First in the Field: A Story of New South Wales

by George Manville Fenn

That day, in accordance with a promise, the convict took Nic for a long walk through the open gorge, where the gum trees grew of gigantic size, and on down the river for some miles, to where it spread out into a wide lagoon, completely shut in by the forest, and with the borders fringed by reeds and tall grasses, offering plenty of cover for them to approach. The ducks were in abundance, and Leather laughingly spoke of it as his larder where he fished for them, hiding among the reeds, and sending a small fish sailing among them at the end of a line, with the result that he often hooked one and drew it ashore for a meal.

But it was not to catch a shoal of ducks that they were come, the convict cautiously leading the way to a broad extent of marshy ground, from which the water had retired in consequence of the drought, and here, upon their crawling up to the screen of reeds, Leather drew aside for the boy to peer through to see pretty close at hand a flock of over a hundred grey stork-like birds marching about gravely, and darting their bills down sharply here and there at some fish or frog in a pool. Others were standing on one leg, with the other and the long neck regularly folded up, and the bill tucked neatly away among the feathers.

All seemed grave, calm, and deliberate, every motion being made in the most solemn fashion, one of them the root of whose beak itched scratching it with a claw in a gracefully zigzag mode.

They were fine tall birds, fully four feet in height, and of a beautiful grey; but after kneeling in a damp place for about a quarter of an hour Nic grew weary, and turned to look at the convict, who smiled, nodded, and held up a finger, as much as to say, “Be patient.”

“Things never do what you want at the right time,” thought Nic; but hardly had he mentally spoken when one of the storks farther off uttered a peculiar cry like the low note of a cracked clarionet, and in an instant the long-legged birds from all quarters came trooping up, some of them helping their movements by extending their wings a little, till all were collected in a rough kind of circle, one remaining almost motionless in the middle of the ring.

A few more of the quaint trumpeted-out notes were heard, and these were uttered by one of the cranes nearest to Nic, who could see the scissors-like beak open, the bright eye, and the gay scarlet ear-lobes of the solemn-looking bird, which drew itself up, took a look round in a stately way, and then seemed to Nic to have gone mad; for it suddenly began to dance and caper about, bowing and shaking its head to its companions again and again before leaping in the air and coming down upon its feet, to go through a series of the wildest gambols imaginable. It waltzed, advanced, retreated, set to partners, skipped here and there with wonderful activity, and began again.

Its actions were contagious, for the next minute fully a hundred of the long-legged bipeds were capering about the marsh in a frantic dance, snapping their bills, and evidently enjoying this ebullition of fantastic gambols.

Nic would have roared with laughter had he not been afraid to send the birds away and so end their game; and this went on for some minutes, ending in a regular wild country dance peculiar to bird-land, after which all was still. Some of the cranes rested on one leg, with a heel projecting from beneath their tails, others stood still with their heads cowered down between their shoulders, and the rest stalked solemnly about, peering here and there in search of frogs or small fish, and it was hard to imagine that these grave and reverent-looking grey signors could ever have been guilty of such antics.

On some days Nic arrived late, and when the moon rose went opossum shooting, the skins being prepared by the convict for a bed. One evening he stayed late to be taken to see the lyre bird come dancing down a green lane between dense casuarinas, to a favourable spot for these beautiful creatures. And once he saw the peculiar bird, large as a pheasant, spread its curious tail, dance, rattle its wings, and indulge in a series of cries and calls—now it would be whistling, at another time making a sound like the cracking of a whip, and at another time justifying its native name of bullan-bullan.

Mayne had always some new natural history object to introduce to Nic, throwing himself heart and soul into his pursuits, and announcing at last that he had seen emus about in one particular spot, and saying he was sure that there must be a nest.