Uncle Trev and the Whistling Bull by Jack Lasenby

He reckons those ones remember him and come to their names.”
    â€œDoes he feed them?”
    â€œHe’ll spend half the morning turning over old planks for slaters, catching grasshoppers, and digging worms; and they’ll eat shoots of grass. Sometimes, he’ll split up a rotten pine and collect all the huhus for his young pooks.”
    â€œHow does Mr Henry get out to the nests, without sinking in the swamp?”
    â€œHe’s got pretty big feet,” said Uncle Trev. “When he takes off his gumboots, his toes are longer than most people’s.”
    â€œDoesn’t he wear socks?”
    â€œNever – except when he borrows mine. But his toes aren’t just long, they’re splayed out, a bit like a pukeko’s, so his weight’s spread. That’s how the pooks get around on the swamp themselves. Even so, Old Gotta’s feet aren’t big enough for walking across the watery part where the pooks nest. What he did was he made himself a pair of wooden pukeko feet: three enormous toes out the front and a short one out the back. He takes off his gumboots, straps on his big feet, and away he goes, shuffling that gawky pukeko walk across the swamp, good-oh.”
    â€œDoesn’t he sink?”
    â€œHe did the first time.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œOld Tip took the end of a length of plough-line between his teeth and swam out with it.”
    â€œWhy didn’t Mr Henry just swim ashore?”
    â€œHis pukeko feet had sunk deep in that watery mud and he couldn’t kick them off to swim. By the time Old Tip got out there, Old Gotta had gone under and there was just his red cap floating. The old fool threw up one hand, felt the rope and hung on, and I backed Old Toot till Old Gotta popped out of the swamp like a cork out of a bottle. He’d swallowed a fair bit of mud, so Old Tip and I had to lie him face down over a log and rock him backwards and forwards a few times before he brought it up and started breathing again.”
    â€œWas he all right?”
    â€œIt takes a lot to stop Old Gotta. He went straight home and made another pair of pukeko feet.”
    â€œBut they’d just let him down, too.”
    â€œThat’s what I told him, but Old Gotta reckoned he’d fix that. I left him to it and went home to milk.” Without his noticing it, Uncle Trev’s hand dipped into the cake tin. “I went over next day, and he’d made even bigger feet, and sewn sacking between them for webs.
    â€œ ‘ Toes like a pook’s,’ he told me, ‘and webs like a duck’s.’
    â€œOld Gotta buckled on his gigantic webbed feet. Legs wide apart, shoving those huge feet forward with a slidey noise, he slithered across the muddy water. Further out, he picked up speed.
    â€œ ‘ Watch out!’ I shouted, but he squawked and went faster, waving his arms like wings. He had to keep running faster and faster because he was leaning further and further forward. The moment he slowed down, he’d go flat on his face.
    â€œI galloped Old Toot round the other side of the swamp.” Uncle Trev swallowed his piece of Louise cake and emptied his saucer. The tea must have been cold by now, but he didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œOld Toot neighed, Old Tip was barking his head off, and I was yelling as Old Gotta came through the raupo, leaning forward almost parallel to the water, kicking up mud and spray. His red cap, his black-blue coat, his white shirt hanging out, he looked for all the world like a pukeko flapping itself into the air. You know how awkward they are taking off?”
    I nodded.
    â€œHe made it to dry ground,” said Uncle Trev, “and skidded about five feet, pushing up grass and dirt with his nose.”
    â€œI might make myself a pair of pook’s feet,” I said, “and try them out down the creek.”
    â€œI’ll give you a hand, but you’ll have to get well first.”