On a bright sunny day, after all the rain had passed, a party of young men went out from the camp to look for food to supply the lubras [women] and children. They had their spears in their hands and amused themselves as they went through the honeysuckles and green hats by throwing their spears. The air rang with the loud young voices and cheerful mellow laugh unchecked by any fear. The country was all their own, or there were too many of them to dread an attack. There was not supposed to be any dangerous animal near; they talked of their skill in the chase, of throwing the spear or boomerang, and of how far they must walk before they might expect to see the game they sought.

Presently they reached the banks of a sort of water-course, at that time a succession of dark looking pools, each surrounded by a broad fringe of high, green plants. Next to the open water grew the buliusli, the roots of which are good as food, and of these roots they proposed to gather a basket full. So a large basket woven of rushes was produced, and they were preparing to collect the soft white roots, when one of the party said he had his fishing tackle with him, and that they might leave gathering roots to the lubras and catch eels and black fish, and not make themselves a laughingstock to the old men by doing the women’s work.

All the party agreed with him, and some of them directly began to search for bait, whilst the rest seated themselves, and arranged their fishing lines, made from the inner bark of the Wattle or Mimosa tree, with hooks formed from bones of the Kangaroo. Bait was soon procured and they strung the poor worms on the hooks. One of them, however, had put a piece of raw meat into his basket, and without speaking of it to his companions, he cut a bit of it off with his stone tomahawk, and with that he baited his hook. For some time the fish seemed all gone from the pool, or too wary to be caught. Each looked anxiously at his untouched line, or glanced at the already descending sun, until it seemed that night would find them without the expected supply of food. The youth who had made use of the raw flesh at last saw his line disappear. He grasped it more tightly, and to his surprise felt it almost dragged from him, by a force much greater than he could at all account for. He called to the others, and with much labour and hearts palpitating with dread, they succeeded in drawing to the land a creature somewhat between a calf and a seal, but with a long and broad tail.

It struggled and made a sort of complaining cry, at which its mother rose from her den in the high bank on the opposite side of the pool, and to their horror they saw that they had caught the young one of a dreaded and dreadful Bunyip. She looked at them with rage, and seemed to hesitate in what manner to release her child. Most of the young men in stifled voices begged the successful fisher to release his captive. But he was the same who had mocked at the thought of gathering roots ; he was of a bold, fearless disposition, and he had promised that he would carry home to his betrothed maiden enough to make her father’s camp merry for three days. He held the Bunyip calf tightly, declaring that the children of the camp should have it to play with, and that he would be the first cooly to bring home a Bunyip calf to his lubra.

He dragged the strange looking creature on to land, and when he heard a yell or roar of distress and anger from the mother, he raised his spear and brandished it at her, while he continued to drag the young one after him. The mother seemed indifferent to his threats, but made beseeching signs for the release of her child. These the youth made light of, and he by degrees infused part of his own courage into the breasts of his companions, so that they joined him in striving to convey his prey to their common home. It was lifted by them onto his shoulders, and he carried it off in triumph.

But his triumph was short. He heard a low rushing sound, and on looking back he saw the pool he had left slowly rising above its banks, flooding the place on which he had stood, and following the steps of the young men. The sun still shone brightly upon Mount Shadwell, the sweet-toned magpie sang merrily all around, forbidding the idea of rain. Indeed, not a drop had fallen for many days, and Mustons Creek was not subject to sudden rises, yet there were its waters already covering grass usually high above the highest flood. “Run, run,” called every voice, and run the unfortunate youths did. The boldest held the young Bunyip firmly on his shoulders and fled swiftly towards his home, nor looked back until he reached a high ridge far above the valley he had left. Then, what a sight met his view!

All was a sea of dark water. The low honeysuckles were covered, the light woods with their thick foliage only for a moment ruffled the surface of the rising waves, and the gum trees that were on that bank seemed like low rushes. But flight might yet save them, and on they went, their active limbs almost sinking beneath them. They approached the place where they had first seen the light, a low cell as it were, formed of earth, the old home of their fathers.

The old men of the tribe stood at the entrance, the children played around, the old lubras sat in groups on the dry grass listening to and telling their simple gossip. The young women stole a glance at the flying youths, who, as they drew near, showed the agony of terror and exhaustion. All hurried to meet them, old and young crowded to learn what had happened, what danger threatened them. The young men sank to the ground unable to utter a word. Fear stopped the questions from the other party, but when the young Bunyip fell, and the elders saw their dreaded, mysterious, never-named enemy before their door, all the stories of the great power and awful malevolence attributed to his kind rose before them, and they knew without a word spoken that they were lost.

Then a cry arose, “the water, the water!” and the slowly creeping flood appeared. On, on, on, it came. Those that were dearest to each other rushed together in the vain hope of yielding mutual assistance. Mothers clasped their children, husbands their wives, and the young betrothed ones, who a few hours before would not even have touched each other’s hands, frantically clung together in the hope that they might swim through the water, and save themselves for the happiness they had looked forward to from their earliest years.

The unfortunate procurer of all this danger was one of the first to brave it. He clasped his betrothed to his breast, and stood calmly waiting the coming of the destroyer. His eye roamed over the neighbouring country. There was no hill which he could hope to reach, but he whispered, “My love, no one can climb like me, come, we shall soon be on that high tree and no water can reach us there.” While he spoke the water had reached his feet; he looked down, and they were no longer feet. Claws had taken the place of the finely-formed toes, and he beheld a bird’s foot instead of his own.

He glanced to see if the one he loved had marked the change, and he saw a large black bird standing by his side. In despair he looked round; all his people were gone, great awkward black birds had taken their place. He tried to cover his face with his hands, but they were become the ends of long black wings: he wished to complain of the dark dream that was upon him, but his voice died away in a sound between a moan and a croak. The water had become deep, and he found himself raised upon it, swimming upon its surface, with a long neck rising from what he believed to be his broad shoulders, but a glance into the still smooth water showed him a large black swan, he was man no longer. He, his beloved, their whole tribe, were now only a flock of black swans, and never again did they regain their human form.

We suppose that they are still different from other birds, for at night when they fly over our heads we hear them talk to each other, and if we walk when it is almost dark near the lakes where they live we hear plainly the sound of women talking and laughing. They do not speak our language, so we cannot tell if they talk of their early misfortunes, but several persons have been drowned by walking into the lakes in search of people they thought they heard.

The mother Bunyip took back her child, and has been seen by many at the same bank, for the water soon receded to its own channel She is sure to eat any one to whom she once shows herself, and few like to walk near the place where she lives. Her house is under the pool below its deepest waters, and is supposed to be very large and beautiful, but no human being has ever seen it.