As long as their poor parched throats could make a sound they sang this. Then they lay down to die, weary and hopeless. One said faintly: "The rain will be too late, but surely it is coming, for strong is the smell of the Gidya."
"Strong indeed," said the other. But even this sure sign to their tribe that rain is near roused them not; it would come, they thought, too late for them. But even then away in the north a thundercloud was gathering. It rolled across the sky quickly, pealing out thunder calls as it came to tell of its coming. It stopped right over the plain in front of the Bullai Bullai. One more peal of thunder, which opened the cloud, then splashing down came the first big drops of rain. Slowly and few they came until just at the last, when a quick, heavy shower fell, emptying the thundercloud, and filling the gilguy holes on the plain.
The cool splashing of the rain on their hot, tired limbs gave new life to the Bullai Bullai and Weedah. They all ran to the gilguy holes. Stooping their heads, they drank and quenched their thirst.
"I told you the water was here," said Weedah, "You see I was right."
"No water was here when you said so. If our cousin Dooloomai had not heard our song for his help we should have died, and you too."
And they were angry. But Weedah dug them some roots, and when they ate they forgot their anger. When their meal was over they lay down to sleep.
The next morning on they went again. That day they again saw across the plains the same strange semblance of water which had lured them on before. They knew
