Then a camp was pitched in the forest, a mile or so
from the homestead; a sawpit dug, a platform erected, and before a week
had passed an invitation was issued, for the missus to "come and see a
tree felled." "Laying thee foundation-stone," the Maluka called it.
Johnny of course welcomed us with a jovial "Now we shan't be long," and
shouldering a tomahawk, led the way out of the camp into the timber.
House-hunting in town does not compare favourably with timber-hunting for
a house, in a luxuriant tropical forest. Sheltered from the sun and heat
we wandered about in the feathery undergrowth, while the Maluka tested
the height of the giant timber above us with shots from his bull-dog
revolver bringing down twigs and showers of leaves from the topmost
branches, and sending flocks of white cockatoos up into the air with
squawks of amazement.
Tree after tree was chosen and marked with the tomahawk, each one
appearing taller and straighter and more beautiful than any of its
fellows until, finding ourselves back at the camp, Johnny went for his
axe and left us to look at the beauty around us.
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