The Magic Gun.
It was September, the wattle blossom month, and many people were in and around beautiful Healesville, where the wattle is to be seen at its best. Old King Barak, the last King of the Yarra tribe, sat outside his hut at Coranderrk, surrounded by white people.
“You all too greedy,” he grumbled, “you come to see black man, black man make native fire, black man throw boomerang, black man throw spear; white man give him black brother pennies, pah, white man greedy, no give black man baccy, only pennies.” A few of the white people gave the dirty old chief a silver coin, then they went off to another hut to buy native baskets, and to see the funny black babies. One small boy stayed behind.
“I am not greedy, Barak; see, I have brought you a shilling.”
Barak greedily snatched the shilling.
“Last time,” said the boy, “you told me the story of the Yarra Yarra, and you promised to tell me the story of the Magic Gun to-day if I brought you another shilling. Do be quick and tell me, because the others will want to go back to the township as soon as they have bought some baskets and things.”