Kojurrie, The Goanna by Edward S. Sorenson

It was a warm summer morning. From a low perch, the Kookaburra watched a clear spot near the bank of a grassy gully that wound along by a selector's house and into a scrub beyond. It was a loamy spot that bore indications of having been recently scratched over, and a movement of the soil had caught the avian eye. It cracked and heaved, and out of it came a little black head, and two bright eyes blinked up at the interested bird. The latter made ready to pounce down for an appetising meal, for he recognized the newcomer as Young Kojurrie, the Goanna, who had just come out of his shell, which was buried a few inches underground.

Motherless, like the young Brush Turkey, and having similarly to depend on his own resources, and shape his own course from birth, he was fitted for the battle of life with a wonderful instinct that told him at once that the prying bird was no friend of his. He possessed enough inherent cunning to know in the first moments of his existence what to do in the emergency. He did not think of drawing back now that he had been seen, for the huge beak would dig into the ground and easily dislodge him. He took stock of his surroundings, noted the best cover at hand, and gently eased his shoulders and hind limbs in readiness for a dash.