Only make foot big." He never missed a chance of securing a
hatful of grubs, which, together with the chrysalides and the full-grown
beetle (brown and glossy) were devoured after being warmed through on
the ashes. When the tomahawk in the process of cutting out damaged a
grub, Mickie with a leer of satisfaction would eat the wriggling insect
with a feigned apology--"Me bin cut that fella." Baked in the ashes the
chrysalids have a wholesome, clean appearance, with a flavour of
coco-nut, and the "white fella" always came in for his share.
Mickie's bush craft, his knowledge of the habits of birds and insects
and the ways of fish, is enviable. Signs and sounds quite indeterminate
to "white fellas" are full of meaning to him. Of course, by failure to
comprehend such things, no doubt he has many a time gone hungry, and the
keenness of his appetite has so sharpened his perceptions that he is
seldom at fault now. The scratching of a scrub fowl among decayed leaves
is heard in the jungle at an extraordinary distance, and a splash or
ripple far out on the edge of the reef tells him that a shark or
kingfish is driving the mullet into the lagoon, where he may easily
spear them.
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