THE SOUL WITHIN THE STONE 305 



was the lore of the camp. Was it that Nature re- 

 asserted her influence that the essences of the scene, 

 subtle and pervasive, had recurred, creating a receptive 

 spirit, so deep a religion of assent that shadow and 

 substance intermingled to my bewilderment ? I was 

 permitted to be a sensitive percipient in the midst of 

 the ashes of shiftless folk who had passed away, catching 

 but a casual and deceptive glimpse of the coming of 

 the desolating white man. 



Piln-goi, the black boy, had wandered up the creek. 

 A thrilling silence prevailed. Stooping down, I laved 

 my hands in the softly flowing water, idly intent on 

 lifting the stone. The tawny slime defeated irresolute 

 efforts, and my slipping hands bestowed a baptismal 

 splash. 



Instantly I became conscious of a strange presence, 

 and, glancing over my shoulder, saw an unfamiliar 

 black boy lurking behind a glistening-fronded Cycad. 



The whole scene had undergone wishful transforma- 

 tion. The white-barked trees, purified of smears from 

 the sooty fingers of fire, stood out in splendid contrast 

 to a richer, thicker, a flowery undergrowth. Tall fern- 

 trees spread green cobwebs to entrap sunbeams. The 

 Cycad under which the boy crouched was slim-shaped, 

 and its foliage resembled that of one of the most beauti- 

 ful of ferns, with languorous, dolorous fronds, while it 

 was crowned with a huge fruit of golden-brown. All 

 the scene had been wondrously transfigured. Time's 

 treacheries had been defeated. A garden-like age had 

 been restored. The sword-leaved orchid dangled yard- 

 long sprays of brilliant yellow flowers, which saturated 

 the air with delicate perfume. Fearless birds fluttered 

 among and hovered over the pendant blooms, whistling 

 and calling. Water-rats sported in the lily-bespangled 

 stream, and a platypus basked on the bank. 



ao 



