wurip lay on his back in the shade of a golden wattle and listened idly to the bush voices talking round him. he heard far more than you would ever hear—voices of whispering leaves and boughs, of rustling grass, and softly-moving bodies. not a grasshopper could brush through a tussock but wurip knew that it had passed. overhead, birds were twittering gaily in the branches. he knew them all—had he been hungry he might have wanted to set snares for some of the little chirping things, but just then he was too well-fed and lazy to trouble about such tiny morsels. he bit long grass-stems lazily, and tried to sleep.

a pair of jays flew into a tree close by, and began to chatter to each other, and suddenly wurip found that he knew what they were saying. somehow, it did not seem surprising that he should know. afterwards he wondered if he had dreamed it, but at the moment nothing was strange to him. the jays, eager and chattering, did not notice the little black figure in the grass. they were too full of their subject.

"the fire-women have nearly finished their weaving," said one. "soon the last mat will be done. they have worked very quickly since wurip brought them rushes."

"and then they will go away," said the other.

"yes, then they will go quite away, and there will be no more fire for ever. he-he! what would the tribe say!"

"and wurip!"

"yes, wurip also. what will he do when they have gone?"

"he will go back to his people, i suppose. he cannot go with the fire-women. i think, brother," said the smaller jay, "that they mean to sail away on their mats to another country, taking fire with them."

"certainly they mean to go, and to take fire with them; did we not hear them talking about it while we perched on their wurley?" said the other. "as for sailing away on their mats, i do not see now that can be. mats are not like wings. you are a foolish young bird."

"well, why do they make them so strong and large, and how else will they get away?" asked the other, looking down his beak in an abashed way, out still sticking to his point. "you cannot tell me those things."

"i do not care to know," said the big jay; and that was untrue, because jays are very inquisitive. "what does it matter? they are only humans. but wonder what wurip would say, if he knew."

"wurip thinks he will take fire back to the tribe. but i do not think he will ever get it. the fire-women watch him too closely—and anyhow, he is only a little cripple."

"he would be excited if he knew what we heard them say—that if they lost any of it now, all the rest would go out, and then their power would leave them, so that they could work no more magic."

"he-he-he!" chattered the other jay. "but he will never know that. they do not talk when he is near."

"no, they are wise. it is a very foolish thing to talk," said his brother solemnly. yet they chattered for a little while longer, and then they flew away.

wurip lay motionless under the wattle-tree, and forgot to bite grass-stems any more. he was not sure whether he was awake or dreaming; and he did not greatly care, because he felt that the warning that had come to him was true, whether he had dreamed it or not.

it fitted in with little things he had noticed. lately the fire-women had been very busy at their weaving, working night and day, so that he could hardly bring them rushes quickly enough. a great pile of mats lay ready in a corner of their wurley, and now they were working together at the largest of all. they had seemed restless and excited, too, and talked earnestly together, although they were careful not to let him hear anything, and never to let him go near the fire. not that they seemed to fear now that he would try to approach it. wurip had been very careful, never even glancing towards it as he worked about the camp. he was allowed to place his firewood at a certain spot, and took great pains not to go beyond it. in every way in his power he used to try to make them think that he was afraid of fire and dreaded to go too close to it since he had burned his arm. by this means he seemed to have put their suspicions to sleep, and they regarded him as a harmless little fellow, of whom they need have no fear.

he made his way back to the camp, slowly, thinking hard. if the fire-women were really going away, he must act, and act quickly. at any time they might finish their work; and then they would disappear for ever, and there would be no more fire to warm the people of the earth. wurip drew up his thin little body as he walked, and clenched his fist. he made up his mind that he would act that very night.

he found the camp just as usual, with the fire-women working at their greatest mat of all, weaving it in and out in a curious device of green and white. one held the white strands, and the other the green; and their black hands worked so quickly that wurip could scarcely see to which woman they belonged. he looked at it with great admiration, and ventured a timid word of praise. then he went a little way off and began to skin the native cats and bandicoots that he had brought home.

when he had prepared them for cooking, he laid them carefully on crossed sticks and put them in a shady corner. it was growing dusk, and he hurried off to find firewood. all the time, he was turning many plans over and over in his mind, and rejecting one after another as useless. well, he thought, he must trust to luck.

he came back to the camp with his bundle of wood, and began to heap it in the accustomed place, keeping a respectful distance from the fire, and bending down his eyes, lest their burning desire should be seen. already the sun had gone away over the edge of the world, and darkness was coming fast. the fire-women had been forced to stop weaving, for the pattern of the great mat was too fine to weave by firelight. generally, when they had finished, one carried the work into the wurley while the other remained outside to watch wurip and begin the cooking. but the great mat was now too heavy for one to lift, and so they rolled it up, and carried it away together.

wurip, crouching over his heap of firewood, felt his body suddenly stiffened like a steel spring. under his brows he watched them; and as the wurley hid them, he darted forward, snatched a big fire-stick from the glowing coals, and fled, with great noiseless bounds that carried him in a moment far into the dusk. behind him he heard a sudden loud anguished cry, and knew that the fire-women had found out his theft.

for a moment he feared that the magic wall would spring up to bar his way, and he ran as he had never run before. but it did not come; and into his mind swept the words of the jay, that if fire were taken from the women, they would lose their power of magic. he hardly dared to think that could be so—but as he ran on, finding no unseen obstacle in his way, hope surged over him. magic was a thing against which no man could fight. but if he had only ordinary women to deal with, he was not afraid.

a few hundred yards from the wurley, he glanced back, and saw that their fire no longer sent its red gleam into the dusk. his heart leapt with joy, for it seemed as if the jays' story must be true; and if so, the fire-women's hearth was cold, and already the only fire in the world was what he carried. the greatness of the thought caught his breath—surely such an honour should be for the bravest warrior of the tribe, and not for a half-crippled, undersized weakling like him. and behind him came a sudden trampling of running feet, and a cry of such terrible anger that the very waterfowl in the swamps hid themselves in fear. the fire-women were on his track.

wurip ran forward, leaping from tussock to tussock sometimes slipping into bog-holes, and scratching his bare limbs on great clumps of sword-grass. in his withered hand he clutched the fire-stick; the other held his waddy, and sometimes he was glad to use it to help himself over rough places. luckily, he knew the ground well—there was no part of it that he had not studied on his days out hunting, knowing that at any time he might have to make his dash for home. he hid the glow of the fire-stick as much as he could, holding it so close to him that his skin was scorched by it; but his precautions could not conceal it altogether, and to the fire-women behind him it was like a red star, twinkling low down upon earth.

they came after wurip swiftly. at first they had uttered savage cries of wrath, and fierce threats of what they would do to wurip when they caught him; but soon it seemed that they knew that shouts and threats were useless, and after that they hunted him silently, only the quick pad of their feet being heard in the darkness. they were terribly quick feet. wurip had not dreamed that women could run so fast. sometimes, as the moon rose, he could see them in pursuit, grim and revengeful, looking like giants in the darkness. his soul was full of terror at the thought of what they would do if they caught him, for he knew that he would be but a little child in their hands.

they crossed the swamps and morasses, and the reed-fringed creeks—and here wurip lost ground, for he had to go very carefully, lest he should slip and so drown the precious fire-stick that he held close to him. only a blackfellow could have kept it alight so long; but wurip knew just how to hold it so that the air fanned it enough to keep the dull coals glowing, without letting it burn too quickly away. he heard the fire-women splash through the creeks, not far behind him. then they came into the scrub-country, all running at their wildest speed, for this was the last part of the journey back to the tribe.

then wurip knew that he must be beaten. he was nearly done—his breath came unevenly, and his limbs were like lead, and would no longer do his bidding. fierce and untired, close behind him, came the fire-women. a little ahead, he knew of a bed of green bracken fern in a gully, and he set his teeth in the resolve to get thus far.

they were quite near him when the dark line of the gully showed, somewhat to his left. he threw all his remaining strength into a last spurt of energy, and then, turning from the straight line towards the camp of the tribe, he crept through the scrub to the gully, holding both hands over the fire so that it might not guide the fire-women to his place of refuge, and heedless of the cruel burning. he reached the gully safely, and flung himself face downwards among the rank ferns and nettles, panting as if his heart would burst from his body. he heard the women run past, tirelessly swift; there came to him their angry voices, calling softly, lest they should miss each other in the dim scrub. they had not seen him swerve—that was clear; and wurip hugged himself with joy to think that for the moment he was safe.

when they had passed, and the sound of their feet had died away, he crept from his gully and fled in a northerly direction. he ran all through the dark hours, with long trotting strides, as a dingo runs, and circling round so that he might miss the fire-women and come upon the camp from the other side. sometimes he paused to rest, listening for the sound of the other hastening feet—but they did not come, and at last he believed that he had escaped pursuit.

he was very tired—so tired that at last he lost something of the blackfellow's keenness that guides him through even unknown country in the dark. something seemed to have broken in his chest, from the time of his last mad spurt from the fire-women, and now each breath stabbed him. perhaps it was because he was so tired that at last he became confused altogether, and swerved from the track he had mapped out for himself to get back to the camp; and when dawn broke he was back in the direction where he might expect to meet pursuit. even as this dawned upon him, he looked up and saw the fire-women running silently towards him, their fierce eyes gleaming.

wurip knew it was the end. he fled, knowing as he went that he could not run far. behind him came the women, tireless as though they had not spent the night in fruitless chase. he clutched the fire-stick to him, scarcely knowing that it burned his hands and his naked chest.

rounding a clump of saplings, a sob burst from his labouring chest. before him he saw the familiar camp, the wurleys clustered together; it seemed to smile at him in home-like fashion. so near home, to fail! he spurred himself to the last effort.

then from the camp burst a knot of fighting-men, racing towards him. he caught the glint of the rising sun on their spears and throwing-sticks; and he waved to them, for he could not shout. they came on with great strides: there was music in the sound of their trampling feet. when they came to him, they divided, running past him, and wurip staggered through the lane they formed. he heard fierce cries and blows behind him, but he did not stop.

before him the camp lay, and never had it smiled to him a welcome so sweet. there were people running out to meet him; men, women, and little children: he could hear their voices, amazed and rejoicing—"wurip! it is wurip, bringing us fire!" he tried to smile at them, but his lips would not move. so he staggered in to the circle of the huts, and there fell upon his face, still grasping the red fire-stick in his blistered hand. it was all red now, for it had burned down to the last few inches.

then, as they clustered round him, lifting him with gentle hands and blessing his name, he smiled at them a little, and died peacefully, happy that he had brought back fire to his own people.

but to the people he did not die. ever after they honoured his name, calling him the benefactor of the tribe: so that in death he found that honour that forgot he had ever been little and weak, and a cripple. and when you see the little fire-tailed finch that hops about so fearlessly, with the bright red feathers making a patch of flame on its sober plumage, you are looking at wurip, the fire-bringer, who gave his life to vanquish the wicked fire-women and to lay fire once more upon the hearth-stones of his tribe.