Part 10

More wonderful and interesting, however, is it to see them throw the kylie (what is called the boomerang in other parts of Australia), a curiously curved and flat stick, about a foot long and two or three inches wide. There are heavier “ground kylies,” which skim along the ground, describing marvellous turns and twists, and they would certainly break the leg of any bird or beast they hit; but their gyrations are nothing compared to those of a good air-kylie in skilful hands. A great open space is needed to watch the flight of a well-thrown air-kylie. The eye can scarcely follow the movement of the lithe body or the deft turn of the wrist with which the kylie leaves the hand, and soars up into space, and is lost to sight for a second or two, before you catch a glimpse of what looks like a bird circling high above. The circles grow narrower, and the bird becomes a trifle larger. It turns round completely, and changes its course just at the last, and finally comes wheeling down, only a bit of flat stick and not a bird after all, near its sender’s feet. No description can possibly give you the least idea of this wonderful performance—the ease with which the kylie can be thrown, the height to which it will soar, nor the wide and varying circles it describes. There were some very good kylie-throwers among the native prisoners; and, for my part, I never wearied of watching them as they flung, in friendly rivalry, their bird-like weapons in an immense open field at the back of the house. Their aim is so astoundingly accurate. When one sees these weapons skimming through the air, high above one’s head, it requires a good deal of confidence to believe that they will not kill some one in their descent; but no accident ever happens to the scattered groups of watchers. The thrower knows exactly where his kylie will fall after it has finished its “gyres and gimbles” on its own account, and he takes up his position accordingly.

The spear-throwing is also very wonderful. The spears are so very long, and, in our hands, would be so utterly unmanageable. They will throw spears _at_ each other for hours, each man having only a short, narrow grooved shield to protect himself—a wooden shield a couple of feet long by 5 or 6 inches wide—_I_ could not protect myself from a skilfully thrown knitting-needle with so slender a defence; yet each spear is caught and turned aside upon this absurd buckler with the greatest ease. The war-spears have notched and barbed heads, and are cruel-looking weapons, modelled evidently from a shark’s jaw; but the light hunting-spear, sharply-pointed, with needles of flint fixed in the point by one of the wonderful gums they find in the bush, is a much more business-like affair. These they throw with a broad, flat holder, called a wammeroo, from which they propel the spear with a capital aim and great force. I have often thought how much I should like to take some of these natives home, and show you their kylie and spear-throwing performances; but the poor men never could stand the English climate, and I don’t believe you could easily find a space sufficiently clear of trees, where they would not be liable to break a cottage window, or some one’s head.

What is so wonderful in these native weapons is the skill and accuracy with which they are fashioned, absolutely without tools. I have seen a “scoop,” as they call it, hollowed out of very hard wood, in the first instance by fire, but shaped and smoothed with infinite patience and labour by means of a rude chisel made of a flint stuck into a cleft of wood. The scoop was smooth and symmetrical, quite light, and of a shape which would allow of its being carried easily on the back or on the head. It answered the purpose of either a basket or a bucket, according to what was needed. Their spears show perhaps the greatest ingenuity, and I don’t know which I find most curious; the light hunting-spear, thrown with unerring precision by means of the flat, short board I have described, and pointed with a sharp shell or a thorn or a flint, or the heavy war-spears, some 10 or 12 feet long, with elaborately carved barbs, all in pointed notches like shark’s teeth. Of course their only models are taken from nature, but their contrivances are wonderful. They weave mats very cleverly to wear, as well as to carry bundles, or to lie on; and the skins of whatever animals they hunt are carefully dried and made soft. The shields, too, are grooved in a neat and accurate zigzag pattern with alternate lines of red and white colour made out of pigments. I have seen a sort of rope or twine twisted from kangaroo fur, which was just like a rude yarn from sheep’s wool. Their hatchets are very ingenious, the centre being made of a large lump of “black-boy” gum, which is worked up when warm into a solid lump, into each end of which a sort of blade made of flint is fastened; the handle, of course, is a piece of wood, but the whole tool is admirably fitted for its work.

Perhaps the “message sticks” are the most curious, with their smooth surface on which all the news of the place is neatly and carefully drawn. It looks like etching, and is done with a finely-pointed red-hot stick; it is really the newspaper of the district. You see the long strip of land, with its post and rail fence, or the two or three rude little houses which constitute the nucleus of what is going to be a great city, perhaps; or else there is an unmistakable bit of a harbour, and the fleet of pearlers is just coming in, with every sail set and a fair wind. Here is the outline of a pathetic story, plainly told: There are some trees just indicated, men stand by an open grave, horses are picketed behind, and there is the rude cross in the corner, where a little clearing has already been made to mark a former explorer’s grave.

The natives are now giving up making weapons or household utensils, for there are few places where they cannot procure English equivalents, which are of course ever so much more convenient; and many of the people express themselves to me as being now ashamed of their primitive contrivances. The tribal feeling is, however, still very strong, and each tribe yet retains its different dialect, as well as its distinguishing marks and customs.

You can easily imagine how impossible it is to get hold of the natives after they are grown up—for they are a very debased sort of savage—and to teach or civilise them in any way. So we chiefly look to what we can do for the children, to improve the condition of the next generation; and every effort is made to take the little creatures away from their parents if there is reason to believe them to be ill-treated; but if the parents are kind, then many inducements are held out to the mother to come and settle near the children, where she can see for herself that they are happy and well-cared for. But generally the older natives soon get tired of any settled mode of life and go off suddenly, perhaps taking their little ones with them. Of course we can only persuade, not compel, but it is disappointing to lose the care of a dear intelligent little child, who might have been trained to much good. I am very fond of the Mission children, whose home, under our Bishop’s care, is in Perth, and I often go to visit them, besides seeing them every Sunday, smiling and neat and happy looking, on their way to or from church.

LETTER XVII.

Rottnest Island, _16th March_.

Now I really must tell you about the pets. They have been kept waiting quite a long time, and they would amuse you immensely, if you were here to see and play with them.

Monsieur Puppy of course comes first, as he considers himself of the greatest importance; and he certainly is very amusing. He is delighted with the sea and the stretches of soft sand, in which he can dig for imaginary bones, until he completely disappears, and you only see a tightly curled tail wagging amid a shower of sand. The ridiculous part of the Puppy is that he is really only a small, half-bred Japanese pug, and he tries to be all sorts of other dogs! He is positively a capital terrier, and a rat has no chance against him for an instant’s life. Here, he is trying hard to be a retriever or water-dog, and boldly rushes in to fetch out sticks and seaweed and anything you throw—not too far out into the sea. How you would laugh at his puzzled and disgusted face, when he gets a mouthful of salt water, and can’t think why it should be so nasty. When he has floundered on shore he turns round and barks vehemently at the sea, and then dashes up to the house, and asks some one, in his own fashion, to rub him dry! Besides all these occupations he considers himself the watchdog of the establishment, and I often wonder the native lad, who brings down the constant heliographic messages, etc., to the Governor’s office, is not afraid of being torn to pieces by Puppy, who of course never dreams of biting him, but keeps up a furious barking at the poor boy.

I have not time to tell you of half his tricks and accomplishments. The most amusing, perhaps, is the way he drinks the Queen’s health after dinner. It has always been the custom at all Government Houses for the Governor not only to propose the Queen’s health at parties, but every day, when we are quite alone, the first thing after dessert is put on the table, the glasses are filled, and Pater says “The Queen”! Monsieur Puppy has learned that biscuits now begin, and although he has been trained to lie quietly at my feet, without stirring all dinner-time, the moment the magic words are said, Puppy utters a peculiar grunt of satisfaction, disentangles himself from my skirts, in which he has been coiled up, comes out, and sits up to beg, first giving his three cheers or “wuffs.” Sometimes he is so fast asleep and muffled up that he does not hear at first, but if I say the two words again, distinctly, you hear his funny little grunt, and out he comes directly.

He “dies for his country,” and pretends to be an impostor routed by a policeman, and goes “on trust” in every imaginable way, and takes mighty leaps for his biscuits, and does all sorts of tricks. Louis and he are great friends, though poor Puppy goes through a good deal of teasing at Louis’s hands. He is always trying to incite Puppy to catch the crabs which are disturbed by all the digging and scratching in the sand they do between them; but Monsieur has had one lesson which will last him the summer. The first crab Puppy dug out went to bay, with a little bit of rock behind it, and stood there waving its long nippers at the little dog who barked furiously, and made gallant dashes to try and get inside the crab’s guard. But no, it was no use, and Puppy soon perceived that this new kind of rat must be dealt with in some different fashion. After considering a moment—the crab having meantime folded its claws meekly before it, as soon as ever Puppy stopped barking—he gave a sudden swift slap at it, with his front paw, just as a cat would. But the crab was on the look-out; and the next thing we saw was Puppy dancing about on three legs, yelling and howling, with the crab hanging on to his forepaw. It was no use trying to bite, for there was another claw quite ready to seize his ear or nose. So when I could get near enough, for laughing, I boldly seized the crab from behind, and forced the nippers open, and then flung it far away into the sea. Puppy instantly dashed after it; but, all the same, he remembers the lesson.

When we first came over here there were three tame emeus in the paddock, but two of them have been killed by accidents. They were a great deal too tame, for they would walk about the verandah and poke their long necks and spoon-like bills in at every window, snapping up everything they saw. We lost keys, and thimbles, and various other trifles; and I never could keep any bird-seed or fruit for my canaries; the emeus got it all. The horses were always very much afraid of them, and it was dangerous to attempt to mount unless you knew where the emeus were. A tall bird would be sure to come round the corner and frighten your horse out of its wits. They were terrible thieves too, and one of them met its death in consequence of an enraged cook flinging a cleaver at it, when he returned after a moment’s absence, just in time to see the last of his nice dish of mutton-chops disappearing down the emeu’s long throat. The natives had a splendid feast off the emeus who came to grief, and reported, with much satisfied rubbing of their stomachs, that they were “fat fellows.”

There are numberless flocks of pretty little paroquets on the island, something like those Australian zebra-marked paroquets you often see in cages in England, only these are prettier, I suppose from being wild; their plumage is more brilliant and delicate. I used to notice large flocks of these lovely little creatures drinking at the different water-holes about the island, specially at one small shallow pond, just outside the paddock. So I determined to try and tame them, and now they are so perfectly fearless and friendly, that one of my great regrets in leaving Rottnest at the end of this month is knowing how much my paroquets will miss me. I used to scatter canary seed, and put saucers of water, just outside the verandah, in which we always take our afternoon tea, for it is cool, and in deep shade, with a lovely view over the bay. Between us and the sea is what is meant for a lawn; but during these three dry months, when there is scarcely any dew, and not a single drop of rain falls, every blade of grass becomes burnt up and yellow. However, the paroquets are not fastidious, and come down on the lawn in great numbers every afternoon at tea-time.

At first only two or three came; but I suppose they reported favourably of their feasts off bird-seed and cake crumbs, for every evening the number of my guests increases; and they arrive earlier. If I am lying down upstairs, and feel lazy about getting up to afternoon tea (remember I have been up since daylight, and very busy until about two o’clock, when we all take a siesta), Louis looks over the balcony, and cries out, “Oh there are such quantities of paroquets, the lawn is quite covered with them;” and then I have to get up directly and go down. The moment one appears, a green cloud seems to lift itself up from the ground, but only a very little way. I fling out a handful of seed, and the cloud drops down on it directly. Then we go to tea, and the boldest of the little birds come close to our feet picking up crumbs, quite fearlessly. They are so sweet and charming and it is great fun to watch their squabbles, and their cleverness. They know four o’clock quite well, and you can see them collecting in the trees round about, soon after three. As soon as ever the tea-table is brought out they all fly down on the lawn, and I feel that it is very wrong of me ever to keep them waiting.

Well, those are some of my wild pets. Now for my tame ones. Once a week, on Sunday afternoons, all the cockatoos and parrots are let out of that big cage I have told you about, and invited to tea on the lawn. This is their great treat and delight, and I really believe they know Sunday quite well, for as soon as ever I appear at the door of their cage to go in and bring them out, I am greeted with wilder yells and shrieks of joy than usual, and there is great hurry and eagerness to secure a good seat on my shoulder or arm, for the short journey to the front of the house. When we arrive I have to sit down on a shawl on the what-ought-to-be grass, and all the birds come to tea with me, drinking out of my cup (if it is at all too hot they invariably tip it over), nibbling at my cake, and eating voraciously of the little heap of canary seed I have taken the precaution to provide. Then they make excursions in every direction, exploring, tearing up the grass-roots, and doing all the mischief they possibly can.

The “Biaco”—native name for a lovely soft pink and gray parrot—is sadly jealous, and leads every one near me a life of bites and pecks. The Puppy, who can’t understand why he should be turned away from his favourite place at my feet, has a dreadful time of tweaks and nips of tail and ears. I wonder he does not snap at the birds, but he is too much astonished at these sudden attacks to do more than jump aside. The cockatoos are not a bit afraid of him, and will stalk him in the most absurd way, watching till he is asleep, and then sidle round a corner, make a sudden swift dash and nip at his tail, or even his foot. It is sheer spite, nothing else, and Puppy can’t understand it at all. Even my special pet, a wee gray paroquet, with orange wattles and long tail feathers, from the Toojay district, is spiteful to the Puppy, and will climb down, from its favourite perch on my shoulder, to bite poor Puppy’s tail. I have one splendid brilliant parrot, with a long tail of every colour of the rainbow, but it is too fierce and wild to let out of the cage. It whistles very well, and picks up every tune it hears. The only name we know it by is the absurd one of “twenty-eight,” because its wild note is exactly like those words.

Among my pets, however, is a large cockatoo from Albany. It is an ugly bird, of a dirty white plumage, with a pale yellow crest, and a large light blue ring round its eye. I never saw so large and cruel-looking a beak, and, although it is as tame as possible, and seems incapable of biting, I confess to some inward tremors when it lays this beak affectionately against my face and kisses me all over, or takes my finger gently between its strong jaws. This bird talks capitally, and picks up every word at once. It barks and mews like a dog or cat, and used to shout and call out exactly like the children it heard passing in the street in Perth on their way to school. “Come along, Tommy,” or else “Wait for me, can’t yer?” and so forth. All the other parrots seem afraid of it, so I suppose that beak _can_ bite if needful.

Besides the white cockatoo I have five “jokolokols.” This is the native name for the prettiest of all the wild cockatoos, but it is also the most delicate, and can seldom be brought to England. It is a large handsome bird of a milk-white plumage, which looks so exquisitely clean that visitors often ask me if I wash my “jokolokols.” No; they wash themselves, the dear things, and preen their lovely feathers among the gum bushes and wattle trees in the cage. Their snowy wings are lined with delicate pink, and the crest—a very large one—is superb, with its fan of shaded crimson feathers standing boldly up at the least alarm. Round the beak and eyes is a circle of shaded pink feathers, fading softly off into the white plumage. Two very young birds, fully fledged, but with ridiculous callow beaks, were brought to me some time ago in Perth, and I have had to finish rearing them. Such a business as it has been, and such appetites as those birds possessed! They were _never_ satisfied, and were wont to begin and shriek for their breakfast at daylight. Louis and I took it in turns to feed them with bread crumbs and sweet rusks soaked in tepid water, and we used to shovel quantities of this soft stuff down their capacious throats. It was no matter if even I had just given them an enormous supper, whenever they caught a glimpse of me in the garden, they set up wild and clamorous yells for “more,” and I used often to be quite cross when father would say, “I am sure you starve those poor birds; you had better go and feed them.” That was just what the jokolokols wanted, and they were delighted to get an extra supper. They are very handsome birds now, and you may imagine how tame they must be. They had to learn to feed themselves, however, during one of my excursions last year, when they were left to the gardener’s care, and he had not time to spoil them as I did.

I saw such an absurd race or chase, whichever you like to call it, between two of my parrots, or rather between a small clever gray parrot, who talked perfectly well, and a strange fierce cockatoo of great physical strength and prowess, but _no_ intellect. This cockatoo, called “Joe,” could not speak a word, and was very jealous of the admiration and petting the little pink and gray parrot attracted to itself. Each bird had one wing cut, so they were on equal terms as to flying; but the white cockatoo could walk, or waddle rather, much faster, and chased the gray on every possible opportunity. Generally there was a bush or tree or friendly passer-by, with whom the parrot could take refuge; but on this occasion the cockatoo had set out to run poor little Griselda down. Every chance was in his favour, for the race took place on a long narrow terrace walk, with neither bush nor tree very near, and the parrot had only been able to secure a very short start.