“Are you going to make yours?” said Archie.
The stranger laughed.
“No,” he replied. “Unluckily, perhaps, mine was made for me. I’ve been out before too, and I’m going again to see things.”
“You’re going in quest of adventure?”
“I suppose that is really it. That is how the story-books put it, anyhow. But I don’t expect to meet with adventures like Sinbad the Sailor, you know; and I don’t think I would like to have a little old man of the sea with his little old legs round my neck.”
“Australia is a very wonderful place, isn’t it?”
“Yes; wonderfully wonderful. Everything is upside-down there, you know. To begin with, the people walk with their heads downwards. Some of the trees are as tall as the moon, and at certain seasons of the year the bark comes tumbling off them like rolls of shoeleather. Others are shaped like bottles, others again have heads of waving grass, and others have ferns for tops. There are trees, too, that drop all their leaves to give the flowers a chance; and these are so brilliantly red, and so numerous, that the forest where they grow looks all on fire. Well, many of the animals walk or jump on two legs, instead of running on four. Does that interest you?”
“Yes. Tell me something more about birds.”
“Well, ducks are everywhere in Australia, and many kinds are as big as geese. They seem to thrive. And ages ago, it is said by the natives, the moles in Australia got tired of living in the dark, and held a meeting above-ground, and determined to live a different mode of life. So they grew longer claws, and short, broad, flat tails, and bills like ducks, and took to the water, and have been happy ever since.
“Well, there are black swans in abundance; and though it is two or three years since I was out last, I cannot forget a beautiful bird, something betwixt a pheasant and peacock, and the cock’s tail is his especial delight. It is something really to be proud of, and at a distance looks like a beautiful lyre, strings and all. The cockatoos swarm around the trees, and scream and laugh at the lyre-bird giving himself airs, but I daresay this is all envy. The hen bird is not a beauty, but her chief delight is to watch the antics and attitudes of her lord and master as he struts about making love and fun to her time about, at one moment singing a kind of low, sweet song, at another mocking every sound that is heard in the forest, every noise made by man or bird or beast. No wonder the female lyre-bird thinks her lord the cleverest and most beautiful creature in the world!