warning of the approaching wet season; and the scrub fowl utters those
far-off imitations of the exclamation of civilised hens. Sundown at
Kumboola towards the end of September, when the sea laps and murmurs
among the rocks, and great white pigeons gather in thousands on the dark
foliage, or "coo-hooing" and flapping, disappear beneath the thick leafy
canopy, and all the other birds are saying their good-nights, or
asserting their rights, or protesting against crowding or intrusion, is
an ever-to-be-remembered experience. Added to the cheerful presence of
the noisy birds, are the pleasant odours which spring from the jungle as
coolness prevails, and the flaming west gives a weird tint of red to the
outlines of the trees, and of purple to the drowsy sea.

Of entirely different character is the last of the satellites to be
mentioned, Wooln-garin. Lying 300 yards off the south-western end of Dunk
Island, across a swift and deep channel, it is naught but a confused mass
of weather-beaten rocks, the loftiest not being more than 50 feet above
high-water. A few pandanus palms, hardy shrubs and trailers, and
mangroves, spring from sheltered crevices, but for the most part the
rocks are bare. The incessant assaults of the sea have cut deep but
narrow clefts in the granite, worn out sounding hollows, and smoothed
away angularities. Here a few terns rear their young, and succeeding
generations of the sooty oyster-catcher lay their eggs just out of the
reach of high-tide. A never-ending procession of fish passes up and down
the channel, according as the tide flows and ebbs, though they do not at
all times take serious heed of bait. To one who generally fishes for a
definite purpose, it is tantalising to peep down into the clear depths
and watch the lazy fish come and go, ignoring the presence of that which
at other times is greedily snapped at. Turtle, and occasionally dugong,
favour the vicinity of Wooln-garin which on account of its distinctive
character is one of the most frequented of the satellites.