84 LITERATURE. 



Tasmanian Waratah Legend. 



^SITBOUT fifty years ago, as the story goes, a native family dwelt in Amboo's Bottom, in 

 S^J the pretty district of Glenorchy, a few miles from Hobart town. Attawa was blessed 

 with a dutiful daughter, the flower of the tribe. Beset with suitors and constantly 

 attended by admirers, she was bewildered like other ladies in the maze of flattery, and knew 

 not upon whom to bestow her angelic qualities. The tall and graceful Amboo reheved her 

 from her perplexity. Who had whiter teeth, nobler limbs, better greased and ochred 

 ringlets? Who could so exquisitely give the tremulous shake of the thigh in the moonlight 

 corroboree, so adroitly waddy the feather throng, so fleetly chase the kangaroo? More 

 than all, who could so chant a love lament, so whisper a moving tale, or so gaze at her? 

 It is enough. Makooi is vanquished, and Amboo is the conqueror. But jealousy is cruel, 

 the revenge of other devoteer- is to be feared, the public opinion of the tribe always supreme, 

 might may forbid the banns. 



What was to be done? In Tartary the lady is mounted upon the best horse and given 

 a distance. The suitors then ride after, and he who catches wins. There a lady has a 

 chance of going too much on one particular side, making a false step at a convenient place, 

 or using any one or other of these ruses of the gentle art of courtship which may secure 

 her choice. Poor Makooi had recourse to a poe'.ical expedient. She proposed to her lovers 

 that at sunrise in the morning they were to search in the Derwent for a flower which she 

 would drop into the waters at night, and that with him who should bring back the same, 

 she would share the leafy gunyah for hfe. It was full moon when this dark Flora of the 

 Forest hills gathered the gorgeous favourite Waratah, and carried it to the rocky margin 

 of the river. Without a faith she had no god, no patron saint to invocate. But her heart 

 pulsed forth " Amboo " as the moon's beams softened the scarlet of the floating floral beauty. 



The tide bore on the precious freight. The hills glowed at the first glance of the sun, 

 and the bank was trodden and the stream scanned by eager searchers. The day passed; 

 one after another returned, but the flower was not presented. Only one was absent — ■ 

 the ardent Amboo. Hopes for his success were now mixed with fears for his safety in the 

 breast of the maiden. He came not; he never came. The flower was not brought to the 

 sweet gully of Glenorchy, and Makooi was free. Alarm for the lost one sent the tribe in 

 search. A violent storm on the trial day had removed the track of the Tasmanian Adonis 

 and the search was in vain. The heart-broken girl hngered for a few months, and the 

 trailing Kennedya lay its crimson blossoms on her tomb. 



About the year 1832 some persons were quarrying on the banks of the Derwent, not 

 far below the scene of our story. A huge block had fallen from the top of the rock. 

 Removing this they discovered a human skeleton, and tightly clasped within its bony 

 fingers was a withered flower-stalk. Might this not have been the remains of Makooi's 

 lover, who, seeking shelter under the rock from that eventful day's storm, was crushed by 

 the mass detached from the hill? 



