But poor “Little Jinny’s” creditor was not to be denied.  He was exacting, cruelly exacting, imperious, implacable.  He would have the uttermost farthing’s worth of her poor, crude life.

Nelly might sigh and use the whole armful of “Raroo” leaves; Tom might massage, and the others do their best, which was pitiably poor, and their uttermost, which was ever so mean and little, the Conquering Worm would have its victim.  And so with a few long-drawn, gulping sighs, each at a longer interval than the last, until the final one, “Little Jinny” passed away as the sun touched the dark blue barrier of mountains across the channel to the west.

Then Nelly’s sighs changed into a wail, in which the other members of the camp joined, a penetrating falsetto cry which continued for two days, mingled with the strong man’s expression of woe, a low, weird yet not inharmonious hum.  For two days they chanted the virtues of the dead, told of her likes and dislikes, and of their grief, crouching beside the blanket-covered form.  Then they buried her in the smoky hut in which she lived, digging a shallow grave in the black sand, and there she rests with them.

Tom has put on the mourning of his tribe, and will not for several years eat of a certain fish associated with “Little Jinny’s” original name.  Nor can he bear to be reminded of her.  The day after she was buried he spent the hours between daylight and sunset wandering about wherever “Little Jinny” had been wont, obliterating the tracks made by her feet.  With the keenest of sight, which is one of the superior qualifications of the race, he discerned the tracks on the sandy, forest-clad flat, and rubbed them out with his foot.

Just as love-lorn Orlando ran about the forest of Arden carving on

“Every tree
The fair, the chaste, the unexpressive she,”

so this tough, rude savage, spent the, whole day smothering the marks that would “sad remembrance bring” of the poor creature for whom he had that kind of feeling that in the savage stands for love.  Nature would have performed the office as effectually, and perhaps more tenderly, but Tom’s hasty grief drove him remorselessly, until no outward and visible sign of the dead girl remained to challenge it.

When I ponder upon Nelly’s “Raroo” leaves and Tom’s terrible and precise earnestness in blotting out the memory of the past, I am convinced that this race, despised and neglected of men, can be as devoted to one another as truly as we who are so superior to them in many attributes.

THE LANGUAGE TEST