WAURERI’S STORY. 139 down to his mouth and gave it a crunch with his teeth, and then shouted to his friends, and they jumped up and enabled him to cast it from him. The following story was told me by one of those concerned in the circumstances. I relate it because it brings out various customs of the natives before the white men appeared upon the scene: WAUKERI’S STORY. I was a big boy, and strong enough to help my father haul the nets when he went fishing. My father’s name was Katyirene. I have a sister about two years younger than I am. Her name is Ngalyalli. The camp of the Lakalinyeri, or tribe to which we belonged, was pitched at Rauukki. We came from Piltangk, where we had been spearing pomeri (a fish). When we got to the camp at Ranukki, the old men who were sitting by the fire bid us welcome, by putting their closed right hands against their stomachs, and then throwing them from them towards us, opening them as they did so. This is called menmendin, and means that their mewe, or bowels, go out to us. It is also the way in which we show we thank any one. We stayed there that night. My mother (Pungari) and my two little brothers were there. But we only stayed one night. My father thought that there might be tinuwarri (bream) at Ngiakkung, and so he said he would take his hooks and lines (piri and nunnggi) and go and try to get some. So I and Ngalyalli said we would go with him. When we started in the morning, our Rupulli and the old men spoke very kindly. "Many bream shall be in your koye (basket), brother," said they. "Kalyan ungune lewin" (which means "here you sitting"), said my father to the old men. And they answered "Nginte ngoppun" ("Thou walking"). This is our way of saying good-bye. Then my father said, "El el our ou" ("Will must go now"); and so we started. We went right across the country. We killed two or three wallabies on the way, for my father was very quick with a waddy, and could kill wallabies as well as a white-fellow with a gun. When he threw his puri, it was sure to hit. But my father would not let us eat the flesh for fear it should make us grey and ugly; he skinned them, and made a thing to carry water, a skin bag, with one of the skins, and he ate a little of one of them himself, but he would not let us touch it. We got to Ngiakkung that night and slept there. We fished all the next day in the channel at the bead of the bay. We ate tinuwarri that day. At night we made our wurley with boughs close under the rocks. In the morning my father said he felt very bad, so he sat in the wurley and I and Ngalyalli fished. After gauwel (noon), my father got worse. We were very much frightened. He got so bad he could not speak, and did not know us. And then he died. The sun set soon after and it came on dark, and we were very much frightened. We heard the wind whispering in the sheaoaks, and we crept close to each other. There by the fire, which we kept up for fear of being in the dark, lay our father, wrapped up in his opossum rug. O, it was terrible. He had been talking kindly to us only last night, and now there he lay dead. We heard the yell of many merkanar kel (wild dogs) over on the flats at the head of the bay. What could we do? It would never do to leave our father there to be eaten by them. We cried all night. Ngalyalli rolled herself up in her rug, and covered her head for fear. I could not do so. I sat and looked around in the dark, and sometimes I thought I saw the
