Meanwhile, some miles away by a tree-shaded billabong beside the Namoi, another group of women and children were busily hunting for edible water plants, for fish, yabbies, water-rats, eels, and tortoises. Some mothers had chubby babies clinging like little possums round their shoulders, sitting round their necks, chubby hands with a fast grip in their hair. Thus every tribal baby very soon began to learn the tense struggle for life, the hunting for food. Big eyes very solemn, staring at the bush as the mother glanced round, watching the water, the trees, the ground, a baby felt every movement, watched every action as the keen-eyed mother slowly walked along on her hunting. When she bent to dig up root or bulb the large black eyes peering down over her forehead solemnly watched, listening and trying to memorize and understand as the mother held up the leaf of the plant as she dug with her digging stick, held up root or bulb or tuber before putting them in her dilly-bag.

Just within the edge of the billabong, upon clear white sand, a mother was slowly walking, her baby boy toddling beside her, the water up to his belly.

“See!” The mother pointed down into the clear water. “What track is that?”

For quite a time the toddler stared down at, then along that track. He was not going to be caught at fault if he could help it. The track was merely a long, thin little line along the sand, just as if someone had lightly dragged the point of a little stick over the sand. The line had no beginning and no end.

“Mussel,” he declared.

“Good boy! That’s a mussel track, all right. Now find the mussel.”

But this had the baby beaten. Perhaps a big old-man fish had gobbled it up, or a big old crane might have flown away with it, or a water-rat might have dived down and gobbled it up—but no, there was no shell left. Perhaps one of the women or girls might have picked it up. Yet there were no tracks to tell him that any of these things had happened. The mussel’s track was certainly there, but the mussel had gone, and there was neither sign nor track to show that someone or something had taken it.

Sombrely he shook his head. The mother laughed.

“We must find him,” she said encouragingly, “or else go hungry. Now stand back at that end of the track and tell me what you see. Look carefully.”

The toddler did so. He stared down long and hard. But there was no sign of anything but that thin little line along the sandy bottom. He bent down until his eyes were on a level with the water; he could see every grain of sand, but nothing more. He bent lower until his eyes were well below water, almost standing on his head. The mother was chuckling delightedly. He emerged with a great blowing and puff-ing, his face woebegone, for he had seen nothing.