Moreton Bay by F.W. Mole — Read

It was night, but the dawn was at hand. The winds soughed softly through the sweet-scented ti-trees and a boobook called to its mate. As Orion dropped down in the west over Coot-tha the scrub quails cheeped their welcome to the creeping dawn. High up on the edge of the scrub the palm fronds waved gently and whispered aloft to the towering pines, while ducks on the waters of a near-by lagoon flapped and dived among the rushes and reeds.

The roving Turrubul tribe were camped by the deep lagoon and their gunyahs were pitched on a clearing at the edge of the scrub, for fish and game were abundant. When the wongas called and were answered from the depth of the scrub by the deep-throated wompoons the myalls awoke from before their dying fires and began to make ready for the day's hunting. Before the kookaburras had finished heralding the sunrise a young lubra stepped out from the camp and walked along the edge of the lagoon to look at the fish traps. Moving with the instinct of primitive caution among the long drawn shadows of the trees she was startled to see two white people lying--dead, she thought--under the shelter of a Moreton Bay fig tree.