Then rain poured down in torrents, a fierce drumming on the rounded bark of the gunyahs. In moments the earth was a morass, to the howl of the wind, a hissing of water, a vast sighing from swishing branches, billions of rain-drenched leaves.

The huddled people felt glad that they were in their main camp. Otherwise, unless they had been sheltering in mountain caves, this night would have meant both misery and danger. But these cunningly built little gunyahs defied both wind and rain, and since they were built on rising ground that gave excellent natural drainage the water swiftly gurgled away.

Thus, in comparative security and comfort, these primitive folk heard the wild night howl itself away. Thus for unknown thousands of years the Stone Age man has survived against all the many terrors of Nature, of wild animals, and his own wild brothers. In every land he existed only because he had brains and used them in his ceaseless fight against Nature.

In a watery dawn the wind gradually dropped. Presently the sun shone out bright and warm as birds with drying feathers joyously greeted the freshly washed face of the bush. Happily the people, the women first, came crawling out of the gunyahs to light the cooking fires and prepare the morning meal for their lords and families. Old Bungadoon’s rollicking voice was soon informing the whole camp how he had unwittingly shared his bed with a centipede. Of course it was the largest centipede in all the wide bush. The storm had driven it into the gunyah for shelter. It had huddled up between him and Pumbul, his wife, as she clung to him while he was shielding her and all “their youngsters” from the storm. She had clung to him so tight that it was a wonder the centipede had not been squashed between them. It must have been very warm. But that, of course, proved its good sense in squeezing into such a comfortable sheltering place. Of course, he had taken fine care that the centipede did not bite Pumbul.

Pumbul, now cooking Bungadoon’s breakfast by the fire, had really noticed the hideous green-and-yellow centipede when she woke up. While Bungadoon still snored she had carefully, with a stick, edged it away from him. But she said nothing, whereas Bungadoon’s booming voice would not rest until he got his teeth into his breakfast—and not for long even then.

It was a glorious morning when the tribe in chattering groups straggled away into the bush for the day’s hunting. The long grasses, flattened by the night’s downpour, were lifting up drooping heads to the sun. Broken branches, massive limbs of trees, here and there a forest giant littered the bush. The sodden ground was a picture book clearly portraying the tracks of every living thing that had crawled, walked, hopped, run, trodden, or settled upon it since the sun rose and the rain stopped, and every mother, every elder sister, seized the opportunity of teaching the children as they walked along.