"See!" said Opara, "the birds know our Star; she talks to them the language of the trees. From us they fly, and hide themselves in clouds; but she bids them come, and they rest upon her bosom."
Soon other birds were tamed and trained; and the wonder spread to distant tribes, who made long journeys to see the Star of Opara's tribe, who understood the voice of Nature, and talked with all the children of the Great Mother; for so the simple savages interpreted it.
But Minnie grew weaker and weaker. She concealed her weakness as much as possible from Joshua, who was very tender to her, very, very kind. He had quite forgiven her; no cloud disturbed the harmony of their strange lives. Bearing always in mind the advice which Rough-and-Ready had given them to endeavor to make their way southward, and knowing the one great wish of Joshua's heart, she had used all her influence with the tribe to induce them every time they shifted their camp to move in that direction, and had succeeded so far, that every season found them nearer to the settled districts. But, although three years had passed, they had not seen the slightest signs of civilization.
Once Joshua was in a terrible state of agitation. He was gathering sweet leaves for his birds, when "Crack!" went the sound of a whip. He uttered a joyful cry, and threw himself upon the ground with all his heart in his ears, for he had not caught the direction of the sound. "Crack!" went the whip again. He ran swiftly towards it, and listened again. Rough-and-Ready had told him many times to keep his ears sharp open for the crack of a whip, and here it was, at last, after weary, weary waiting.
"You will find most likely," Rough-and-Ready had said, "that it is a stockman looking after some stray cattle. Then you will be all right."
The thoughts that crowded upon Joshua's mind in the few moments that elapsed between the cracking of the whip would occupy an hour to describe; they may be summarized thus: "That is a stockman's whip. Thank God for it! I shall see him presently, and he will wait while I fetch Minnie. Then we will go to where his companions are, and I will get some presents for our kind friends the natives. Minnie will soon grow strong; thank God! We will go down to Sydney, and get passage home in the first ship. Then--then--O Ellen, Ellen! O Dan, dear friend! dear mother and father! All will come right--all will be set right. Thank God!"
"Crack, crack!" Nearer--nearer. He was close to it, but saw nothing. He looked round carefully, watchfully. "Crack!" Over his head. He turned his eyes to the clouds, and saw a bird--the whip-bird--flying over the trees, uttering its "crack!" as it flew, taking his hopes with it, and bearing them away to where perhaps he would never meet with them again.
And Dan is sitting in a wooden hut built near the banks of a beautiful river. Seas do not divide him from his friend. They both live on the same bit of land, ignorant of each other's whereabouts. The same continent holds those two faithful hearts. What is Dan doing? who are with him? what kind of a place is this where he and they reside?
A village in which dwell not more than a few hundred inhabitants. Not free from care, for care is human; but happier than inhabitants of great cities are. There is plenty of work for hands to do; more than there are hands to do it. What luxury there is, is the luxury of nature--rich fruits, bright flowers, clear atmosphere, sweet air, lovely skies, grand sunrises and sunsets, and sparkling watercourses whose banks teem with graceful shapes and lovely color. Here a city is to be formed, and they who live in it and are content shall see it grow up to strength--ay, to manhood--and shall have a share in its increasing wealth. First, tents of canvas to live in; now huts of wood; by and by houses of stone. But these last, though they be stronger, will not bring more enduring happiness. And here is Dan, with his birds, as usual. He earns money enough now. Not a hundred miles away, in the capital of the colony of which this little village is a speck, lives a dealer who comes regularly to Dan's wooden house, and buys such birds as he has trained, and pays handsomely for them. Not Solomon Fewster. He also is in that rising capital, and Dan will not sell him a bird. Not that Solomon Fewster needs them; for he is making money fast, and the miserly passion of accumulation is growing very strong in him. His business carries him often to Dan's village,--twice a month, perhaps; and regularly every two or three months he makes some kind of overture to Ellen, who shakes her head, and sometimes answers him, and sometimes evades the subject. Dan has remonstrated with him, and has begged him never to refer to the subject again. But he answers,--
"I cannot help it, Dan. If you knew what love was, you would know that a man can no more help loving than he can help feeling. It was love that first brought me to your house in Stepney. I didn't want the birds; but so that I might have the privilege of coming to the house--and of doing you and Ellen a good turn at the same time, mind, Dan--I took a deal of trouble to find dealers in birds who would buy them of me at the same price I paid you for them; and I shouldn't be telling an untruth if I said that I lost money by many of the birds I paid you for. One man I sold to failed, and I had to take a composition. Well, I didn't know then that Ellen loved Joshua; nothing was said between them; and when he first went away he wasn't old enough to know his own mind. He came back, and when he was ill I didn't show a bad spirit to him. After Ellen and he were engaged, I did not desert you; and I didn't annoy Ellen by forcing my attentions upon her. You spoke to me once about that unfortunate canary that died in my hand when I bade Joshua good-by. You can't think that I killed it purposely. But you may be able to form some idea of my feelings (which can't always be suppressed, Dan), and of the restraint I had to put upon myself when in the presence of the man who had taken from me the most precious thing in the world to me--Ellen's love--and you can put down the poor canary's death to that cause. I've no need to say any thing more. I've loved Ellen all along, and I've always treated her with respect and consideration. You mustn't debar me from the chance of being happy; Ellen may change her mind one day. It is many years now since I first saw her, a girl; and that I am content now to wait and hope ought to be sufficient proof of my disinterestedness and sincerity."