Now The Autumn Maize Is Growing, Now The Corn-Cob Fills, Where The Little River Flowing Winds Among The Hills. Over Mountain Peaks Outlying Clear Against The Blue Comes A Scout In Silence Flying, One White Cockatoo. Back He Goes To Where The Meeting Waits Among The Trees. Says, "The Corn Is Fit For Eating; Hurry, If You Please." Skirmishers, Their Line Extending, Shout The Joyful News; Down They Drop Like Snow Descending, Clouds Of Cockatoos. At Their Husking Competition Hear Them Screech And Yell. On A Gum Tree'S High Position Sits A Sentinel. Soon The Boss Goes Boundary Riding; But The Wise Old Bird, Mute Among The Branches Hiding, Never Says A Word. Then You Hear The Strident Squalling: "Here'S The Boss'S Son, Through The Garden Bushes Crawling, Crawling With A Gun. May The Shiny Cactus Bristles Fill His Soul With Woe; May His Knees Get Full Of Thistles. Brothers, Let Us Go." Old Black Harry Sees Them Going, Sketches Nature'S Plan: "That One Cocky Too Much Knowing, All Same Chinaman. One Eye Shut And One Eye Winkin', Never Shut The Two; Chinaman Go Dead, Me Thinkin', Jump Up Cockatoo."