The imitation of the frolicsome skip and wing movements of the native companion is one of the typical dances of the aboriginals frequenting open plains where the great birds a.s.semble. In its performance the men--decorated with streaks and daubs of white and pink clay, and wearing in their hair down and feathers--form a circle, and bowing their bodies towards the centre, chuckle in undertones to the pianissimo tapping of boomerangs and the beating of resonant logs. In strict time, to a crescendo accompaniment, the performers throw out their arms, extend their necks downward and upward, simultaneously utter squawks in imitation of the bird, and finally whirl about, flapping their arms, ceasing instantly by a common impulse. The ballet is modelled in accordance with a study of Nature.

The corrobboree of the Princess Charlotte Bay boys also owes its origin to Nature, but Nature in one of her most unpoetical moods--a mood as typical of Constantinople as of their native sh.o.r.es, for its motive is nothing more than an everyday dogfight.

Shall the uncultured blacks not have their own way when they seek entertainment, holding "as it were the mirror up to Nature," and finding that it reflects the commonest of all themes? They among all the nations of the world alone have discovered what to them is music and the poetry of motion in an occurrence that has no geographical limitations, is not restricted by language, nor to be withered by age.

While the orchestra taps its boomerangs and claps its hands and grunts, two boys in mere nature progress towards the fire in a series of stiff, stilty jumps, the legs from the hips to the ankles being rigid; then the knees shake in a rapid succession of spasmodic jerks; the actors emit sounds resembling the preliminary growling and snarling of a couple of angry dogs. Action and utterance develop in speed and time as the fight begins in earnest, and the art of the performance consists in its duration--the powers of sustained effort, the accuracy of time maintained between the orchestra and the actors, and the fidelity to nature of the vocal effects. A singularly uncouth subject for an opera or even a ballet--the snarling, scuffling and snapping of quarrelsome dogs whose fury is working up to a climax, and it soon becomes as monotonous to unaccustomed ears as the masterpieces of some German composers to those whose musical education is below the required standard; but the boys will spend the best part of the long night in its unvarying repet.i.tion.

Once a variation did take place. "Yellowbelly" (p.r.o.nounced decently "Yellowby") danced first in the company of giggling "Peter;" and then fat "Charley" and big "Johnny," shy "Mammeroo" and little deaf "Antony," in turns, his body glistened with perspiration, and his eyes sparkled with the joy of a phenomenal accomplishment. All beholders were filled with wonder and gratification. It was Yellowby's night out. The spirit of Terpsich.o.r.e was upon him. His enthusiasm amounted to exultation. He was astonishing not only the silent and subdued natives of Dunk Island, but even his own familiar friends. Never had any seen such a cla.s.sic interpretation of the theme, such brilliant leg movement, nor heard such realistic growling and snapping and intermittent yelps, such m.u.f.fled, sob-like inspirations. Yellowby danced as dances the artist, so graphically interpreting the subject that the bewildered orchestra forgot itself. All were borne away in spirit to the scene of some far-off, familiar camp, where the scents of decayed fish and turtle-bones, and of a mult.i.tude of uncleanly dogs commingled with the bitter smoke of mangrove wood fires, where amid the yells of gins and the screeches of piccaninnies and the walloping of men, two mangy curs noisily wrestled. It brought home sweet home to each of the exiles, so vividly that all sat still and transfixed, and as the last chord of the orchestra "I trembled away into silence," Yellowby, panting and sweating, gasped as he fell flat on the sand--"No good you fella corrobboree like that fella, belonga me fella." But for the collapse of the orchestra, due to his own inimitable art, he would have danced till dawn.

A SONG WITHOUT WORDS

Mickie is a famous vocalist, although his repertoire is limited. He sings l.u.s.tily and with no little art, putting considerable expression into his phrases, and ever and anon taking a sharp but studied rest to increase his emphasis, when he will burst forth again with full-throated ease. His masterpiece is not original. Indeed he claims no t.i.tle to the gifts of a composer. "Jacky," a Mackay boy, taught Mickie his favourite romance, and it came to Jacky in a dream. Mickie explains-- "Cousin alonga that fella die. Jacky go to sleep. That fella dead man all a same like debil-debil--come close up and tell 'em corrobboree close up ear belonga Jacky."

"What that debil-debil say?"

Mickie--"No talk--that fella. Just tell 'em corrobboree. No talk."

It was just a song without words--the final phrases being three guttural gasps, diluendo, which Mickie says represent the wail of the "debil-debil"

as he retires into the obscurity of spirit-land.

Mickie sings this song of inspiration most vigorously, when Jinny, his portly spouse, comes to "wash 'em plate" in the evening, and she explains with a fat chuckle--"Mickie corrobboree loud fella. He fright.

He think subpose he corrobboree blenty debil-debil no come up."

ORIGIN OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS

Blacks are students of natural events. The winds have their specific t.i.tles, and they catalogue all the brighter and more conspicuous stars and planets, while their astronomical legends are quaint and entertaining.

According to Mickie, the Southern Cross is of earthly origin. He thus "repeats the story of its birth."

"You see that fella. That one me call 'em dooey-dooey--all a same shubel-nose shark, like that fella you bin shoot longa lagoon. Two fella, more big, come close up behind dooey-dooey, two fella black boy.

Black boys bin fishing alonga reef close up alonga where red mark, alonga Cape Marlow--you know. They bin sit down alonga canoe. Bi'mby spear 'em that dooey-dooey--beeg fella, my word! That dooey-dooey when catch 'em spear he go down quick, come up under canoe capsize 'em. Two fella boy swim about long time by that reef; no catch 'em that canoe.

Swim; swim l-o-n-g way; no catch 'em beach; go outside; follow canoe all time. One fella say--'Brother, where we now?' 'Long way yet. Swim more far, brother.' Bi'mby two fella talk--'Where now, brother?' 'Long way outside. Magnetic close up now. We two fella swim more long way. Bi'mby catch 'em Barrier.' One fella catch 'em hand--'Come along, brother, youn-me go outside.'

"Two fella boy swim-swim-swim. Go outside altogether; leave 'em Barrier behind. Swim; finish; good bye; no come back! Swim where cloud catch 'em sea. Swim up-up-long way up! You see now. Sit down up there altogether. Dooey-dooey first time; two fella boy come behind!"

Does not this stand comparison with that referred to by the SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN in answering the question, "Why do you refer to the Great Bear as feminine?" We must go back into the age of cla.s.sical mythology for the reason. It was known to the Egyptians, who called it hippopotamus.

The people of southern Europe saw in the same stars the more familiar figure of a bear, and the legends which grew up around it were finally given permanent shape by Ovid in his METAMORPHOSES. As he tells the story, Callisto, an Arcadian nymph, was beloved by Jupiter. Juno, in fierce anger, turned her into a bear, depriving her of speech that she might not appeal to Jupiter. Her son, Arcas, while hunting, came upon her, and failing to recognise her in her metamorphosed form, raised his bow to shoot. Jupiter, moved by pity, prevented the matricide by transforming the son into a bear, and took them both up to the heavens, where they were placed among the constellations.

CROCODILE CATCHING

Though they have a wholesome dread of crocodiles generally, the blacks of the Lower Tully River (some 5 miles down the coast) have, in a limited circle, the reputation of indulging in the sport of catching them for food. Natives of the locality tell me that the last occasion of the death of a crocodile in the manner to be described was very many years ago. Some would have you believe the practice is of common occurrence. The story goes (though for its truth I do not vouch), that having located a crocodile in a reach of the river when the tide has run out, the blacks form a cordon across, and harry it by splashing the water and maintaining a continuous commotion. The crocodile is poked out of secluded nooks beside the bank and from under submerged logs, never being allowed a moment's peace. When it is thoroughly cowed (and it is an undoubted fact that crocodiles may be frightened into pa.s.siveness), a rope of lawyer vine is pa.s.sed round a convenient tree and held by half a dozen boys, while a running noose is made on the other end. A daring black dives into the water, and cautiously approaching the bewildered creature, slips the noose over its head and backs away. Should he turn his face, the blacks say the crocodile would immediately seize him. The party on the bank hauls on the line, and in spite of protests and struggling the game is landed, to be chopped and beaten to death with tomahawks and nulla-nullas. Then follows a feast, the inevitable surfeit, and the dire conclusion that crocodile as "tucker" is no good.

The flesh is said to be "All a same turtle. Little more hard fella!"

My investigations lead to the opinion that a crocodile was once caught in the manner described, and that upon a single instance the proud feat has been multiplied by the score.

SUICIDE BY CROCODILE

It has been said that Australian blacks never commit suicide. An instance which goes in proof of the contrary occurred not many months ago. All the creeks and rivers flowing from the coastal range to the sea are more or less infested with crocodiles. In crossing creeks, blacks take every precaution against surprise, rafts of buoyant logs strapped together with lawyer vine being used. These rafts are continually drifting across to the island, proving how general is their use. Maria Creek (about a dozen miles or so up the coast) is well known to be a popular resort of the crocodile, and at the mouth, where the blacks wade at low-water, an unusually big fellow had his headquarters. A member of the Clump Point tribe, painfully afflicted with a vexatious skin disease, was fishing at the mouth of the creek when his hook fouled. To a companion he said he would dive to get it clear. His friend endeavoured to dissuade him, reminding him of the crocodile which they had, seen but a short time before. But the boy, worn with pain and weary with never-ending irritation, said if he was taken--"No matter. Good job. Me finished then." He dived, and there was a commotion in the water. The boy appeared on the surface, making frantic appeals for help, while the crocodile worried him. He escaped for a moment, and his friend clutched his hand and drew him to the bank, only to have him torn from his grasp. The blacks believe the crocodile took the fish bait in the first instance and lured the boy to dive. The boy certainly knew the risk he ran when he did so.

A new, if not altogether agreeable, sensation is added to the gentle art if it is realised that a cruel and stealthy beast is engaged in a similar pastime, with the fisherman as the object of its sport.

DISAPPEARANCE OF BLACKS

The rapid disappearance of blacks from localities which held a considerable population causes wonder. In the early days--less than a couple of decades past--they swarmed on the mainland opposite Dunk Island. Now the numbers are few. Within sight of Brammo Bay is the scene of an official "dispersal" of those alleged to have been responsible for the murder of some of the crew of a wrecked vessel, who had drifted ash.o.r.e on a raft. One boy bears to this day the mark of a bullet on his cheek, received when his mother fled for her life, and vainly, with him an infant perched on her shoulders.

In those days "troublesome" blacks were disposed of with scant ceremony.

An incident has been repeated to me several times. A mob of "myalls"

(wild blacks)--they were all myalls then--was employed by a selector to clear the jungle from his land. They worked, but did not get the antic.i.p.ated recompense, and thereupon helped themselves, spearing and eating a bullock, and disappeared. After a time the selector professed forgiveness, and, the fears of the blacks of punishment having been allayed, set them to work again. One day a bucket of milk was brought to the camp at dinner-time and served out with pannikins. The milk had been poisoned. "One fella feel 'em here," said my informant, clasping his stomach. "Run away; tumbledown; finish. 'Nother boy runaway; finish.

just now plenty dead everywhere. Some fella sing out all a same bullocky." Possibly this may be greeted as another version of the familiar story of poisoned flour or damper. It is mentioned here as an instance from the bad old days when both blacks and whites were offhand in their relations with each other. Such episodes are of the past. The present is the age of official protection, and perhaps just a trifle too much interference and meddlesomeness.

Two blacks of the district confessed upon their trial that they had killed their master for so slight an offence as refusal to give them part of his own dinner of meat. On the other hand, an instance of the callousness of the white man may be cited. In a fit of the sulks one of the boys of the camp threw down some blankets he was carrying, and made off into the scrub. It was considered necessary to impress the others, and unhappy chance gave the opportunity. A strange and perfectly innocent boy appeared on the opposite bank of the creek. The "boss"

was a noted shot, and as the boy sauntered along he deliberately fired at him. The body fell into the water and drifted down stream. One of the boys for whose discipline the wanton murder was committed related the incident to me.

CHAPTER II

GEORGE: A MIXED CHARACTER

George, who considered himself as accomplished and as cultivated as a white man, was a.s.sisting his master in the building of a dinghy.

Contemplating the work of his unaccustomed hands in a rueful frame of mind, the boss recited, "Thou fatal and perfidious barque, built in eclipse and rigged with curses dark!" "Ah," said he, "you bin hear that before, George?" "No," replied the boy; "I no bin hear 'em. What that? Irish talk?"

A few days after, George peered into one of the rooms of the house, the walls of which were decorated with prints, among them some studies of the nude. He sn.i.g.g.e.red. "What you laugh at, George?" "Me laugh along that picture--naked. That French woman, I think, Boss!" He was evidently of opinion that all true and patriotic Irishmen talk in verse, and in throaty tones, and that the customary habit of French ladies is "the altogether."

Proud of his personal appearance, George shaved regularly once a week, borrowing a mirror to a.s.sist in the operation. He was wont to apply the lather from pungent kerosene soap with a discarded tooth-brush which he had picked up. Long use had thinned the bristles woefully, but the brush was used faithfully and with grave deliberation. One morning he came and said--"Boss, you got any more brush belonga shaving? This fella close up lose 'em whisker altogether."

The sensational episodes of his trooper days provided George with unending themes. He gave an account to a friend of the suppression of a black rogue, a faithful report of which is presented as an example of unbowdlerised pidgin English.

George--"You bin hear about Mr Limsee have fight? My word, he fight proper; close up killed. We three fella ride about. Cap'n--big strong boy that--me and Mr Limsee. Wild boy--boy from outside; Myall--beggar that fella--longa gully. Hit Mr Limsee. He bin have long fella stick, like that one Tom take a longa fight--short handle. Heavy fella that--carn lif 'em easy, one hand. Mr Limsee tumbledown. Get up. That boy kill 'em one time more hard. My word, strong fella boy that. Catch 'em Mr Limsee-- tchuk longa ground, hard fella--like that. Me and Cap'n come. Mr Limsee alonga ground yet--'h.e.l.lo! Mr Limsee, you bin hurt?' 'Yes, my boy I hurt plenty. Not much; only little bit. That fella boy hit me alonga sword. You catch that fella. Hold 'em.' Me and Cap'n say--'You no run away, you boy.' 'Me no fright.' He have 'em spear. Me tell 'em--'You no runaway. Me catch you.' He say--'Me no fright, you fella.' Me say --'You no runaway. I shoot you.' He say all a time--'Me no fright. Me fight you.' Me say--'You fool, you carn fight alonga this fella bullet.

He catch you blurry quick.' That fella stop one place. We two fella go up alongside. Cap'n he say--'Hold up your hand. Le' me look your hand?'

He hold up hand. Quick we put 'em han'cup. That fella no savee han'cup before. He bin sing out loud--loud like anything. We two fella laugh plenty. Mr Limsee tie 'em up hand longa tree, and belt him proper. Belt him plenty longa whip. My word, that fella sing out--sing out--sing out.

Mr Limsee belt him more. All time he sing out. Bi'mby let 'em go. He bad fella boy that altogether. We fella--go home along camp. Mr Limsee feel 'em sore tchoulder. Nex' day that boy--very tchausey fella--come up along camp. He say--'Me want fight that fella Cap'n.' Cap'n come up. That fella catch 'em, Cap'n tchuk him hard alonga ground. Get up; tchuk him two time. Head go close up alonga stone. Two fella wrastle all about long time. Cap'n strong fella. That boy more strong. Knock 'em about like anything. Bi'mby come back he have spear--three wire spear--long handle. Tchuk 'em spear. Catch 'em Cap'n longa side--here. Wire come out nother side--here. He carn stay--tumble down. Good boy that; my mate long time. Some fella go alonga house tell 'em Mr Limsee--'That boy bin kill you, fight long a camp. Cap'n catch 'em spear longa inside.' Mr Limsee come down. He say--'Cap'n, my boy, I think you finish now; me very sorry for you.' Bad place for spear longa side. Hollow inside. Suppose spear go along a leg and arm, no matter. Suppose go inside, hollow place inside, you finish quick. Plenty times me bin see 'em man finish that way. Mr Limsee he very sorry. We catch that boy. Put han'cup behind, lika that way. My word he carn run away now. Chain alonga leg. Mr Limsee bi'mby send 'em down Cooktown. That fella no more come back. He go along Sen'eleena (St Helena penal establishment). Me bin think he bin get two years. Cap'n he carn stay. Two days that fella dead. He bin good mate, me sorry. Mr Limsee he very sorry. Good fella longa boy."

Once George illuminated his conversation with an aphorism. Describing a battle between the Tully River blacks and those of Clump Point, in which his mate, Tom of Dunk Island (leader of the Clump Point party), had been severely wounded, he said--"'Nother fella boy from outside, come up behind Tom. He no look out that way. That boy tchuk 'em boomerang.

Boomerang stick in leg belonga Tom. Tom no feel 'em first time. He stan'

up yet. Bi'mby when want walk about, tumble down. Look out. h.e.l.lo! see 'em boomerang alonga leg. He no more can walk about."

The boss remarked--"Might be long time, Tom feel 'em leg sore."

George--"Ah! me like see 'em kill alonga head. Finish 'em one time.

Danger nebber dead." Whether George wished to enforce the opinion that in battle nothing short of death was glorious, or that Tom though wounded was still valorous and would live to fight again, was not clear, but "Danger nebber dead," probably represents the only aboriginal aphorism extant.