Some of our camps were perfectly charming: overhanging trees, good water for cooking and bathing, and plenty of grass, not only for the horses, but to make the most luxurious of beds. What could we have wished for more? Birds and fish were abundant, and here, for the first time, we met with the yellow crested White Cockatoo, the Native Companion, the Bower, the Apostle, the Butcher, and the Bell bird. All are unique in their own difierent fashions.
The Native Companion, is a tall, slender, grey bird, something after the style of a heron, and is quite a character in his way. It is an amusing sight to watch a number of them playing on the sand-banks at dusk. They march up and down, advance, wheel, and execute the most intricate and involved manoeuvres, with all the precision and aplomb of trained soldiers. They even dance quadrilles and lancers with wonderful accuracy, and their performances on the pearly grey sands, among the long shadows of approaching night, have a most weird and picturesque effect. they are useless for food, but as pets they are much prized.
The Bower Bird, though a smaller fellow, is not behind his friend in point of interest. Among other things, he is an architect of no mean order, inasmuch as he builds for himself a bewitching little bower of grass and sticks. This is his treasure house, where he collects every bright and glittering object that attracts his fancy, particularly stones from the dry creek beds, amusing himself with them as a child plays with glittering beads. For this reason valuable gems may not unfrequently be discovered in his bower, their brilliance having caught his eye when on the search for playthings.
The Butcher Bird somewhat resembles an English thrush, and possesses the power of imitating any animal, with a ventriloquial effect truly remarkable. The Apostle Bird’s peculiarity is always to move about with eleven of his fellows. And the Bell Bird the bushman has good reason to know on account of his note being an exact imitation of a horse bell, which, when searching in thick scrub for horses, is apt to be terribly misleading.
The country along the Bulloo is both well timbered and well grassed, mulga, gidea, yapunya, and gum trees being most en evidence.
Our first station down the river was Emudilla, an out station of gigantic Milo. We found them in the midst of shearing, and too busy to attend to strangers. The manager’s hut was a miserable place, not fit for a dog to live in, and after camping the night there, we headed away along the Bulloo for Comongin.
Crossing a lightly timbered plain, about five or six miles from the station, we met with a curious experience. Jogging quietly along in the eye of the burning sun, wishing to goodness we were anywhere but where we were, our horses suddenly came to a dead stop before something huddled up on the ground. Our first impulse was to jump out and see what it was, but before we had time to move it rose, and we beheld the most weird and unearthly creature ever dignified with the name of man. He was of about middle age, very tall and thin, his clothes hung in rags about him, and to all appearance he was suffering from a terrible attack of ophthalmia, combined with a fit of delirium tremens. He rose out of the sand like a spirit of the waste, and confronted us. Then in a voice of extraordinary monotony, illustrative of the condition of his mind, he said:
‘Now don’t you be afraid of me — have a drink, do! I’m old Jim Collins, old Jim Collins, gone a mucker — poor old Jim! have a drink, do! Lord, but I’m dead broke; you should see the little devils — little green devils with pink eyes that run after me — through the cotton bush singing, “ Old Jim Collins, gone dead broke — gone dead broke.” Lord! and to think I’ve got a brother in London, who’s — well, never you mind what he is, but take a drink, do!’
