"Oh, no. They go off, perhaps in the summer, or if game gets scarce. You don't get any warning. One day they'll be here as usual, the next the camp will be deserted and the tribe 'gone bush.' But they always come back, especially when it's near 'blanket time.' Then the women go fairly far afield for the rushes and grasses they want for their weaving. These women are quite industrious—we can get you anything you'd like in the way of woven mats or baskets or bags."
"They won't do much of that work in the eastern states," said Mr. Lester. "It is becoming a lost art."
"Yes—a pity; for much of it is beautiful work. But the civilisation of cities kills every decent impulse in them. To like the aboriginal you want him as we have him here—neither civilised nor wild. Once he gets to know the meaning of either money or drink he's done for."
There was a cluster of picaninnies round Bobby, staring at him with great, wondering eyes. The little fellow, rosy cheeked and fair haired, in his white linen suit, was a curious contrast to the black babies, most of them innocent of a rag of clothing. Bobby was enjoying himself hugely—making occasional dashes at them, at which they would scatter in every direction, shrieking with laughter.
"The twins were a particular source of interest to them," Mrs. Warner said. "They used to come to the house in flocks, begging to be allowed to see the 'two-pfeller picaninny'—and so many wanted to touch them that we had to make an absolute rule against it for fear the poor babies would be poked to death. Even now I hardly dare to bring them near the camp—not that they will touch them without leave, but they make a ring round them, everyone trying to see them, and blackfellow in the mass is rather overpowering."
"That's so," said Mr. Warner, with feeling. "'Possum fat is one of the chief toilet articles of the camp."
"Ugh," said Mrs. Lester, and shuddered.
"What do the men do?" asked Dick.
"Mighty little. They hunt, of course, whenever necessary, but they're lazy even over hunting. If a gin will keep one supplied with any other food he won't go hunting until he actually craves for meat. They make their weapons—spears, throwing sticks and boomerangs—but they are by no means as skilful with them as they used to be. They like to get a job on the station, but only a few manage to keep their jobs. They can't stand the regular employment. Still, even if they go back to the tribe, they don't forget all their teaching, and we can always count on them for odd help in a time of stress—a big muster, a bush fire, or any other emergency."
"I have one as a stockman," said Mr. Lester. "Very good boy, too."