dance across, you will find that you will not sink."

This was hard to believe, and the sisters looked at each other doubtfully. Then Yillin took off her rug and handed it to Peeka.

"It will be easy enough to try, and at the worst I can only get a wetting," she said. "Follow me if I do not sink."

She went down to the water and danced out upon its surface. It did not yield beneath her; the surface seemed to swing and heave as though it were elastic, but it supported her and she danced across with long, sliding steps. Behind her came her sisters; and so delightful was it to dance on the swinging river-top that they burst into singing, and so came, with music and laughter, to the other side. The Wapiya girls met them with open arms.

"Ky! You are brave enough to join us!" they cried. "Now we can all go in quest of adventure together, and who knows what wonderful things may befall us!"

So they told each other all their histories, and they held a feast; and after they had all eaten, they danced off to the east together, for they were all so happy that their feet refused to walk sedately. Presently they came to an open space where were many tiny hillocks.

"This is Paridi-Kadi, the place of ants," said the Wapiya girls. "Here we have often come before, to gather ants' eggs."

"Dearly do we love ants' eggs," said little Peeka, licking her lips.

"And these are very good eggs," said the eldest of the Wapiya girls, whose name was Nullor. "But the ants defend them well, and those who take them must make up their minds to be bitten."

"Ants' eggs are worth a few bites."

"Certainly they are. Now let us see if you are really as brave as you say."

They attacked the hillocks with their digging-sticks, and unearthed great stores of plump eggs, which they eagerly gathered. But they also unearthed numbers of huge ants of a glossy dark green colour, and these defended their eggs bravely, springing at the girls and biting them whenever they could.

"Ky!" said Yillin, shaking one off her arm. "It is as well that these eggs are so very good, for the bites are certainly very bad. We have no ants like these in our country."

"Have you had enough?" asked Nullor, laughing.

"Enough bites, yes; but not enough eggs," said Yillin, laughing as well. "The eggs are worth the pain." She thrust her digging-stick into a hillock so energetically that she scattered earth and eggs and ants in all directions, and one ant landed on Nullor's nose and bit it severely--whereat Nullor uttered a startled yell of pain, and the daughters of Wonkawala laughed very much.

"Who is brave now?" cried little Peeka.

Nullor rubbed her nose with a lump of wet earth, which, as she was black, did not have such a curious effect as it would have had on you.

"I was taken by surprise," she said, somewhat shamefacedly. "And indeed, my nose is not used to such treatment, for I do not usually poke it into ants' nests!"

They ate all the eggs, and rubbed their bites with chewed leaves, which soon took away the stings; and then they danced away together. After a time, Yillin saw an eagle flying low, carrying something in its talons. She flung a boomerang at it, and so well did she aim that she broke its neck, and the great bird came fluttering down. It fell into a pool of water and Yillin jumped in to rescue its prey, for she could see that it was alive. It turned out to be a half-grown dingo, a fine young dog, which was too bewildered, between flying and drowning, to make any objection to being captured. Yillin secured it with a string which she plaited of her own hair and as much of Peeka's as Peeka was willing to part with, and fed it with bits of wallaby; and the dog soon became friendly and licked her hand.

"He is a lovely dog," she said, "and I will always keep him. I will call him Dulderana."

"I think he will be rather a nuisance," said Nullor. "Anyway, he will soon leave you and go back into the Bush."

"I do not think he will," Yillin said.

"Well, you cannot teach him to dance or sing," said Nullor, laughing, "so he will have to run behind us."

"Of course he will; and he will be very useful in hunting," said Yillin. "We should not have lost that 'possum yesterday if we had had a dog."

Dulderana very soon made himself at home, and became great friends with all the girls. It amused him very much when they danced, and though he could not dance himself, he used to caper wildly round them, uttering short, sharp barks of delight. But their singing he did not like at all, and when they began, he used to sit down with his nose pointing skywards, and howl most dismally, until the girls could not sing for laughing. Then they would pelt bits of stick at him until he was sorry. By degrees he learned to endure the singing in silence, but he never pretended to enjoy it.

One day, as they went along, they saw in the far distance a silvery gleam.

"What is that?" asked Yillin.

"It looks like the duntyi, or silver bush," said the Wapiya girls, doubtfully.

"That does not grow in our country," said Yillin. "Let us go and look at it."

But when they drew near, they saw that it was not a bush at all. Instead, it was a man, a very old man. He had no hair on his head, but his great silver beard hung straggling to his knees, and when the breeze blew it about it was so large that it was no wonder they had mistaken it for a bush. No word did he speak, but he sat and looked at them in silence, and when they greeted him respectfully he only nodded. Something about him made them feel afraid. They clustered together, looking at him. At last he spoke.

"I have come too soon," he said. "You are not ready for me yet. Go on."

At that Dulderana howled very dismally indeed, and rushed away with his tail between his legs. The girls quite understood how he felt, and they also ran away, never stopping until they were far from the strange old man.

"Now, who was that?" Yillin said.

Nullor looked uneasy.

"I do not know," she said. "This is a strange country, and there is much Magic in it. We will hurry on, or he may perhaps come after us."

So they hastened on into the forest, forgetting, for a while, to dance; but then their fear left them, and again their songs rang through the Bush. They passed a clump of black wattle, the trunks of which were covered with gum, in great shining masses, so that they had a splendid feast; for the gum was both food and drink, and what they could not eat they mixed with water and drank, enjoying its sweet flavour. With their bags filled with gum they went on, and one evening they camped among a grove of banksia trees, near a pool of quiet water. It was not very good water to drink, but the Wapiya girls showed the five sisters how to suck it up through banksia cones, which strained out any impurities and gave it a very pleasant taste. They were tired, and lay down early.

In the night a great wind sprang up, and with it came a curious booming noise. It woke the daughters of Wonkawala, and they sat up in alarm.

"Ky! that must be a huge bittern," said Peeka.

"It is not like a bittern," Yillin said. "I have never heard any sound like it. Perhaps it is the Bunyip, of whom our mother used to tell us when we were little--a terrible beast who lives in swamps, and whose voice fills every one with terror."

The Wapiya girls woke up, and they also listened. Then they laughed among themselves, but they did not let the sisters see that they were laughing. They seemed to think little of the noise.

"It is only the wind howling," they said. "Lie down and sleep, you five inlanders!"

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Yillin. But the Wapiya girls only giggled again, and lay down, declaring that no Bunyip was going to spoil their sleep. And as they were so cheerful, the sisters came to the conclusion that they might as well do the same.

When they awoke it was day, and the booming was still going on, and the wind felt fresh and wet. The Wapiya girls were already up, and they greeted them with laughter.

"We have a surprise for you," said they. "Shut your eyes, and let us lead you."

The sisters did so, and felt themselves led forward. Presently the earth became soft and yielding under their feet, and they cried out in alarm, but the others laughed again, and said, "Never mind, you are quite safe."

In a moment more they said, "Now, open your eyes!" The sisters did so, and lo! they stood before a great sheet of water with high, tumbling waves. Blue and sparkling was the water, and the big waves came rolling in, gathering themselves up slowly with their tops a mass of foam, which slowly rose and curled over until it plunged down, crashing in a smother of breaking bubbles. The daughters of Wonkawala had never seen anything like it before, and they gasped in amazement.

"Ky! what a river!" they cried. "Where is the other side?"

The Wapiya girls shouted with laughter.

"The other side!" they gasped, when they could speak. "Why, there is no other side. This is the Sea, and it is the end of all things. Have you never heard of it?"

"Is _that_ the Sea?" The five sisters stared. "We have heard stories of it from the old men and women, but we never imagined that it was like this. No one could imagine it without seeing it. Have you known it before?"

"Oh, yes. We have often camped here with our tribe. Come nearer."

No one in the Bush ever had a good word to say for the Crows. From the very earliest times they were a noisy, mischievous race, always poking their strong beaks into what did not concern them, and never so happy as when they were annoying other people. Whatever a mother Crow taught her chickens, civility and good manners were not included in the lessons; they were accomplishments for which none of the family had the slightest use.

It did not at all trouble the Wokala, as the Crows were called, that they were unpopular. Indeed, they rather gloried in the amount of ill-feeling they were able to excite among the Bush folk. They were powerful birds, well able to hold their own in any quarrel with birds of their own size, and so quick and daring that they would even steal from animals, or attack weak ones, secure in the advantage given them by their strong wings. They made so many enemies, however, that they took to going about in flocks, so that no one dared molest them--not even Wildoo, the Eagle, or Kellelek, the Cockatoo.

Especially did Wildoo hate the Wokala. He was always proud, as the King of the Birds has every right to be, and among all birds that fly his word was law. He liked to keep good order, and if any bird displeased him, a few quiet words, possibly accompanied by a discreet peck, or a blow from one of his great wings, was more than enough to bring the offender to his senses. One day he had occasion to punish one of the Wokala, who had stolen the meal laboriously provided by the wife of Wook-ook, the Mopoke, for her husband, who was ill. The Wokala, battered and furious, flew away and told his story to the other Crows; who, equally furious, flew in a mob to the high crag where Wildoo had his nest. There was no one there, for it was too late in the season to find chickens: so the Wokala amused themselves by scattering the nest to pieces, and when Wildoo and his wife came home from hunting they hid among the bushes and screamed all sorts of insulting things at them. Wildoo took no notice, openly. It would have been beneath his dignity to go hunting smaller birds in thick bushes--which the Wokala very well knew. He merely folded his wings and, with his wife, perched on the edge of the rocky shelf where his nest had been, and stared out across the tossing green sea of gum-trees that clothed the rolling hills below, his yellow eyes full of silent anger. Gradually the Wokala grew tired of screaming, and, becoming hungry, flew away.

After that the Wokala became more insolent than ever. Even Wildoo was afraid of them, they said; and they kept together in a mob, and lost no chance of being rude to him. More and more they attacked and insulted the other birds, until no one felt safe if there were any chance of the evil Wokala coming near. Again and again complaints came to Wildoo of their wicked doings, and Wildoo heard them in silence, nodding his head, with his brain busy behind his yellow eyes. But he said nothing: until at length the other birds began to ask themselves was it really true that Wildoo was afraid? Wildoo was not at all afraid of a flock of squawking Wokala. But he was very much afraid of being made to look ridiculous. He had no intention of making a false step, and he did not quite know what to do. There was no one for him to talk to, for the Eagle is a lonely bird--not like Chirnip, the Magpie-Lark, or Tautani, the Cormorant, with dozens and dozens of friends. He is a king, and therefore he is lonely: and, being naturally silent, he does not talk much, even to his wife. All by himself he had to think out the problem of what to do about the Wokala; and, meanwhile, the Wokala perched above his nest and insulted him, and dropped bits of stick down upon his rocky shelf, and screamed rude things at his wife, until she said crossly to Wildoo, "I cannot think why you do not make an end of those abominable little white birds. They are a disgrace to any decent Kingdom, and you have not the spirit of a Bandicoot!" This annoyed and hurt Wildoo, but he said nothing--only looked at her until she caught a gleam of fire in the depths of his yellow eyes.

Perhaps you did not know that in the very early times all the Wokala were white? They were the whitest of all the birds of the Bush, without a single grey or coloured feather in all their bodies: so that there was a saying in the Bush, "As white as a Wokala." They were very proud of it, too, and thought it quite a disgrace if one of their chickens showed a sign of being even creamy in colour, once he was nearly fledged. They kept themselves very clean, going often to bathe; and when they flew about in a flock their dazzling whiteness almost hurt the eye, while, if they perched in a dead gum-tree, they looked like big snowflakes against the grey branches. Even Kellelek, the Cockatoo, was dingy compared to the gleaming whiteness of the Wokala. Somehow, it seemed to make their bad behaviour worse, since no one would expect a beautiful bird like polished marble to have the manners of a jungle pig.

Summer ended early that year, with a great thunder-storm, followed by a month of wild wind and driving rain: and all the birds were rather uncomfortable because the moulting season was scarcely over. Most of all, the Wokala were annoyed. They liked their white feathers so much, and were so proud of their smart appearance, that they always delayed moulting as long as ever they could; and now the bad weather caught them in a worse state than the other birds. When the rains ended, early frosts came, and found the Wokala without any of their new feather cloaks ready. They used to huddle together among the thickest trees, shivering and untidy.

In that part of the country there is a great black ironstone hill, treeless and forbidding. Few birds go there, for there is nowhere to perch, and but little food except the tiny rock-lizards that sun themselves in the