Puss! Puss! Puss!
Poor Puss! Poor Puss!"
The sound roused a dove in the branches above us, and as she stirred in
her sleep and cooed softly, Mac murmured drowsily: "Move-over-dear,
Move-over dear"; and the dove, taking up the refrain, crooned it again
and again to its mate.
The words of the songs were not Mac's. They belong to the lore of the
bushmen; but he sang or crooned them with such perfect mimicry of tone or
cadence, that never again was it possible to hear these songs of the
Never-Never without associating the words with the songs.
The night was full of sounds, and one by one Mac caught them up, and the
bush appeared to echo him; and leaning half drowsily, against the
pack-saddles and swags, we listened until we slipped into one of those
quiet reveries that come so naturally to bush-folk. Shut in on all sides
by bush and tall timber, with the rushing river as sentinel, we seemed in
a world all our own - a tiny human world, with a camp fire for its hub;
and as we dreamed on, half conscious of the moonlight and shoutings, the
deep inner beauty of the night stole upon us.
