"Fly across to the Black Mountain," said Wildoo. "There is an ironstone wurley near the top—I will guide you to it, if you like. It is big enough for you all, and there is a fine heap of sticks on which to perch. The wind will not blow inside it, and the morning sun will shine right into it."
"It sounds too wonderful to be true," said the Wokala. "Is it dry, this ironstone wurley?"
"Dry as old bones," answered Wildoo. "Oh, you would be in luck to get there—you would forget all your troubles."
"One would think that impossible," shivered the old Wokala—he was very sorry for himself. "But if you will really guide us there, then be quick, Wildoo, or none of us will be able to fly at all."
"Very well," Wildoo answered. "I will go slowly, as I suppose you are all stiff. Follow me, and come down when you see me perch."
He spread his great wings and looked down at them for a moment with a little smile; and if they had not been so eager and so cold they might have hesitated at the expression in his yellow eyes. But, as usual, the Wokala thought only of themselves, and as they had learned to believe that Wildoo was afraid of them, they never suspected that he might be leading them into a trap. They cried "Kwah! Kwah!" and rose into the air after him as soon as the flapping of the mighty wings told them that he had left the gum-tree. Even to fly slowly was difficult, so stiff with cold were they: but they all persevered, except one young hen—a pretty young thing, whose weary wings would not do their duty. She made a brave attempt to rise, but before the flight had cleared the big dead gum-tree she had to drop back—thankful to find a secure perch on a jutting limb.
"Ky!" she whimpered. "I can never fly all the way to the Black Mountain. I must die here."
She crept along the limb until she came to the trunk, and there luck awaited her. In the fork was an old 'possum-hole which had not been used for many seasons. It was dry and warm—sheltered from the bitter wind, and soft underfoot with rotting leaves, pleasant to the touch. The young Wokala hopped in thankfully, and it seemed the last touch to her wonderful good fortune that she immediately met a fine fat grub. She promptly ate it for her supper, tucked her head under her wing, nestled into the farthest corner, and went to sleep, remarking drowsily, "This is better than all Wildoo's ironstone wurleys!"
The other Wokala did not notice that the young hen had dropped back—or if they did they did not worry about her. Weary as they were, it took all their strength to keep Wildoo in sight, even though he kept his word and flew slowly. They were thankful when at length he sank lower and came to rest on a big boulder by the mouth of the cave near the mountain-top. The Wokala followed him in a straggling line, and perched on the shelf outside the cave.
"There you are," Wildoo said, nodding towards the yawning hole in the hillside. "That is your ironstone wurley, and I will promise you that you will find it dry and free from draughts."