This island is our home. He who would see the most picturesque portions
of the whole of the 2000 miles of the east coast of Australia must pass
within a few yards of our domain.

In years gone by, Dunk Island, "Coonanglebah" of the blacks, had an evil
repute. Fertile and fruitful, set in the shining sea abounding with
dugong, turtle and all manner of fish; girt with rocks rough-cast with
oysters; teeming with bird life, and but little more than half an hour's
canoe trip from the mainland, the dusky denizens were fat, proud,
high-spirited, resentful and treacherous, far from friendly or polite to
strangers. One sea-captain was maimed for life in our quiet little bay
during a misunderstanding with a hasty black possessed of a new bright
tomahawk, a rare prize in those days. This was the most trivial of the
many incidents by which the natives expressed their character.
Inhospitable acts were common when the white folks first began to pay the
island visits, for they found the blacks hostile and daring. Why invoke
those long-silent spectres, white as well as black, when all active
boorishness is of the past? Civilisation has almost fulfilled its
inexorable law; but four out of a considerable population remain, and
they remember naught of the bad old times when the humanising processes,
or rather the results of them, began to be felt. They must have been a
fine race, fine for Australian aboriginals at least, judging by the stamp
of two of those who survive; and perhaps that is why they resented
interference, and consequently soon began to give way before the
irresistible pressure of the whites. Possibly, had they been more docile
and placid, the remnants would have been more numerous though less
flattering representatives of the race. You shall judge of the type by
what is related of some of the habits and customs of the semi-civilised
survivors.