“Then give me a match—my pipe’s gone out.”
The match was lighted, and the cloud of smoke from the re-lit pipe floated up to the boughs overhead. The Bush Robin watched the miracle, but it was the yellow flame which riveted his attention. The lighted match had been thrown away, and before the smoker could put his foot on it, the little bird darted forward, seized the white stem and, with the burning match in his beak, flitted to the nearest bough.
The men laughed, and watched to see what would happen.
Pleased beyond expression with his new prize, the Bush Robin held it in his beak till a fresh sensation was added to the new things he was experiencing: there was a sudden shake of his little head, the match fell, and went out.
The men undid their swags and began to eat, and the Bush Robin feasted with them on white crumbs which looked, like the match-stick, as if they might be grubs, but tasted quite different.
“Tucker’s good,” said the man with the beard, “but, I reckon, what we want is a drink.”
“The billy’s empty,” said the other—“I spilt it when I came that cropper, and nearly broke my neck.”
“Then there’s nothing for it but to wait till we come to a stream.”
They rose, tied up their swags, and journeyed on; the bearded man continuing to blaze the track, the younger man following him, and the Bush Robin fluttering beside them.
The creek was but a little way off. Soon the noise of its waters greeted the ears of the travellers. The thirsty men hurried in the direction of the sound, which grew louder and louder, till suddenly pushing through a tangled screen of supple-jacks and the soft, green fronds of a small forest of tree-ferns, they stood on the bank of a clear stream, which rushed noisily over a bed of grey boulders.