Starting from the humpy, we crossed a little stretch of scrubby country, and struck into the sun-fretted gum-tree forest, locally known as “the bush.” The black fellow is always on the alert for crooked boughs or roots, and as we trudged on Long Green in his quiet way kept his keen eyes on duty. Nothing escaped the observation of this child of the bush--bird or animal, crooked stick, stripping bark, or foot track, all were so many letters on the familiar page of his only book, the book of Nature. However, finding nothing near, he led the way in and out to a spot where he was sure of getting crooked roots. When a suitable one was found and cut away by Long Green’s hatchet, we turned our faces humpyward.