spent in trees or on stockyard fences. As for crossing a river on a
stout wire rope! After the first few reminiscences, and an incident or
two in connection with "doing the horse's-tail trick," that appeared an
exceedingly safe and pleasant way of overcoming the difficulty, and it
became very evident why women do not travel "during the Wet."

It was a singularly beautiful night, shimmering with warm tropical
moonlight, and hoarse with the shouting of frogs and the roar of the
river--a night that demanded attention; and, gradually losing interest in
hair-breadth escapes from drowning, Mac joined in the song of the frogs.

"Quar-r-rt pot! Quar-r-rt pot!" he sang in hoarse, strident minims,
mimicking to perfection the shouts of the leaders, leaning with them on
the "quar-r-rt" in harsh gutturals, and spitting out the "pot" in short,
deep staccatos. Quicker and quicker the song ran, as the full chorus of
frogs joined in. From minims to crotchets, and from crotchets to quavers
it flowed, and Mac, running with it, gurgled with a new refrain at the
quavers. "More-water, more-water, hot-water, hot-water," he sang rapidly
in tireless reiteration, until he seemed the leader and the frogs the
followers, singing the words he put into their mouths. Lower and lower
the chorus sank, but just before it died away, an old bull-frog started
every one afresh with a slow, booming "quar-r-rt pot!" and Mac stopped
for breath. "Now you know the song of the frogs," he laughed. "We'll
teach you all the songs of the Never-Never in time; listen!" and
listening, it was hard to believe that this was our one-time telegraphing
bush-whacker. Dropping his voice to a soft, sobbing moan, as a pheasant
called from the shadows, he lamented with it for "Puss! Puss! Puss! Puss!
Poor Puss! Poor Puss!"

The sound roused a dove in the branches above us, and as she stirred in