"'Tis the bell bird sweetly singing,
The sad, strange, small-voiced bird,
His low sweet carol ringing,
While scarce a sound is heard,
Save topmost sprays aflutter,
And withered leaflets fall,
And the wistful oaks that utter
Their eerie, drearie, call.
"What may be the bell bird saying,
In that silvery, tuneful note?
Like a holy hermit's praying
His devotions seem to float
From a cavern dark and lonely,
Where, apart from worldly men,
He repeats one dear word only,
Fondly o'er and o'er again."
"Is not that pretty?" said Mrs. Hume, as her sister's musical voice ceased. "I did not know you had such poets in Australia."
"Indeed we have a literature of our own," said Mrs. McDonald, "and very beautiful things are written by Australians. You have much to learn about this great island continent of ours."
"Now we must turn toward home," said Mr. McDonald, and his wife said, "Drive back past Tarnpin, it is so beautiful about there. Tarnpin, or Flowing Water, is a favourite spot hereabouts. The Blacks have a quaint story about its origin, and I will tell it to you as old Tepal, a black chief, told it to me.
"It was the day time, and all the animals died of thirst. So many died that the Magpie, the Lark, and the Crane talked together, and tried to find water to drink.
"'It is very strange,' said the Magpie, 'that the Turkey Buzzard is never hungry.'
"'He must, then, have water to drink,' said the wise Crane.
"'He flies away every morning, very early,' said the Lark.