"Now you know the song of the frogs," he laughed. "We'll
teach you all the songs of the Never-Never in time; listen!" and
listening, it was hard to believe that this was our one-time telegraphing
bush-whacker. Dropping his voice to a soft, sobbing moan, as a pheasant
called from the shadows, he lamented with it for "Puss! Puss! Puss! Puss!
Poor Puss! Poor Puss!"
The sound roused a dove in the branches above us, and as she stirred in
her sleep and cooed softly, Mac murmured drowsily: "Move-over-dear,
Move-over dear"; and the dove, taking up the refrain, crooned it again
and again to its mate.
The words of the songs were not Mac's. They belong to the lore of the
bushmen; but he sang or crooned them with such perfect mimicry of tone or
cadence, that never again was it possible to hear these songs of the
Never-Never without associating the words with the songs.
The night was full of sounds, and one by one Mac caught them up, and the
bush appeared to echo him; and leaning half drowsily, against the
pack-saddles and swags, we listened until we slipped into one of those
quiet reveries that come so naturally to bush-folk.
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