no one in the bush ever had a good word to say for the crows. from the very earliest times they were a noisy, mischievous race, always poking their strong beaks into what did not concern them, and never so happy as when they were annoying other people. whatever a mother crow taught her chickens, civility and good manners were not included in the lessons; they were accomplishments for which none of the family had the slightest use.

it did not at all trouble the wokala, as the crows were called, that they were unpopular. indeed, they rather gloried in the amount of ill-feeling they were able to excite among the bush folk. they were powerful birds, well able to hold their own in any quarrel with birds of their own size, and so quick and daring that they would even steal from animals, or attack weak ones, secure in the advantage given them by their strong wings. they made so many enemies, however, that they took to going about in flocks, so that no one dared molest them—not even wildoo, the eagle, or kellelek, the cockatoo.

especially did wildoo hate the wokala. he was always proud, as the king of the birds has every right to be, and among all birds that fly his word was law. he liked to keep good order, and if any bird displeased him, a few quiet words, possibly accompanied by a discreet peck, or a blow from one of his great wings, was more than enough to bring the offender to his senses. one day he had occasion to punish one of the wokala, who had stolen the meal laboriously provided by the wife of wook-ook, the mopoke, for her husband, who was ill. the wokala, battered and furious, flew away and told his story to the other crows; who, equally furious, flew in a mob to the high crag where wildoo had his nest. there was no one there, for it was too late in the season to find chickens: so the wokala amused themselves by scattering the nest to pieces, and when wildoo and his wife came home from hunting they hid among the bushes and screamed all sorts of insulting things at them. wildoo took no notice, openly. it would have been beneath his dignity to go hunting smaller birds in thick bushes—which the wokala very well knew. he merely folded his wings and, with his wife, perched on the edge of the rocky shelf where his nest had been, and stared out across the tossing green sea of gum-trees that clothed the rolling hills below, his yellow eyes full of silent anger. gradually the wokala grew tired of screaming, and, becoming hungry, flew away.

after that the wokala became more insolent than ever. even wildoo was afraid of them, they said; and they kept together in a mob, and lost no chance of being rude to him. more and more they attacked and insulted the other birds, until no one felt safe if there were any chance of the evil wokala coming near. again and again complaints came to wildoo of their wicked doings, and wildoo heard them in silence, nodding his head, with his brain busy behind his yellow eyes. but he said nothing: until at length the other birds began to ask themselves was it really true that wildoo was afraid? wildoo was not at all afraid of a flock of squawking wokala. but he was very much afraid of being made to look ridiculous. he had no intention of making a false step, and he did not quite know what to do. there was no one for him to talk to, for the eagle is a lonely bird—not like chirnip, the magpie-lark, or tautani, the cormorant, with dozens and dozens of friends. he is a king, and therefore he is lonely: and, being naturally silent, he does not talk much, even to his wife. all by himself he had to think out the problem of what to do about the wokala; and, meanwhile, the wokala perched above his nest and insulted him, and dropped bits of stick down upon his rocky shelf, and screamed rude things at his wife, until she said crossly to wildoo, "i cannot think why you do not make an end of those abominable little white birds. they are a disgrace to any decent kingdom, and you have not the spirit of a bandicoot!" this annoyed and hurt wildoo, but he said nothing—only looked at her until she caught a gleam of fire in the depths of his yellow eyes.

perhaps you did not know that in the very early times all the wokala were white? they were the whitest of all the birds of the bush, without a single grey or coloured feather in all their bodies: so that there was a saying in the bush, "as white as a wokala." they were very proud of it, too, and thought it quite a disgrace if one of their chickens showed a sign of being even creamy in colour, once he was nearly fledged. they kept themselves very clean, going often to bathe; and when they flew about in a flock their dazzling whiteness almost hurt the eye, while, if they perched in a dead gum-tree, they looked like big snowflakes against the grey branches. even kellelek, the cockatoo, was dingy compared to the gleaming whiteness of the wokala. somehow, it seemed to make their bad behaviour worse, since no one would expect a beautiful bird like polished marble to have the manners of a jungle pig.

summer ended early that year, with a great thunder-storm, followed by a month of wild wind and driving rain: and all the birds were rather uncomfortable because the moulting season was scarcely over. most of all, the wokala were annoyed. they liked their white feathers so much, and were so proud of their smart appearance, that they always delayed moulting as long as ever they could; and now the bad weather caught them in a worse state than the other birds. when the rains ended, early frosts came, and found the wokala without any of their new feather cloaks ready. they used to huddle together among the thickest trees, shivering and untidy.

in that part of the country there is a great black ironstone hill, treeless and forbidding. few birds go there, for there is nowhere to perch, and but little food except the tiny rock-lizards that sun themselves in the hot mornings. wildoo knew it well, for he often flew over it, and occasionally he was accustomed to stand on a shelf at the mouth of a cave near the top—a black hole in the hillside where no one but an eagle would willingly perch alone. he took refuge in the cave one morning, during a fierce hail-storm; and it was there that an idea came to him.

that night as he came flying homewards, he brought in his great talons a bundle of dry sticks, and as he flapped his way over the black ironstone hill, he dropped down on the ledge and made a heap of his sticks on the floor of the cave. the next morning he did the same: and so it went on for many days, until he had a big pile of smooth sticks, something like a great nest. his wife came with him one evening, and was very much amused.

"why have you taken to playing with sticks?" she asked, laughing. "i never saw such a funny heap. is it a game?" but wildoo only looked at her sourly, and said, "be quiet, woman!" after the manner of husbands: and since she was more sensible than most wives, she was quiet.

it was after his heap of sticks was ready that wildoo went to look for the wokala. they had been far too uncomfortable lately to continue to be rude to him, and, in fact, were keeping out of the way of every one; so that he had some difficulty in finding them, and might have given it up but for corridella, the eagle-hawk, who remembered having seen them near a sheltered gully between two hills.

"they are cold," said corridella, laughing, "oh, so cold, and so sorry for themselves. there is no impudence left in them."

"cold indeed must be the night that chills the impudence of the wokala," said wildoo.

"it is going to be a very cold night," said corridella. "already there is a sharp nip of frost in the air. i think that some of the wokala will be dead before morning, for none of them have their new feather cloaks nearly ready." he chuckled. "well, no one in the bush will mourn for them. perhaps they will realize now that it does not pay to make enemies of every one."

"the wokala will never learn a lesson," answered wildoo. "they are always satisfied with themselves: and even though some may die, the others will forget all about it, once they have their shining white cloaks and can flock into the tree-tops again. but possibly they may not be so lucky—who can tell?" he also chuckled, looking as wise as an owl. but when corridella asked him what he meant, he pretended to go to sleep: and corridella, who knew better than to pester an eagle with too many questions, said good evening and sailed homeward across the tree-tops.

left to himself, wildoo waited until no bird was in sight, and then flapped heavily away from his rocky shelf, and dived downward to the gully. it did not take him long to find the wokala. they did not gleam with the whiteness of snow, for they were moulting and very shabby, and a few were dressed mainly in pin-feathers; but their voices were just as harsh as ever, and guided wildoo to where they were huddling among some she-oak trees. already a cold wind was whistling down between the hills, sighing and moaning in the she-oak branches. there is no tree in all australia so mournful as the she-oak on a cold night, when each long needle seems to sing a separate little song of woe. already the miserable wokala were sorry that they had chosen to roost there.

suddenly, great wings darkened the evening sky above them, and, looking up, they saw wildoo. he perched on a limb of a dead gum-tree far overhead, and looked down at them, laughing. there seemed, to the shivering wokala, something very terrible in the sound of his laughter.

"kwah!" they whispered. "wildoo has found us. now he will be revenged." they knew they could not fly swiftly enough to escape him, and they began to creep downwards, hoping to hide among the bracken fern that clothed the gully. but wildoo called to them, and, to their astonishment, his voice sounded friendly.

"oh, wokala!" he cried. "are you very cold?"

"ay, we are cold," said the wokala, as well as they could, for their beaks were chattering with fear and shivering.

"no wonder, seeing how little you have on," said wildoo. "a pity you did not get your new white feather cloaks ready earlier, instead of spending your time in annoying honest folk. well, perhaps you will have more sense next year."

"doubtless we shall, if we live," said the oldest wokala. "but it seems likely that not many of us will live, for we are nearly frozen already."

"how distressing for you!" said wildoo—"especially as it will be far colder before morning than it is now. these gullies are the chilliest places in the bush on a frosty night."

the beaks of the wokala chattered anew.

"we came for shelter," said the old wokala miserably. "but you say truth, wildoo: i think the frost-spirit has his home down here. is it any warmer where you are?"

"very little," said wildoo—"and the wind is singing through these branches. but i know of a sheltered place, for all that."

"kwah!" said the wokala, all together. "a sheltered place! oh, wildoo, you are great and—and—and beautiful. will you not tell us where it is?"

"great and beautiful, am i?" said wildoo, with a chuckle. "that is not the sort of thing you have been calling me all these months. however, it is lucky for you that i am also good-natured; i would not willingly see any of my people die of cold, not even the wokala, who deserve little of anyone."

"then you will tell us where is the sheltered place?" chattered the wokala.

"fly across to the black mountain," said wildoo. "there is an ironstone wurley near the top—i will guide you to it, if you like. it is big enough for you all, and there is a fine heap of sticks on which to perch. the wind will not blow inside it, and the morning sun will shine right into it."

"it sounds too wonderful to be true," said the wokala. "is it dry, this ironstone wurley?"

"dry as old bones," answered wildoo. "oh, you would be in luck to get there—you would forget all your troubles."

"one would think that impossible," shivered the old wokala—he was very sorry for himself. "but if you will really guide us there, then be quick, wildoo, or none of us will be able to fly at all."

"very well," wildoo answered. "i will go slowly, as i suppose you are all stiff. follow me, and come down when you see me perch."

he spread his great wings and looked down at them for a moment with a little smile; and if they had not been so eager and so cold they might have hesitated at the expression in his yellow eyes. but, as usual, the wokala thought only of themselves, and as they had learned to believe that wildoo was afraid of them, they never suspected that he might be leading them into a trap. they cried "kwah! kwah!" and rose into the air after him as soon as the flapping of the mighty wings told them that he had left the gum-tree. even to fly slowly was difficult, so stiff with cold were they: but they all persevered, except one young hen—a pretty young thing, whose weary wings would not do their duty. she made a brave attempt to rise, but before the flight had cleared the big dead gum-tree she had to drop back—thankful to find a secure perch on a jutting limb.

"ky!" she whimpered. "i can never fly all the way to the black mountain. i must die here."

she crept along the limb until she came to the trunk, and there luck awaited her. in the fork was an old 'possum-hole which had not been used for many seasons. it was dry and warm—sheltered from the bitter wind, and soft underfoot with rotting leaves, pleasant to the touch. the young wokala hopped in thankfully, and it seemed the last touch to her wonderful good fortune that she immediately met a fine fat grub. she promptly ate it for her supper, tucked her head under her wing, nestled into the farthest corner, and went to sleep, remarking drowsily, "this is better than all wildoo's ironstone wurleys!"

the other wokala did not notice that the young hen had dropped back—or if they did they did not worry about her. weary as they were, it took all their strength to keep wildoo in sight, even though he kept his word and flew slowly. they were thankful when at length he sank lower and came to rest on a big boulder by the mouth of the cave near the mountain-top. the wokala followed him in a straggling line, and perched on the shelf outside the cave.

"there you are," wildoo said, nodding towards the yawning hole in the hillside. "that is your ironstone wurley, and i will promise you that you will find it dry and free from draughts."

"there is nothing living there?" asked the old wokala, looking a little doubtfully at the cave.

"nothing at all. all you will find there is a heap of dry sticks; you can perch there and keep each other warm. stay there, if you like it well enough, until your new feather cloaks are ready—you are really scarcely fit for decent society now." wildoo cast a half-contemptuous glance at the shivering, half-fledged birds, as they clustered on the rocky shelf. then he flew off again into the gathering darkness.

"whatever is wildoo about?" asked kellelek, the cockatoo, of his hens. "he seems to be leading all the wokala round the sky. a funny nurse he looked, and with a funny lot of chickens!"

"no wonder he waited for dusk before he would be seen with them," said one of his wives contemptuously. "i flew by their tree to-day, and really, they were a positive disgrace. and they always think themselves so smart!"

"oh, they'll be smart enough again," said kellelek, laughing. "wait until they have their new feathers on, and you will be just as jealous of them as ever you were. there is no doubt that the wokala are smart—that is, for people who prefer plain white. i like a good sulphur crest myself—but then, it's all a matter of opinion."

"well, don't let the wokala know that you admire them, or they will be worse than ever," said his wives, ruffling their feathers angrily.

meanwhile, the wokala had hesitated just for a moment before entering the cave. then a fresh blast of cold wind swept across the face of the mountain, and they waited no longer, but fluttered in before it, in a hurrying, jostling flock. it was just as wildoo had told them: warm and dry, and with a big heap of dry sticks in the middle—just the thing for them to perch on. they hopped up eagerly, huddling together for warmth, scrambling and fighting for the best places. soon they were all comfortably settled, and at last warmth began to steal back into their shivering bodies.

"a good thing we made wildoo afraid of us," said one sleepily. "otherwise we should never have known of this splendid wurley." the others uttered drowsy murmurs of "kwah!" as they drifted into slumber.

but far away on his mountain shelf wildoo sat and waited, his yellow eyes wide and wakeful. the dusk deepened into night, and far off, from his perch on a tall stringy bark tree, old wook-ook, the mopoke, sent out his long cry, "mo—poke! mo—poke!" presently came a dim radiance in the east and wildoo stirred a little.

"peera comes," he muttered.

peera, the moon, came up slowly, until all the bush was flooded with her dim light, falling into shadow now and then, when dark clouds drifted across her face. wildoo waited until she was above the tree-tops, with her beams falling upon the ironstone mountain. then he took a fire-stick in his talons and flew swiftly away, never pausing until he alighted on the shelf before the cave.

he laid the fire-stick down and went softly to the dark opening, listening. there came only the sound of the breathing of the wokala, with now and then a muffled caw as one dreamed, perhaps, of cold and hunger. as his eyes grew accustomed to the light, wildoo could see them—a huddled white mass upon the heap of sticks. that was all he wanted, and he went back swiftly for his fire-stick, and with it went into the cave. very softly he slipped it into the dry heart of the heap of sticks below the sleeping wokala. he waited until little smoke-wreaths began to curl up, and a faint glow came from within the heap.

"now you will be warm enough, my friends!" he muttered. he hurried out of the cave, and flew slowly to the nearest tree, on the hill opposite the black mountain. there he perched and waited. very soon all the dark mouth of the cave was filled with glowing radiance, and clouds of smoke came billowing out and rolled down the hill. then came loud and terrified cawing, and wildoo thought he could see dark forms fluttering out through the smoke. his yellow eyes gleamed at the sight. and then clouds came suddenly across the face of the moon, and a fierce wind blew, with driving rain that beat into the mouth of the cave. it blotted out the glow, and the wind carried away the cries. when all was quiet wildoo flapped off to his nest.

he was back next morning on the boulder outside the cave, and with him all the birds of the bush, whom he had collected as he came, saying to them, "come and see what happens to those who insult wildoo." the black mouth of the ironstone cave looked grim and forbidding, and, peering in, the birds could see the charred ends of the dry sticks, scattered on the floor round a heap of ashes. then, from the inner recesses of the cave came a strange procession, and at the sight the kooka burra burst into a peal of laughter. for it was the wokala.

they came slowly—but where were their white feathers, of which they had been so proud? all were gone, singed off close to their bodies; and their bodies were blackened with smoke. queer, naked birds they looked, creeping out into the sunshine, and there was no pride left in them. they looked up and saw wildoo and the laughing birds of all the bush; and with a loud miserable cawing they fled back into the cave.

no one saw the wokala again for a time. but after a long while they came out again, this time with all their feathers fully grown. no longer, however, were they white—the whitest of all birds. their new feathers were a glossy black!

they looked at each other for a moment with a kind of horror. then they rose into the air with a swift beating of their jet-black wings, and, calling "kwah! kwah!" they fled across the sky. and as they flew another cawing was heard, and a white bird rose and flew to meet them—the wokala hen who had been left behind, and who had taken refuge in the 'possum-hole. she was now the only white wokala left in all the world. they met in mid-air, and at sight of the strange black birds with the familiar voices the white wokala uttered a scream and fled away, never to be seen again.

since then, always the crows have been black. they found their old impudence again after a while, and became what they had been when they were white—always the nuisances of the bush, vagabonds and robbers and bullies. but still the terror of the ironstone wurley is upon them, and they never venture into caves, but live in the big trees, where they can see far and wide, and where no creeping enemy can come upon them in the darkness. and wildoo, the king of the birds, never finds them near his nest, nor need he ever speak to them. one glance from him is enough for the wokala: they would fly to the deepest recesses of the bush rather than face the gleam of his yellow eyes.