smallest but most deadly of Australian snakes, not even excepting the death-adder—­lying beneath!  We gave a united yell of terror and fled as the black and yellow banded reptiles—­none of which were over eighteen inches in length nor thicker than a man’s little finger—­wriggled between our feet into the long grass around us.  For some minutes we were too frightened at our escape to speak; but soon set to work to complete the raft.  Presently one of the blackfellows pointed to a tall honeysuckle-tree about fifty feet away, and said with a gleeful chuckle, “Hallo, you see him that ’pfeller goanner been catch him bandy-bandy?”

Sure enough, an iguana, about three feet in length, was scurrying up the rough, ridgy bark of the honeysuckle with a “bandy-bandy” in his jaws.  He had seized the snake by its head, I imagine, for we could see the rest of its form twisting and turning about and enveloping the body of its capturer.  In a few seconds we saw the iguana ascend still higher, then he disappeared with his hateful prey among the loftier branches.  No doubt he enjoyed his meal.

About a year or so later I was given another instance of the “cuteness” of the wicked “goanner.”  My sister (aged twelve) and myself (two years younger) were fishing with bamboo rods for mullet.  We were standing, one on each side, of the rocky edges of a tiny little bay on the coast near Port Macquarie (New South Wales).  The background was a short, steep beach of soft, snow-white sand, fringed at the high-water margin with a dense jungle of wild apple and pandanus-trees.

The mullet bit freely, and as we swung the gleaming, bright-silvered fish out of the water on to the rocks on which we stood, we threw them up on to the beach, and left them to kick about and coat themselves with the clean, white sand—­which they did in such an artistic manner that one would imagine they considered it egg and breadcrumb, and were preparing themselves to fulfil their ultimate and proper use to the genus homo.

My sister had caught seven and I five, when, the sun being amidships, we decided to boil the billy of tea and get something to eat; young mullet, roasted on a glowing fire of honeysuckle cobs were, we knew, very nice.  So, laying down our rods on the rocks, we walked up to the beach—­just in time to see two “goanners”—­one of them with a wriggling mullet in his mouth—­scamper off into the bush.

A careful search revealed the harrowing fact that nine of the twelve fish were missing, and the multitudinous criss-cross tracks on the sand showed the cause of their disappearance.  My sister sat down on a hollow log and wept, out of sheer vexation of spirit, while I lit a fire to boil the billy and grill the three remaining mullet.  Then after we had eaten the fish and drank some tea, we concocted a plan of deadly revenge.  We took four large bream-hooks, bent them on to a piece of fishing-line, baited each hook with a good-sized piece of octopus (our mullet bait),