The Little Black Princess

by
Jeannie Gunn

CONTENTS

[Chapter 1].- Bett-Bett
[Chapter 2].- ‘Shimy Shirts’
[Chapter 3].- ‘Shut-Him-Eye Quickfellow’
[Chapter 4].- ‘Me King Alright’
[Chapter 5].- ‘Goodfellow Missus’
[Chapter 6].- The ‘Debbil-Debbil’ Dance
[Chapter 7].- ‘Mumma A’ And ‘Mumma B’
[Chapter 8].- A ‘Walkabout’
[Chapter 9].- The Coronation ‘Playabout’
[Chapter 10].- ‘Looking-Out Lily-Root’
[Chapter 11].- ‘Newfellow Piccaninny Boy
[Chapter 12].- Goggle-Eye Sung ‘Deadfellow’
[Chapter 13].- Bett-Bett Is ‘Bush-Hungry’

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[Frontispiece]. — Old ‘No-More-Hearem’ Fishing
[Page 3]. — Bett-Bett And Sue
[Page 5]. — The Homestead
[Page 6]. — Belts Of Red Feathers To Please ‘Mr. Thunder-Debbil-Debbil—Bett-Bett’s ‘Shimy-Shirt’ Bag—Sticks For Procuring Fire
[Page 17]. — ‘Goggle-Eye Turned To Laugh’
[Page 27]. — ‘Dilly-Bags’ Used By Blackfellow Women In The Bush
[Page 33]. — Bett-Bett’s Favourite Quart Pot—Hank Of Hair For A Son-In-Law’s Use — Hobbles For The Horses
[Page 37]. — Dressing For The Debbil-Debbil Dance
[Page 39]. — Making His Legs Look Exactly Like The Figure 4
[Page 41]. — Goggle-Eye’s Belt And Tassel—Heads Of Bull-Roarers Or Corrobboree Sticks
[Page 43]. — The ‘Great-Great-Greatest Grandfather’ Of The Kangaroo Men
[Page 45]. — The ‘Great-Great-Greatest Grandfather’ Of The Iguana Men
[Page 60]. — Sea-Going Crocodiles Are ‘Cheeky-Fellow’
[Page 63]. — A Few Old Men At Home
[Page 73]. — A ‘ Poolooloomee’—Jimmy’s Union-Jack Apron—His ‘Gammon Letter-Stick’
[Page 79]. — Coolamuns
[Page 81]. — Murraweedbee At Home
[Page 82]. — Blackfellows’ Spears And Boomerangs
[Page 87]. — ‘Topsy’
[Page 89]. — Tonald’s Cradle
[Page 91]. — Boomerang And Throwing-Stick
[Page 95]. — ‘My Word, Missus! You Cheeky-Fellow Alright’
[Page 101]. — All Goggle-Eye’s Possessions, Which Were Buried With Him
[Page 103]. — Tree-Burial, South Of The Roper
[Page 107]. — Bett-Bett’s Wonderful, Lonely Palace
[Page 109.]— Map

The Little Black Princess

Chapter 1
Bett-Bett

Bett-Bett must have been a Princess, for she was a King’s niece, and if that does not make a Princess of any one, it ought to do so!

She didn’t sit—like fairy-book princesses—waving golden sceptres over devoted subjects, for she was just a little bush nigger girl or “lubra,” about eight years old. She had, however, a very wonderful palace—the great lonely Australian bush.

She had also: one devoted subject—a little speckled dog called Sue; one big trouble—“looking out tucker”; and one big fear—Debbil-debbils!

It wasn’t all fun being a black Princess, for nobody knew what terrible things might happen any minute—as you will see!

Once, when Bett-Bett and Sue were camped with some of the tribe on the Roper River, they were suddenly attacked by the Willeroo blacks, who were their very fiercest enemies. Everybody “ran bush” at once to hide, with the Willeroos full chase after them. In the fright and hurry-scurry Bett-Bett fell into the river, and at once decided to stay there, for in spite of crocodiles it was the safest place she could think of. She swam under the water to the steep banks, and caught hold of the roots of an old tree. Standing on this, she stuck her nose and mouth out of the water, in the shelter of a water-lily leaf, and there she stood for a long, long time without moving a muscle, her little naked black body looking exactly like one of the shadows.

When all was quiet and it was getting dark, she crept out, thinking she would be safe for the night. Sue at once came out from her hiding-place, and licking Bett-Bett’s hand, seemed to say:

“My word, that was a narrow escape, wasn’t it!” Bett-Bett spoke softly to her, and the two of them then hunted about to see if any “tucker” had been left behind.

Sue very soon found a piece of raw beef, and Bett-Bett made a fire in the scrub, so that nobody could see the smoke; then, while the supper was cooking, they crouched close to the warmth, for they felt very cold.

By and by the steak caught fire, and Bett-Bett picked it up between two sticks, and tried to blow it out. Finding she could not manage this, she laid it on the ground and threw a handful of earth on it, and at once the flames died away. She and Sue then grinned at each other as if to say, “Aren’t we clever? we know how to manage things, don’t we?” and were just settling down to enjoy their supper, when a dreadful thing happened—somebody grabbed Bett-Bett from behind and shouted out, “Hallo! what name you?”

Did you ever see a terribly frightened little black princess? I did, for I saw one then. I was “the Missus” from the homestead, and with the Boss, or “Maluka” (as the blacks always called him), was “out bush,” camping near the river. We had arrived just about sunset, and seeing nigger tracks had decided to follow them, and found Bett-Bett! Big Mac, one of the stockmen, was with us, and it was he who had caught hold of her, but if it had been an army of Debbil-debbils she could not have been more frightened.

“Nang ah! piccaninny,” I said, meaning “come here, little one.” I spoke as kindly as I could, and Bett-Bett saw at once that I was a friend.

She spoke to Sue and came, saying: “Me plenty savey Engliss, Missus!”

This surprised us all, for she looked such a wild little nigger. I asked her where she had learnt her “plenty savey Engliss,” and she answered, “Longa you boys,” meaning she had picked it up from our homestead boys.

After a little coaxing she told us the story of the Willeroos, and said “Dank you please, Missus,” very earnestly when I asked if she would like to sleep in our camp.

As we went up the bank I was amused to see that she was munching her beef. It takes more than a good fright to make a blackfellow let go his only chance of supper. After a big meal of “damper” and honey— “sugar-bag” she called it—she went to a puddle and smeared herself all over with mud, and when I asked why she did this she said: “Spose skeeto come on, him bite mud, him no more bite me meself,” and I thought her a very wise little person.

As soon as it became dark, she and Sue curled themselves up into a little heap near the fire, and fell asleep for the night.

In the morning I gave her a blue and white singlet that I had taken from one of the boys’ “swags”. She dressed herself in it at once, and looked just like a gaily-coloured beetle, with thin black arms and legs, but she thought herself very stylish, and danced about everywhere with Sue at her heels. All nigger dogs are ugly, but Sue was the ugliest of them all. She looked very much like a flattened out plum-pudding on legs, with ears like a young calf, and a cat’s tail!

As we sat at breakfast I asked Bett-Bett if any mosquitoes had bitten her in the night, “No more,” she said, and then added with a grin: “Big mob bin sing out, sing out.” She seemed pleased to think how angry they must have been when they found a mouthful of mud, instead of the juicy nigger they expected.

When we were ready to start for the homestead I asked Bett-Bett if she and Sue would like to come and live with me there. “Dank you please, Missus!” she answered, grinning with delight.

So Bett-Bett found a Missus, and I—well, I found a real nuisance! !

Chapter 2
“Shimy Shirts”

For at least a week after we reached the homestead, Bett-Bett was kept busy protecting Sue from the station dogs. We hadn’t been home an hour before we heard a fearful yell, and running to see what could have happened, found that all the dogs on the place had set on the poor little beast, and were trying to worry her to death.

With a shriek Bett-Bett flew to the rescue. As she ran she picked up a thick stick, and with it fought and hammered and screamed her way into the biting, yelping mob of dogs; then picking up the dusty little speckled ball, she fought and hammered and screamed her way out again to a place of safety. There she sat and crooned over Sue, who licked her face and tried to say—“How good you are, Bett-Bett.”

I don’t know how many fights we had altogether, for the dogs kept at it till they were tired of the fun, which was not before Sue was nearly in tatters.

While Bett-Bett was fighting these battles I was busy sewing, making clothes for her. To begin with, I made her a bright blue dress which pleased her very much, and the singlet was kept for a night-dress, for she would not part with it altogether. Then I made some little white petticoats which she called “Shimy Shirts.” When these were finished I began to make a red dress; but oh dear, the fuss she made! and the fright she got into! In funny pidgin English and with much waving of her arms, she said that if you had on a red dress when there was a thunderstorm the Debbil-debbil who made the thunder would “come on” and kill you “dead-fellow.” When I heard this, of course I made a pink dress, as I didn’t want the Thunder-Debbil-debbil to run off with her. Besides, he might have been angry with me for making red dresses for little native girls.

This Debbil-debbil is a funny sort of person, for although he gets furious if he sees a lubra dressed in red, it pleases him wonderfully to see an old blackfellow with as much red on as he can find. Do you know, if this Thunder-Debbil-debbil is roaring dreadfully, and happens to catch sight of an old man with plenty of red handkerchiefs, and scarves of red feathers tied round him, it puts him into such a good temper that he can’t help smiling, and then nobody gets hurt. But sometimes even a blackfellow with yards of red stuff wound round him can do nothing to quiet this raging Debbil-debbil; then everybody knows that the lubras have been wearing red dresses. Such wicked, selfish people deserve to be punished, and it’s quite a comfort to think that very soon Mr. Thunder-Debbil-debbil will get hold of them and “kill them deadfellow.” Of course, if anybody gets killed by mistake, it will be their fault, for they should have given all their red things to their husbands.

Billy Muck, one of the wise old men of the tribe, told Bett-Bett this fearful story. Bett-Bett was engaged to be married to Billy Muck, and it was his duty to teach her these things. I fancy Billy made it up, I don’t know; but the wise old men, who are supposed to know everything, have a cunning little way of telling awful tales about Debbil-debbils, so as to get the best things for themselves.

For ages upon ages the old men have told the young men and lubras that they must not eat fat turkeys, or the tail of the kangaroo, or indeed any of the best things that they find when hunting. If they do, a terrible thing will happen, for a big hunting Debbil-debbil will come on with a rush, and in a moment make them very old and weak. “Look at us!” cry the old rascals. “We eat these things, and behold, we are weak old men, with no strength to fight an enemy!” This looks so true that nobody—excepting the old men—cares about eating turkeys, and kangaroo tails, and such things.

Bett-Bett believed all these tales, for she was a little nigger, every bit of her. Like all niggers, she had such a generous heart that she could not bear to have anything good without sharing it with everybody. This was rather a nuisance, for as soon as her clothes were finished she wanted to give most of them to the other lubras.

“Him no more got goodfellow dress, Missus,” she said, almost crying, when I told her she must keep her clothes for herself. I didn’t know what to do; it seemed wrong to teach her to be greedy and selfish, so I had to say that I would make the lubras a new dress each.

This made everybody shriek with delight and for another week we had a merry time choosing colours, sewing dresses, and conducting dog fights. Fortunately the lubras said that “Shimy Shirts” were “silly fellow,” or I suppose I would have had to make enough of these to go round as well.

Among the things I had given Bett-Bett was a warm “bluey” or rug, and wrapped in this she and Sue slept on the bath-room floor every night. She preferred the floor to a bed, and was very funny about my spring mattress—“Him too muchee jump-up jump-up,” she said scornfully.

At bedtime, dressed in her gay singlet, she made her bed. First she spread her “bluey” out on the floor, and jumped and pranced wildly about till she had managed to fold it in four, Then she lifted a corner carefully, and she and Sue crept in like a pair of young opossums. While they were settling themselves the rug bulged and wobbled and wriggled so much, that it looked as though it were playing at earthquakes. At last, when all was quiet, two pairs of very bright eyes peeped out at the top of the bluey, looking for the supper biscuit that I always had ready. As soon as I offered it, out came a thin black arm, and then Bett-Bett, Sue and biscuit disappeared for the night.

It was no use trying to keep these two apart. They simply could not understand why they should not sleep together; so I told Bett-Bett that Sue must have plenty of baths, and that if I ever found one single tick on her, the little dog would have to be given a whipping.

The thought of such a fearful punishment for them both made Bett-Bett shiver with fear. She called Sue and told her all about it, and made her understand that she would have to lie still and be hunted in, so that every horrid little insect could be found and killed. So every day, and many times a day, they had a tick-hunt, and Bett-Bett managed to make a great game of it.

She talked to herself all the time, and pretended that the ticks were wicked people, and that she was a terrible Debbil-debbil, who caught them and killed them “dead-fellow.” How she did grin as she scrunched them between two stones.

One morning Bett-Bett was very quiet on the verandah, with Sue asleep beside her. I wondered what she was doing, and went out to see. She was busy unravelling threads from some pieces of rag, and I asked her what they were for. “Me makem string,” she answered, and taking up a few threads, stuck one of her thin little legs straight out in front of her. Pulling up her dress, she laid the threads on her thigh, and with the palm of her hand rolled them quickly backwards and forwards. In a few seconds she grinned and held up a little piece of string in her fingers.

I was very interested, and sat watching her till she had made quite a yard; then, to help to amuse her, gave her a big bundle of coloured scraps of rag.

After a day or two, she came and showed me a pretty little bag that she had made, by weaving and knotting this string together.

“You are a good little girl, Bett-Bett,” I said. “Now come and help me tidy your box.”

When her clean clothes were neatly in place, I found that the “Shimy Shirts” were all missing, and asked where they were.

“Me knock up longa Shimy Shirts,” Bett-Bett said with a grin, meaning that she was tired of wearing them.

“But where are they?” I said.

“Longa string,” she answered cheerfully. “Me bin make em.”

Then I knew that the piles of rag she had unravelled to make into string were her new “Shimy Shirts.”

I was really angry with her now, and set her to sew at a new one. She obeyed with such a cheerful grin that I began to feel quite mean for punishing her, for how could she understand that it was wrong to tear up her own things?

I was just going to tell her to run and play, when I heard a merry little chuckle from under the verandah. Looking to see what the fun was, I found that Bett-Bett was having a tick-hunt. She had just found an extra big one between Sue’s toes, which she dragged from its hiding-place and threaded on to her needle and cotton. As she held her thread up for me to admire, I saw that she had about a dozen of the horrid creatures, hanging down like a string of beads. I felt quite sick.

“Bett-Bett,” I said, “you have done enough sewing; take some soap, and go and give yourself and Sue a good bath.”

Off they went to the creek like a pair of gay young wallabies, hopping and skipping over everything.

In a few minutes they were both nearly white with soap lather, dancing a wild sort of corrobboree on an old tree trunk. The dance ended suddenly with a leap into “middle water,” as Bett-Bett called the deep holes.

They loved a bath, these two—“bogey,” the blacks call it—but neither of them would have soap on their faces.

“Him”—meaning the soap—“bite eye belonga me,” Bett-Bett explained.

Chapter 3
“Shut-Him-Eye Quick-Fellow”

The King we were talking about—Bett-Bett’s uncle, you know—was called by the tribe Ebimel Wooloomool. The white people had nicknamed him “Goggle Eye,” and he was very proud of his “whitefellow name,” as he called it. You see, he didn’t know what it meant.

He didn’t have a golden sceptre. Australian kings never do; but he had what was quite as deadly—a “Magic Death-bone.” If you had been up to mischief, breaking the laws, or doing anything wrong, it was wise to keep out of his way; for every blackfellow knew that if he “sang” this bone and pointed it at you, you would very quickly die.

The white man says you die of fright; but as it is the bone-pointing that gives the fright, it’s the bone-pointing that kills, isn’t it? But I’ll tell you more about this by and bye.

The first time I met Goggle Eye, he was weeding my garden, and I didn’t know he was a King; I thought he was just an ordinary blackfellow. You see he didn’t have a crown, and as he was only wearing a tassel and a belt made from his mother-in-law’s hair, it was no wonder I made the mistake. It takes a good deal of practice to tell a King at a glance—when he’s naked and pulling up weeds.

I didn’t like having even naked Kings about the homestead, so I said—

“Goggle Eye, don’t you think you had better have some more clothes on?”

He grinned and looked very pleased, so I gave him a pair of blue cotton trousers. He put them on at once, without even troubling to go behind a bush, and asked my advice as to which leg he had better put in first. I gave him all the help I could and at last had him safely into them, right side out, and the front where it ought to be.

We gardened for a while, the old nigger and I, but as the sun became hotter I noticed that he kept pulling his trousers up over his knees. At last he sat down and took one leg right out.

“What’s the matter, Goggle Eye?” I asked. “Don’t you like your trousers?”

“Him bite me longa knee,” he answered, meaning that they pinched him under the knee; then picking up his hoe again he worked till dinner time with one leg in and one out, and the trunk of the trousers fixed in some extraordinary way to his belt. After dinner he took both legs out and worked with the trousers dangling in front of him.

“Too muchee hot fellow,” he explained. Next morning he was dressed in his cool and airy tassel and belt, and nothing else.

“Where are your trousers, Goggle Eye?” I asked, and, “Me bin knock up longa trousa,” was all he said.

A few days afterwards I met his lubra with a tucker-bag made of one of the legs; so I wasted no more trousers on his Majesty the King.

I was always ready to listen to any old blackfellow telling about the strange laws and customs of the tribe. Very soon Goggle Eye found this out, and as sitting in the shade, yarning, suited the old rascal much better than gardening, we had many a long gossip.

I never laughed at their strange beliefs. I found them wonderfully interesting, for I soon saw that under every silly little bit of nonsense was a great deal of good sense. At first it appears great nonsense to tell the young men that fat turkeys and kangaroo tails will make them old and weak; but it does not seem so silly when we know that it is only a blackfellow’s way of providing for old age.

When Goggle Eye found that I never made fun of the laws that he thought so good and wise, he would tell me almost anything that I wanted to know. I was a particular friend of his, but he was not at all pleased with me for bringing Bett-Bett to the homestead; in fact, he was quite cross about it. He said he was her “little bit father,” and seemed to think that explained everything. By “little bit father” he meant he was her father’s brother, or cousin, or some near relation of his. I really could not see what difference it made, if he was her uncle, I just thought him a very disagreeable old man, and soon forgot all about it.

About a week after, Bett-Bett and I were gardening, and I sent her to the store-room for a hammer, so that I could fix up some creepers. While she was gone his Majesty the King came along, and I kept him to help me.

As Bett-Bett came back round the corner of the house, she saw him and shut her eyes at once, and of course the next minute bumped her head on one of the verandah posts.

“Open your eyes, you foolish child,” I called, for with them still tightly shut she was feeling her way into the house.

“Can’t longa Goggle Eye,” she answered, and dropping the hammer on the ground, slipped through the doorway.

“Bring me the hammer, Goggle Eye,” I said, turning to him, only to find that his eyes were shut too.

“You silly old thing,” I said, “playing baby-tricks,” for I thought they were having a game of something like white children’s “saw you last;” “bring me that hammer at once, I can’t stand on this ladder all day.” But he would not move or open his eyes till I told him that Bett-Bett had gone away. When we had finished the creeper, I sent him to the creek for a bucket of water and called Bett-Bett to come and pull up weeds. She came, but as she worked kept one eye on the creek, and the minute that Goggle Eye’s head appeared over the banks, walked towards the house.

“Bett-Bett,” I said sternly, “stay here,” for I was tired of their silly games.

“Can’t, Missus,” she answered, stopping but shutting her eyes. “Goggle Eye little bit father belonga me.”

“I can’t help that,” I said, losing all patience. “Stay here, I want you both.”

She stayed, but old Goggle Eye stopped short. He called a lubra, who came and shrieked out something, and Bett-Bett crying: “Must, Missus, straightfellow,” ran round the house to the far side.

“Whatever is the matter with you all?” I said, for I saw now they were not playing a game. “Come here, Goggle Eye, and tell me what this all means. And, Bett-Bett, you stay where you are.”

His Majesty came, and sitting down under the verandah, began to tell of one of the strangest customs that the blacks have.

The wise men of the tribe, he explained, have always taught that you must never, never look at any little girl or lubra if you are her “little-bit-father,” or “little-bit-brother,” or any near relation to her. You must not even speak to her, or listen to her voice, unless she is so far off that you cannot see her face. “That far—” said Goggle Eye, pointing to a tree about one hundred yards away.

I was very interested and asked him what would happen if he broke this law. He answered earnestly: “Spose me look, Debbil-debbil take away eye; spose me listen, Debbil-debbil take away ear; spose me talk, Debbil-debbil take away tongue.”

“Dear me,” I said, “that would be unpleasant,” and then I asked him why the Debbil-debbils didn’t come and catch him when he was talking to Maudie. She, I knew, was his sister, and he often spoke to her. He looked at me very scornfully,

“Him bin come on first time, me bin come on beehind,” he said, meaning that she had been born first. She had started first for the world, and he had come on beehind her, and so she was his eldest sister. Evidently the Debbil-debbils allow you to talk to your eldest sister.

When I asked what would happen if he turned a corner suddenly, and, without meaning to, saw his “little-bit-somebody-he-shouldn’t,” he answered wisely:

“Spose me shut him eye quickfellow, that all right.”

“Ebimel Wooloomool,” I said, giving him his full name, which always pleased him, “you blackfellows plenty savey.”

He smiled a kingly smile at this, and when I asked him if he would like some flour to make a damper for his supper said, “Dank you please, Missus,” and followed me to the store with a dirty old “billy-can” in his hand. I gave him some flour and he carried it down to his camp-fire at the creek. In five minutes he was back with it. “Missus,” he said, looking the very picture of misery, “me bin spill him water longa flour; damper no good now,” and he held out his billy-can, and showed me a fearful sloppy-looking wet mess.

“Dear me!” I said, “you’ve put too much water into it.”

“You eye,” he whined, “me bin spilt him, Missus.”

“Never mind,” I said, “I’ll stiffen it up for you,” and he positively beamed, as I added some more flour. To my surprise, he was back again in a few minutes, saying:

“Missus! Me bin spill him nuzzer time.”

Then I saw what he was scheming for. He wanted a big damper.

“You old rogue,” I said, “what do you mean, playing tricks on your Missus like this? You know you are doing it on purpose.”

He looked so astonished at being found out that I could not help laughing at him, and ended by stiffening his damper for him again.

He grinned into his tin with a very knowing air as he walked away, for he knew quite well that I was amused at his cuteness. When he reached the creek, he turned back to laugh at me, and I called:

“Good-bye, Goggle Eye; next time you spoil your damper, you can mend it by yourself.”

Chapter 4
“Me King Alright”

How to punish Bett-Bett puzzled me more than anything. I often excused her naughty tricks because I thought she knew no better, but in certain things I was determined she should obey. The hardest work of all was to stop her from chewing tobacco. When I told her she must not, she smiled sweetly, and the very first chance she got begged pieces of “chewbac” from the lubras.

Whipping her was no good, for I couldn’t hurt her a little bit. I only seemed to tickle her.

“You too muchee little fellow, Missus!” she explained, cheerfully.

Any other punishment she got nothing but fun out of.

I gave her sewing to do, and she threaded ticks on to her needle and cotton.

I gave her bread and water for dinner, and she and Sue caught water-rats, and Bett-Bett made a fire and cooked them. In fact, they had a splendid picnic.

I took Sue away from her, and chained her up; but the little dog howled so dismally that I was more punished than Bett-Bett.

I shut her in the bath-room by herself. She always called it the “bogey-house,” and she pretended that she was hiding from her enemies, and told Sue awful tales of Willeroo blacks, through the cracks under the door.

I could think of nothing else, and was at my wits’ end; but the ever-cheerful Bett-Bett continued to chew tobacco.

In despair, I had almost decided to send her back to the bush, when she suggested a fearful punishment herself, of course without meaning to do so.

I was busy painting some shelves one morning, and allowed Bett-Bett to help. She enjoyed it very much, and spattered herself and the ground for yards around with daubs of white. By and by the heat and the smell of the paint made us both sick. Bett-Bett was very bad, and thought she was going to die. “Me close up dead-fellow, Missus,” she moaned. Poor little mite! she had never been sick before, and thought that her inside was coming right out. When she was well again, she asked me what had made her so ill, and I said it was the paint.

Next day she was singing like a young skylark, and chewing away at a piece of tobacco between times.

I was very angry indeed with her, and deciding to send her “bush,” called sternly, “Come here at once, Bett-Bett.”

To my surprise she screamed and cried out,

“No more, Missus. Me goodfellow; spose you no more make me whitefellow longa paint.”

I saw at once what she was afraid of. I had the paint-pot and brush in my hands, and she thought I was going to paint her, to make her sick for punishment. I put them down, and told her to come to me.

“Bett-Bett,” I said, “will you be a good girl if I don’t paint you this time?”

“You eye, Missus; straightfellow,” she sobbed.

“And you will not chew tobacco?” I added.

“No more, Missus; straightfellow,” she said, promising “straightfellow,” or “honour bright.”

“Very well,” I said, putting down the brush; “I will not paint you to-day.” After that I had very little trouble with her, for the sight of the paint-pot made her as good as gold.

Bett-Bett loved polishing the silver, particularly the biscuit-barrel, which she called “little-fellow billy-can belonga biscuit.” One morning we were busy with it on the verandah, when a shout from the lubras of “Goggle Eye come on” made Bett-Bett scurry round the house like a young rabbit. It was always like this, and I began to wish the blacks would be less particular about falling in love with their relations.

As he came along, I saw he had a headache, for he had his wife’s waist-belt round his head. It is wonderful how quickly a wife’s belt or hair-ribbon will charm away a headache. It only fails when she has been up to mischief of any sort. Of course when a lubra’s belt does not cure her husband, he knows she has been naughty, and punishes her as she deserves. The lubras say that the belts do not always speak the truth, but the men say they do. Whichever way it is, they are mean, horrid tell-tales.

I told Goggle Eye I was sorry for him, and as he really looked ill, I gave him a dose of Epsom salts to help the belt-cure, and to save Mrs. Goggle Eye, the Queen, from a beating. He took it, and then sitting down under the verandah, nursed his head in his hands—a poor forlorn old king! As he sat with his back to me, I saw a peculiar mark on his shoulder that I had not noticed before, and wondered what it meant.

All blackfellows have thick, ugly scars up and down and across their bodies and limbs, but Goggle Eye had more than most men.

He told me once that he had made a great many of them himself with a stone knife. After his first corrobboree he had cut himself a good deal to show the tribe that he was a man now, and not afraid of pain. Of course when any near relatives had died, he had cut himself all over his arms and thighs, to let the Spirit know that he was truly and properly sorry. Whenever a blackfellow dies, all his friends cut themselves a little, but his near relations gash themselves terribly, because if the Spirit thinks they are not sorry enough, he will very likely send Debbil-debbils along to punish them for their hardness of heart.

After a good long “cry cry,” the wise men say that the Spirit is satisfied—I don’t know how they tell—and then everybody rubs hot ashes into the wounds. This heals them very quickly, but it makes the scars into big ugly weals that will never fade away.

Goggle Eye would talk about this as often as I liked to listen, but whenever I asked him the meaning of the marks on his back or shoulders, he always answered, “Nuzzing,” and either changed the subject or walked away.

Now when a blackfellow says “Nuzzing” like that, it simply means that he is not going to tell, for when he really does not understand the meaning of a law or custom, he answers:

“All day likee that,” which means that his fathers did it, and so must he, even if he has forgotten why.

After a while, I saw Goggle Eye feeling among his thick curly hair for his pipe, and I guessed his headache was better. When he found it, he filled it ready for a smoke, and I remarked that Mrs. Goggle Eye must be a very good lubra. He smiled approval, and said, “My word!” and I thought that if Mrs. Goggle Eye had known everything, she would have given “three cheers for good old Epsom!”

As he sat puffing at his pipe, I wondered if these extra marks had anything to do with his being King, but knew if I asked questions he would go away. Instead, I showed him a picture of King Edward VII., and told him that he wore a crown to show that he was King.

He liked this very much, and said so, and then smoked on in silence. At last, pointing to his right arm, he said:

“Me King alright,”

“My word!” I said, “I think you big mob King.”

This pleased the vain old chap immensely.

“Me plenty savey corrobboree,” he chuckled, rubbing his hands up and down his back; “me savey all about corrobboree.”

“My word!” I said, to show my great admiration. “Tell me, Goggle Eye,” I added.

He hesitated for a while, and then told me that when a blackfellow has been through a corrobboree, his teachers put a mark on him, to show that he understands all about it—a certificate for the examination, I suppose! Of course a great number of marks mean a great deal of knowledge; so it was no wonder that Goggle Eye was proud of his. As he felt his certificates he chuckled,

“Big mob sit down longa me.”

Corrobborees are really the books of a tribe, for they have no others. They are not just dancing picnics, as some people think, but lessons, and very hard lessons too, sometimes.

The old men are the teachers, and the Head Man is the Head Master. They teach the young men all they should know—how to point “death-bones,” the best way to “sing” people dead, the way to scare Debbil-debbils away with bull roarers and sacred stones, all the laws about marriage, the proper things to eat, how to make rain, and I can’t tell what else.

The man who proves in a great many ways that he understands all he should, will one day be King and Head Master. A black king is not king because his father was so.

As I listened to Goggle Eye’s explanation of all this, I thought how necessary it was to have a wise king, since he has the care of the special “death-bones,” and “pointing-sticks,” and all the sacred charms. No one knows what terrible things might happen to the tribe if any one touched these magic charms who did not know how to use them. Why, he might set a death-bone working, and not be able to stop it till everybody was dead, or make a mistake and invite Debbil-debbils to come and chivvy everybody about, when he was meaning to tell them to stay away. It really is too fearful to think what might happen with a foolish king!

When Goggle Eye stopped talking, I asked him what the peculiar marks on his shoulder meant.

“What name this one talk, Goggle Eye?” I said, touching it with my finger.

He was just trying to decide whether it would be all right to tell a white woman what a black lubra must not hear, when a wretched little Willy-Waggletail flew into the verandah after spiders.

No blackfellow will talk secrets with one of these little birds about. They say they are the tell-tales of the bush, and are always spying about, listening for bits of gossip to make mischief. They call them “Jenning-gherries,” or mischief-makers, and say that they love mischief of all kinds.

“Jenning-gherrie come on,” said Goggle Eye, pointing to the little flitting, flirting bird, and I knew I should hear no more that day.

“Very well,” I said, and giving him a stick of “chewbac,” sent him back to his camp, and called Bett-Bett.

She came, carrying old “Solomon Isaacs,” our white cockatoo, on her wrist, and asked me why he had not got any legs.

“But he has,” I said. “He has two,” and I touched them to show her.

“No, Missus,” she said, “him hands,” and to prove that they were hands, she showed me that he was holding a biscuit in one of them as he nibbled at it.

“Perhaps he has one leg and one hand,” I suggested, saying that it was his leg he was standing on, and that his hand was the one with the biscuit in it.

That satisfied her, and she was just going off to play, when the miserable creature changed its biscuit into the other claw.

“Him twofellow hands, Missus,” she said, coming back to argue it all out again. Fortunately “cocky” changed the subject, by passing a few remarks about himself and the weather. Bett-Bett listened for a while, and then informed me that a white man’s spirit had jumped into “Solomon Isaacs” when he was born, and that was why he could talk. Billy Muck knew, and had said so.

Before I could think of anything to say, the gramaphone in the men’s quarters began to play, and she and Cocky went off to listen, and I had a little peace. When she came back she told me that a “white missus” and some whitefellow bosses were in the men’s rooms. I wondered whoever they could be, for “white misuses” were rather scarce “out bush,” and I hurried over to the quarters to make the lady welcome. I found no one there excepting the stockmen, and they said that no travellers at all had arrived, not even men.

I called Bett-Bett and asked where she had seen the “White Missus” and the travellers. She said she hadn’t seen them, she had only heard them singing.

“Him there, Missus,” she said, pointing to the gramaphone. “I bin hear him sing-sing.” Then she wanted to know how they had got in, and what they had to eat, “Which way whitefellow sit down, Missus?” she asked, peering down the funnel of the gramaphone, and screwing up her comical little nose as she tried to shut one eye.

“I don’t know, Bett-Bett,” I said, tired of answering questions. “Come for a walk-about in the paddocks.”

Off she scampered to collect the lubras, and by the time I arrived at the gate, they were all waiting for me with their “dilly bags.” I was the pupil, and they were the teachers, and my lessons were most interesting. They tried to teach me the tracks of animals, how to tell if they were new or old, where every bird built its nest, what it built it of, and how many eggs it laid, where to look for crocodiles’ eggs, and where the Bower-bird danced. They knew the tracks of every horse on the run, and every blackfellow of the tribe, and if they came on a stranger’s track, they knew the tribe he belonged to. They tried hard to teach me this, but try as I would, I could never see any difference, excepting in the size. They were very patient teachers, and I tried my very best; but I suppose I had not a blackfellow’s sight for tiny differences, and I failed dismally, I couldn’t even learn the tracks of my own lubras.

We all enjoyed the walk-abouts, and generally had a good time. This afternoon we found all sorts of queer prizes, and were coming home with them, when we came on Goggle Eye’s tracks, going in our homeward direction.

Bett-Bett simply refused to go any further, and so we had to take a short-cut through the scrub. By bad luck we came on his Majesty himself, just as we came up from the creek. He and Bett-Bett shut their eyes at once, and felt their way with outstretched hands. The path was very narrow, and as they groped about, I wondered what would happen if they bumped together, Perhaps Debbil-debbils would have come with a whizz, and would have left nothing but a little smoke!

Chapter 5
“Goodfellow Missus”

It was washing-day, and we were all delighted. So would you have been if you had been there; for when washing is done by black lubras the fun is always fast and furious.

Directly after breakfast, which was usually at sunrise, there was a wild scramble among the bundles of soiled clothes, followed by a go-as-you-please race to the billabong or water-hole. Each lubra, as she ran, looked like a big snowball with twinkling black legs; while perched on top of two or three of the snowballs sat little shiny-black piccaninnies. Bett-Bett had not had many washing-days, and that accounts for her being last with the stocking-bag. As they reached the creek every one dropped her bundle, slipped off her clothes and began the day’s work by taking a header into the water.

When I came along I threw big pieces of soap at them, and they all ducked and dived to dodge it, and when they came up they all ducked and dived again to find it.

“Now,” I said, sitting down in the shade of some pandanus palms, “come and begin, and wash the clothes very clean to-day.”

“You eye, Missus,” they all answered, as they scrambled out up the banks.

“And don’t play too much,” I added. At least, what I really did say was, “No more all day play-about.”

“You eye, Missus,” they all said again, but grinned at each other. They knew as well as I did that as long as the work was well done, I would let them play over it as much as they liked. You see, I was what white people would call a “bad mistress;” but the blacks called me a “goodfellow Missus,” and would do anything I wanted without a murmur.

They began to sort the clothes very seriously; but before half-a-minute had passed Bett-Bett and Judy were having a tug-of-war with a sheet, and everybody else was standing up to scream and shout. It was most exciting, particularly when Bett-Bett suddenly let go, and Judy and sheet took a double somersault into the water. As soon as her head came up every one pelted her with soap, which was the first thing that came handy. Then of course they all had to dive in to find it before they could go on with the washing. There is one thing a blackfellow can do perfectly, and that is to make hard work into play.

After all sorts of pranks, the clothes were sorted, and then every one climbed along an old tree trunk that had fallen into the water. There they sat, six naked lubras in a row, and rubbed and scrubbed and soaped, till the clothes looked like wet frothy balls, and the tree trunk was as slippery as an eel.

As they scrubbed, they kept up a perpetual sort of pillow fight with sloppy balls of clothes, knocking each other off the tree, till often there were more Lubras in the water than out of it. It certainly is a good plan to take your clothes off on washing-day in the tropics.

When everything was washed, the rinsing began; and if you like real fun, it’s a pity you were not there.

The sheets and big things were done first. After they had been carefully spread out on top of the water, every one climbed up the banks and took flying leaps into them. Down they went to the bottom wrapped up in a sheet or tablecloth, there to kick and splash till they came to the top again. The first person out of the tangle ducked the others as they came up, or else swam off up the creek with a sheet, which still had one lubra half rolled up in it, and two or three others hanging on to it.

And the babies? The little shiny-black piccaninnies? They just played and rolled over each other on the banks. Every now and then one would roll into the water, only to swim out again, or to dogpaddle after its mother.

And what were Sue and I doing all this time? We were sitting in the warm, pleasant shade, enjoying the washing circus, and wondering why everybody wasn’t drowned three or four times over. Blackfellows evidently can’t drown.

When the rinsing was finished, and the clothes were “cooking,” as we called boiling, the lubras put on their dresses and came and sat down near me. They knew well enough that I should have something good for them to eat. Canned fruit or sweet biscuit were always voted “goodfellow,” but there was nothing so good as treacle—“blackfellow sugarbag,” you know.

It was treacle to-day, and as every one lay laughing, smoking and resting, the tin was passed round and round. Very thin, bony, black fingers went in, and very fat, juicy black fingers came out, and were put into grinning, happy mouths, Sue getting a lick from Bett-Bett’s, every turn.

“Do you like washing-days, Bett-Bett?” I asked, as she sat waiting for another dig into the tucker.

“My word!” she grinned, dragging a crawling piccaninny from the treacle-tins by its legs.

Biddy interfered at once, by putting the baby’s little fist into the sticky stuff. It was her piccaninny, you see, and engaged to be married to Goggle Eye!

“Biddy,” I said, as she bent forward to push the baby’s treacly fingers into its open mouth, “haven’t you cut your hair rather short?” I had noticed the day before how pretty and curly it was, but now it was like a convict’s.

“Goggle Eye bin talk,” she answered, meaning that he had told her to cut it. That was all she said, for she knew I would understand, you see; she was Goggle Eye’s mother-in-law, and so all her hair or most of it belonged to him. Whenever it grew nice and long, he told her to cut it off and make him some string, and she had to obey. It was a bit of a nuisance being a mother-in-law.

I’m sure Billy Muck often wished that I was his mother-in-law, for he saw me drying my hair in the sun one day, and knew it was nice and long.

“My word, Missus!” he said, “big mob hair sit down longa you cobra,” meaning, “what a lot of hair you’ve got on your head.” Just think what lovely belts and things he would have ordered me to make, if only I had been his mother-in-law; but I wasn’t, and I’m sure Billy Muck was the only person who was really sorry about it.

Bett-Bett was Jimmy’s mother-in-law. Of course she wasn’t married yet, only engaged to Billy Muck; but that did not matter. She was Jimmy’s mother-in-law, and when she did grow up and have a piccaninny, it was to be his wife. In the meantime, nobody else could have her spare hair.

Common string is all right for common things, but charms and belts and special things must have hair-string, or they won’t keep Debbil-debbils away properly. This way of having the mother-in-law’s hair divides the hair of the tribe very evenly, as every man has two or three mothers-in-law.

When the treacle was finished, Sue began to dig a hole to lie down in. As she dug, she scratched up a little red and yellow worm. With a yell all the lubras grabbed hold of the poor little dog, and nearly pulled her in pieces in their hurry to get her away. Then they all shrieked and jabbered, and pointed at the scraggy wriggling thing, while Sue sat just where they had thrown her, too astonished to move.

“Well,” I said, “that worm won’t eat us, will it?”

“Him Rainbow Debbil-debbil,” they shrieked, shaking with fear at Sue’s narrow escape.

“Nonsense,” I said; “it’s only a worm.”

But they insisted that it was a baby Rainbow.

“Him piccaninny Rainbow alright,” they cried.

“Don’t be so silly,” I said, and bent forward to pick it up in my fingers; but they yelled their very best at this, and caught hold of my arms.

“Very well,” I said; “come and tell me all about it, and what a baby Rainbow is doing down here.”

We all moved to a place of safety, and they explained that what we call hailstones are really Rainbow’s eggs, and that they fall on the ground and hatch into worms— I mean baby Rainbows! The wise men of the tribe say it is so, and of course they know everything. This is how they found out:—many years ago a great number of hailstones fell, which is a very unusual thing on the Roper River; every one was afraid to touch them, for they didn’t know what they were; so they sat and looked at them in wonder until they had all burrowed into the ground—“melted,” the whites call it! Now this looked very strange, and after a great deal of talking, one very brave old blackfellow dug a hole to see what was happening underneath. Instead of hailstones, he found brightly-coloured little creatures—worms, of course—creeping about in the wet earth. Every one looked at them and said they were very like little Rainbows, and that they must have hatched out of the hailstones, which could be nothing else but Rainbow’s eggs. Of course everybody knew, before, that the grown-up Rainbow is a Debbil-debbil snake who lives in the Roper River, and that he kindly takes care of the fish supply for the blackfellows. He is very good, and allows you to catch as many fish as you can eat, but he can’t bear to see any wasted. He gets dreadfully angry if he knows that any one has been spearing fish for fun, and leaving them to rot on the banks. I don’t wonder at his anger, for if everybody did that, soon there would be no fish left.

He and his wife often go for a stroll together in the sky. He is red and yellow in colour, and she is blue. It is while they are strolling about that they catch the guilty people. They pick them up before they can say “Jack Robinson,” and carry them off to the Roper River—and feed the fish upon their bodies.

When I heard that the worm was really a baby Rainbow, I felt very thankful that I had not hurt it, for it would be awful to be chased by an angry Mother Debbil-debbil Rainbow!

After such a narrow escape we thought that under the palm trees was not a very safe place, so we went and finished the washing and spread everything out to dry, and then began the fun of chasing the grasshoppers, lest they should settle on the clothes and eat holes in them. As the lubras darted about, here and there, the scene looked more like a Sunday-school picnic than a washing-day. It certainly sounded like one.

Blacks are blacks, and whites are whites, and as I looked from the merry black faces to the clean white clothes, I knew their way of working was best—for them, at any rate, so I kept on being a “bad mistress” and a “goodfellow Missus,” and we all enjoyed washing day —all except Sue! The fun was too wet for her, and besides it always made her think of worms—Rainbows, I mean!

My friends used to wonder why I was not lonely, a hundred miles from any white neighbours, and I used to wonder if any one could be lonely with a perpetual circus and variety show on the premises.

Chapter 6
The “Debbil-Debbil” Dance

We were going to a Debbil-debbil dance. The King himself had brought the invitation to me in the garden.

“Missus,” he said, “spose you come longa Debbil-debbil dance, eh?”

“No, thank you, Goggle Eye,” I answered. “Might it the Debbil-debbils carry me off?”

He roared with delight at my joke and explained, “this one gammon Debbil-debbil.”

“Oh well,” I said, “if you are only going to have gammon Debbil-debbils at your party, I come.”

“Dank you please, Missus,” he said, guessing at my meaning.

Then he asked if I would go and see the dancers being dressed for the performance, and I said I would, for I always like to see a blackfellow getting into clothes of any sort. I went in the afternoon and watched, noticing directly I arrived that two of the gentlemen had headaches. Poor Bett-Bett had to stay at home because of Goggle Eye. It took two or three men to dress one dancer properly. They laid him flat on his back to begin with, and pricked him all over with sharp stones and pieces of glass. As they sat pricking Billy Muck, they reminded me of cooks pricking sausages for frying.

When little beads of blood oozed out, they were smeared all over the man, face and all. Then tiny white cockatoo’s feathers were stuck up and down and round and round him, and the blood was used as gum. They made wonderful patterns all over his body, back and front, ending up with twirligigs down both arms and legs. The gum stuck splendidly; if you want to find out how well blood sticks, cut your finger and tie it up with cotton wool.

The face also was covered with down, and a huge helmet, with a long horn of emu’s quills, was fixed firmly on the head.

The finishing touch was a wreath of leaves at each ankle. Ordinary leaves were not nearly good enough for a Debbil-debbil dance. So special magic men, and some extra special lubras, went “out bush,” and bewitched a tree with all sorts of capers, and prancings, and pointings and magic. Then they gathered some leaves and carried them in for the dancers to wear. It was wise to do this, for then nothing could possibly go wrong with the corrobboree.

By the time everybody was dressed, they looked truly awful; and I pleased them immensely by pretending to be frightened of these “gammon Debbil-debbils.”

I begged them not to carry me off, and they shouted with delight, and waved sticks at me, and danced about and said, “Me Debbil-debbil alright, me real fellow,” and tried hard to look fierce in spite of their grins. Poor old Goggle Eye was nearly bent double with laughing; for if there is one thing a blackfellow likes better than anything else it is a “play-about,” as they call fun and nonsense.

After supper we arrived at the party—four white men and a woman! The moon had risen, and innumerable fires were flickering among the trees; and everything was ready to begin.

His Majesty the King, and the Lords in Waiting, received us with a broad grin. Then they each stood on one leg and chuckled. Whenever a blackfellow has nothing better to do with his legs, he always stands on one, and lays the sole of the other foot against his knee, making his legs look exactly like the figure 4, with an extra long stem. I think our hosts chuckled because they did not know what else to do.

I thought, perhaps, that some of the old men might not be too pleased to have me at the party, and I said so to Goggle Eye. “Me bin talk,” he answered, with a wave of his hand, that showed he was in every way King.

The lubras were sitting near, ready to sing and beat time for the dancers. I think in the excitement of getting ready for the party, they must have forgotten to dress themselves, for they had nothing on, excepting a few feathers and things that had been left over from the men’s costumes. As nobody seemed to notice this, I suppose it did not matter.

A great big place had been cleared of all sticks and stones, and the whole tribe and their visitors stood round it, armed with spears. This particular patch of ground was near to a very sacred stone, and unless this corrobboree was danced there it would not be of much good. That was why it was so near the homestead.

The lubras began to sing a strange weird song, and a few blackfellows sounded the bamboo trumpets, and then the dancing commenced. It was very tiring both to dancers and onlookers. Up every one lifted a leg, and down every one stamped a leg and gave a fearful yell; then Billy Muck, who was a little way off from the dancers, gave a jump and a little run—and that was the First Figure!

Up went the legs again, and down went the legs again; we heard another yell, and Billy Muck gave another jump and run—and that was the Second Figure.

The Third Figure was just the same, and so were the Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, and as many more as you liked to count.

“What name, Goggle Eye?” I asked, meaning that I wished him to explain it to me.

He said this was to teach the young men of the tribe that Debbil-debbils would chase them if they did wrong. You see the dancers were supposed to be fearful Debbil-debbils and were pretending to catch Billy Muck. They kept acting this object lesson for nearly two hours, and the old men explained what it meant to the pupils, but I got very tired of it.

I amused myself with watching the lubras as they sang and swayed about, noticing after a while that Bett-Bett was among them, singing and swaying and having a real good all-round time. She must have crept along after us, but as she was sitting with her back to Goggle Eye and his eyes were fixed on the dancers, I suppose it was all right. Anyway no Debbil-debbils came along.

Suddenly there was a wild weird shriek, quite near us. It came so unexpectedly, and was so unearthly, that I jumped and thought of Bett-Bett and Goggle Eye and Debbil-debbils. Everything was so strange around us, that I believe if they had been carried off I should have looked on without any surprise.

Every one stopped singing and dancing, and Goggle Eye whispered that it was the voice of the great sacred Bullroarer, calling to say that it was time to take the young boys away into the bush. There were four or five of them at this corrobboree, and they were to be taught their first real lesson to-night. After it they would be kept away by themselves, in a special camp “out bush,” and when they came back they would be treated as men.

The Bullroarer is a spindle-shaped piece of sacred stone, and when swung round and round above the head with a string, it shrieks and screams and groans. Only the wise men may touch it, and of course they are the only people who really understand all it says. Every man has an imitation bullroarer, which he often swings to make it speak, for this pleases the Debbil-debbil spirit of the sacred Bullroarer. After the voice of the Debbil-debbil had spoken, a few of the very important people began to slip away, to prepare for the real corrobboree; for the dance was only a sort of introduction.

Goggle Eye gave us a hint to go home, and we took it; we had our revolvers with us, but it is always wise to take a blackfellow’s hint, particularly when he says that a very secret, sacred corrobboree is about to begin.

As we said good-night, Goggle Eye and old Jimmy presented me with two extraordinary-looking broad flat sticks, with black streaks and white dots on them.

“Him goodfellow-stick, that one,” they explained, and it was not till some time after that I found out they had paid me the very highest compliment a blackfellow can pay a “white missus,” for no ordinary woman is allowed even to look at these sticks.

I often wish I had said “Dank you, please,” a little more politely and gratefully for them. A few mornings after the Debbil-debbil Dance, I saw Goggle Eye hide something behind an ant-bed, and then walk up to the house. When he saw me he asked if he might “go bush” for a walk-about, as he was needed at a corrobboree at Duck Creek. I asked him how long he would be away and he said, “One fellow, two fellow, big mob sleep,” meaning that he would be away for a great number of nights or sleeps before he had finished his business.

Then he showed me a little bit of stick with notches on it, and said it was a blackfellow’s letter-stick, or as he called it, a “yabber-stick.” It was round, not flat like most other letters, and was an invitation to a corrobboree, and there were notches on it explaining what sort of corrobboree it was, and saying that it was to be held at Duck Creek. There was some other news marked on it which Goggle Eye told me, and then he sold it to me for some “chewbac,” and I have it to-day, and anyone may see it who wishes. Then he sat down for a yarn, and I asked him why Jackeroo would never eat turkey, and why he always said he mustn’t eat it, because it was his brother.

Goggle Eye said, that was quite right, and that turkeys were Jackeroo’s brothers, for he and turkeys both had turkey spirits inside them, and of course no one could eat his brother. Everybody has the spirit of some animal inside him, he said. If you have a kangaroo spirit, you belong to the kangaroo family or totem; and you must not eat your brothers the kangaroos. If you have a snake’s or an eagle’s spirit, you belong to the snake’s or eagle’s family, and do not eat your brothers the snakes or the eagles. Whatever spirit you may have, you belong to its family or totem, and they are your brothers, and you do not eat them. “All day likee that,” said old Goggle Eye.

I asked him how each person knew which spirit was inside him, and he said that their mothers told them. You see, she knew where she had “caught” her piccaninny. If a piccaninny came to her in a snake’s-spirit country, it had a snake spirit, and if it came to her in a kangaroo’s-spirit country, it had a kangaroo’s spirit, and so on. It all depended on where you came from. It didn’t matter what your mother and father were; your mother might have a snake’s spirit, and your father might have a wallaby’s spirit; but if you came from a cockatoo’s-spirit country, you had to have a cockatoo’s spirit; just as peaches come from peach trees, and plums from plum trees.

Near the homestead was the kangaroo’s-spirit country, and of course all the children who came from there had kangaroos’ spirits, but those who came from the Long Reach, not a mile away, had honey-bees’ spirits.

Goggle Eye said you learnt all this at corrobborees. At the kangaroo-corrobboree the head man of the kangaroo men dressed up, and pretended to be a kangaroo. After a little while he suddenly changed into a man, and stood up, and looked like one, and said he really was a man now. Then he dug a little hole and poured water into it. After this he called a number of kangaroo-spirit men to him and offered them the flesh of a kangaroo, but they said it was the flesh of their brother, and that they must not eat it.

The wise men then explained that this was to teach them that once, long long ago, a big giant kangaroo had come to the Roper River country, and changed himself into a man. When he got thirsty he dug a hole, and water flowed up into it for him to drink, and that was really how the homestead “billabong” came.

After a while this kangaroo man amused himself with making spirits, but as he was really a kangaroo spirit himself, he could only make kangaroo spirits. By and by he noticed that some of them had got into kangaroos and some into little black children, so he called them all together and told them that they all had kangaroo spirits and were really brothers and must never eat each other.

After this explanation all the young men of the tribe understood of course that they must not eat their animal brothers. At honey-bee-corrobborees, the history of the honey-bees was taught, and at each animal corrobboree, the history of each totem, for corrobborees, as I said before, were the schools of the blackfellows.

Goggle Eye, you see, was one of the wisest of the blackfellows, and as he said this was true, perhaps it was. I know that “out-bush” we had seen portraits of the great-great-greatest grandfather of the Kangaroo men, and of the Fish and of the Iguana people, drawn on rocks and trees by the artists of the tribe.

When Goggle Eye had finished his history lesson, I gave him some sugar in a calico bag, and he tied it carefully round his neck. He said the ants couldn’t get at it there. Then I gave him a red handkerchief and some tobacco and hairpins. The blacks love hairpins, they find them so useful to dig up grubs with.

As Goggle Eye still stayed about, I said good-bye, and turned to leave him.

“Missus,” he called after me, “me bin lose ‘em pipe.” Something in his face made me suspicious. I went and looked behind the antbed to see what he had hidden, and found his pipe.

“Here you are, Goggle Eye,” I said; “me bin good fellow, me bin find him.”

I expected him to look ashamed of himself, but he didn’t—not a little bit! He sat down and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks at the joke of it all, and that made me laugh too. Of course in the end Goggle Eye got a new pipe, and went off “bush” with it in his mouth. As he went through the gate he turned and waved it at me, and that was the last time I saw him looking merry-hearted and happy.

Chapter 7
“Mumma A” And “Mumma B”

I had taught Sue some tricks—to beg, shake hands, and pretend to be “deadfellow”—and Bett-Bett was wild with delight.

“My word, Missus!” she cried excitedly, “Sue plenty savey, him close up whitefellow.” Then seizing her darling in her arms, she darted off to the humpy to show her to the lubras, singing as she ran, “Sue plenty savey; him savey, him savey!”

When they came back I was reading, and paid no attention to them.

After a while Bett-Bett said—

“What name, Missus?”

I looked up to see her staring very hard at me, with a puzzled look on her face.

“What name, what?” I said, wondering what she meant.

She did not answer at once, but picked up a book, and held it so close to her face that it almost touched her nose; then staring at it till her eyes nearly jumped out of her head, she said—

“What name, likee this? likee this? likee this?”

I laughed at her and said—

“Bett-Bett, I hope I don’t look like that when I read,” for she looked a fearful little object. But I saw what was puzzling her; she could not understand why I sat looking so earnestly at little black marks on paper.

I explained that books could talk like “paper yabbers,” as she called letters—papers that “yabber,” or talk, you know.

Then I got a little ABC book, and some paper and pencils, and told her I would teach her to read; but it was easier said than done.

We began with the capital letters. Bett-Bett repeated “A” after me, and made it on paper, and then wanted to know what it was. Was it tucker, or an animal, or somebody’s name?

I sat looking so earnestly at little black marks on paper. “What did the mark say?” she asked. “What name him yabber, Missus, this one A?” were the exact words she used.

You remember that on Goggle Eye’s letter-stick marks were cut, and that every mark had a special meaning; so Bett-Bett was sure that “A” must be the name of something.

I couldn’t explain it, so told her that when she knew all the names of the letters, I would tell her what they meant, and we went on to B.