He, of course, sulked when I did not yield to his lazy desires, still he continued the march, leading my pack-horse, as he was the most civilised and was best acquainted with the country. Instead of proceeding up the eastern mountain slope, which seemed to be most accessible, he guided us along the foaming stream, of which the bed became more contracted and the banks more steep as we advanced. Still I depended upon Pickle-bottle as our guide, until the path at length became so narrow that progress was impossible. I now understood that he wanted to force me to submit to his will and get me to encamp in the place which he had proposed. I had no other choice but to return by the same way as we had come, until we could find a convenient place for the ascent. With great difficulty the horses were turned, but being angry on account of the delay, I now led the way myself and gave the blacks orders to follow me.
Now and then I looked back to assure myself that I had them all near me. But to my great surprise I discovered at a turn of the way Pickle-bottle and the pack-horse high up the slope, not far from the place where our progress had been blocked. When he saw that I was determined to advance, he wanted to save part of the road, and had resolved to climb with the horse straight over the high and steep precipice. He believed, like most of the blacks, that a horse can go wherever a man can pass. He was just at the point of bringing the horse over the summit—its forefeet were already planted on the top—when it lost its foothold and its balance among the loose stones, and came rolling slowly down the steep slope like a heavy sack of flour. Greatly excited, I expected every moment that it would stop. But it rolled on and on until it came to the edge of the river, where it fortunately stopped.
Pickle-bottle and the other blacks vanished. When they saw that I was becoming angry they were afraid that I would shoot them, so they hid in the scrubs. Calling to them in a friendly tone of voice, I at once began to loosen the pack from the fallen horse. They cautiously peeped at me from behind the trees to see in what mood I was, then they took courage and came out. I now found to my great satisfaction and surprise that the horse, barring a few unimportant scratches, was not injured and had not broken a bone. When we had raised him on to his feet again and washed him in the river, he shook himself, snorted, and seemed to feel as well as ever after his unsuccessful effort to climb the mountain.
We continued the journey, and Pickle-bottle was henceforth less obstinate. “No tobacco to-day, Pickle-bottle,” I said to him, a threat which made him very thoughtful. He now easily found the right ascent, and for an hour or two we followed the paths of the blacks up the ridges. The scrubs were very dense on all sides, and the mountains came closer and closer together, until suddenly the landscape expanded into a broad, high valley with grassy plains in the bottom surrounded by scrub-clad hills. Here we encamped on the bank of the river. There was plenty of grass for the horses, for the soil was fertile and the ground had never been used for pasture.
This camp was made the starting-point of many excursions into the surrounding scrubs. One day the blacks showed me traces of boongary on the trunk of a tree. I was now certain of the existence of the animal, and resolved not to give up till I had a specimen in my possession. I did not realise how many annoyances were in store for me, and that I was to wander about for three months before I should succeed in securing it. The traces were old, but still so distinct as to be unmistakable.
On one of these excursions on the top of the mountain I heard in the dense scrubs the loud and unceasing voice of a bird. I carefully approached it as it sat on the ground, and shot it. It was one of the bower-birds already mentioned (Scenopæus dentirostris), with a gray and very modest plumage, and of the size of a thrush.
As I picked up the bird my attention was drawn to a fresh covering of green leaves on the black soil. This was the bird’s place of amusement, which beneath the dense scrubs formed a square about one yard each way, the ground having been cleared of leaves and rubbish. On this neatly cleared spot the bird had laid large fresh leaves, one by the side of the other, with considerable regularity, and close by he sat singing, apparently extremely happy over his work. As soon as the leaves decay they are replaced by new ones. On this excursion I saw three such places of amusement, all near one another, and all had fresh leaves from the same kind of trees, while a large heap of dry withered leaves was lying close by. It seems that the bird scrapes away the mould every time it changes the leaves, so as to have a dark background, against which the green leaves make a better appearance. Can any one doubt that this bird has the sense of beauty?
The bird was quite common. Later on I frequently found it on the summit of the Coast Mountains in the large scrubs, which it never abandons. The natives call gramma—that is, the thief—because it steals the leaves which it uses to play with.
During the summer there is much rain in the mountains. You are never sure of dry weather, and nearly every night it pours. One day we were overtaken by a heavy shower. The mountain brook grew fast into a torrent, down which we waded to get home, preferring this road to the scrubs, which in rain are impassable and dripping wet and dark.
The natives, who under such circumstances are much more susceptible than Europeans, do not like this sort of weather. When it rained I could never persuade them to accompany me, and they have such a dread of rain that in the wet season they prefer to starve for several days rather than leave their huts in quest of food. They shrugged their shoulders, and shivering with cold, hastened down the brook so fast that I could scarcely keep up with them. On the way we found a place where the mountain formed a shelter, and here the blacks soon discovered with their keen sight that a fire could be built, and so they halted. I could not understand where they would find dry faggots, as everything was dripping wet. It did not take long, however, before the shivering fellows found handfuls of dry rubbish from hollow trees and bundles of leaves from the lawyer-palm. A little fire was soon blazing, and the natives crept round it like kittens, wafting the smoke on to themselves with their hands in order to get warm more quickly.