Aileen ventured a mild defence of the poet.
"I don't think he meant that we have no songbirds," she said. "I think he only tried to say that some of our handsomest birds were songless."
'Possum tilted her nose.
"Well, people that make up poitry have a right to be careful," she said severely. "Kids in schools pay an awful lot of attention to what they say, an' it's up to them not to lead 'em wrong!" After which Aileen defended no more.
They went back to the boat, and journeyed on, presently coming on a new sight for the Macleods. A blacks' camp stood on a natural clearing near a creek that ran down into the lake-arm: a rough "wurley," built of interlaced boughs, with a bit of sacking hanging down for a door. Hot as the day was, a little fire smouldered between two big stones. The only person visible, at first, was a tiny black baby, tumbling about on the ground without a rag of clothing; but as Tom stopped the engine, the sacking over the door was lifted, and a man and a woman came out. They were young, and the woman was not bad-looking, and her dress was fairly neat; but the man was an evil-looking creature, ragged and slouching, with a furtive, unpleasant gaze.
The woman picked up the baby, and they came down to the water's edge, looking curiously at the boat and its occupants. The man held out a rough boomerang he was making, and offered it for sale.
"The man held out a rough boomerang he was making, and offered it for sale."
"I've no money with me," Tom said. "Would you like it, Garth? I can tell him to come to the house to be paid, if you would."
"Don't you!" said 'Possum, in a quick whisper. "It ain't worth buyin'—those fellers don't know how to make a decent boomerang. They're on'y sham things, made to catch silly visitors——" She pulled herself up, and turned scarlet. Tom laughed.