We were camped at the Bitter Springs on the Roper River, about fifteen miles from home, and had just shut up a big mob of cattle in the yards.

We had been “out bush” for a couple of weeks, riding from camp to camp, and mustering as we went. Bett-Bett was with us for her promised treat, and, as the head stockman said, was having “a wild and woolly time.” Perched straddle-legs on an old stock-horse, with the stirrup-irons wedged firmly between her little bare toes, she had had many a wild gallop after the cattle; and that, and everything else, was better than her wildest dreams of camping out.

As we rode from the yards to our camp, one of the men said:

“Isn’t this June? because, if it is, I reckon King Edward will be just about crowned.”

We all agreed it was June right enough, but nobody seemed sure of the date; we couldn’t even decide what day of the week it was. We had been “out bush” so long that we had got hopelessly mixed.

“Well,” said the Maluka, “we’re within a week of it, and that’s near enough for the Never-Never; so we’ll have a ‘play-about’ to celebrate it. Whoop! Hallo there, boys!” he called; “come and have a bigfellow play-about.” Then remembering that some bush blacks were camped at the river, he added, “Call up your pals, and I’ll shoot you a bullock for yourselves.”

With yells and screechings they obeyed, and were answered back by louder yells, as their bush friends— about twenty men, women and children—came screaming through the trees to accept the invitation.

Some hobbled the horses, some collected firewood, others dug a big, wide, shallow hole, and lit an enormous fire in it; lubras and piccaninnies ran to hunt for stones, which were to be made red hot in the fire; and everybody scampered and scuffled about, getting in each other’s way, laughing and shrieking, as they played practical jokes on one another. When they heard the shot that killed the bullock, they rushed off in a wild stampede to the stockyard.

In about ten minutes a ghastly procession came in sight, for the bullock had simply been hacked in pieces, skin and all; and every one, down to the tiniest piccaninny, was carrying a red, horrible-looking joint of meat.

Billy Muck, who was to be King himself some day, had the bullock’s head, and was amusing himself and everybody else by bucking and charging around, digging the horns into any one he could catch. Bett-Bett had the tail, and was swishing about with it among the lubras and piccaninnies, greatly to their delight. In fact, the future King and Queen were quite the life of the party. As the procession dodged and jumped about, it reminded me of a troop of clowns at a circus.

When it reached the fire, the meat was thrown on the ground, and while the dogs were helping themselves to the tit-bits, the ashes and stones were scraped out, and then the oven was ready for the joints.

A layer of hot stones was first thrown in, then some joints of meat, then more stones and more meat, layer after layer, till the hole was full and heaped up; on top of this were poured a few quarts of water, on top again was piled earth, and on top of everything else a great big fire was lit.

Then we went to our own camp to supper, and the blacks, making little fires every here and there, grilled small pieces of meat, to take the edge off their appetites; for it would be quite two hours before the joints were ready to eat.

As they sat, singing their strange, weird songs, the head stockman said it was a pity that we had no fireworks; but as his Majesty would not let his mail-man carry them, it was his Majesty’s own fault, not ours.

“What about a Poolooloomee Show?” suggested the Maluka.

It was the very thing.

“Poolooloomees, boys!” we shouted, and every blackfellow sprang to his feet with a yell. Snatching tomahawks, knives and hatchets, they rushed to the tall, white gum trees, and peeled off great sheets of bark, for they dearly loved a “Poolooloomee Play-about.”

They dragged the bark to the fire, and sitting down, cut it into thick strips, which were trimmed and shaped till they looked like small-sized tennis racquets, or rather long-handled battledores. As these were cut, the lubras put the broad ends into the fires, leaving the handles sticking safely out. They did not blaze, for the bark was too full of sap, but they gradually changed colour till they were beautiful glowing rings of fire.

Of course, as soon as half-a-dozen were ready to send off, the blacks wanted to fire them, and the Maluka had hard work to make them wait till everybody was well supplied with Poolooloomees. He managed it somehow, and it was well worth the trouble, for we had a magnificent display of fireworks.

When about two hundred of these little racquets were cut and glowing, each blackfellow drove a strong, straight rod into the ground, and holding one Poolooloomee high in his right hand, and a bundle of others in his left, stood looking at the Maluka, waiting for a signal.

“Let her go, Gallagher!” he shouted, and instantly the air was full of yells, and blazing, twirling, curling hoops of fire—the Poolooloomee Show had begun.

At the word of command, every man had brought his right arm down with a peculiar short, sharp swing, and striking the Poolooloomee handles hard against the firm upright rods, had broken off the fiery circles, and sent them whirling and twisting and soaring high up into the air. Quick as lightning, the handles were dropped, other Poolooloomees taken from the left hand, struck off, and sent circling and sailing after the first flight, to be followed again and again by others.

Page 73

It was marvellously weird and beautiful. Up went the strange fireworks, shooting like rockets through the trees, to join the brilliant cloud of Poolooloomees that were floating away into the glorious tropical night.............