SOOSIE 



' No legend ! Well, let us invent one." — Scott. 



A CRINKLED fist, fumbling and twisting, protruded from 

 a rent in a dilapidated dilly-bag. It had done so with 

 infinite feebleness for many an hour in unavailing 

 protest against the woes and weight of life, for faint 

 scratch s smeared with blood denoted the friction of 

 tender skin against the broken edges of the cane-made 

 bag. 



A scarcely audible, inhuman wail — pathetically 

 staccato — told of unceasing pain. Whomsoever the 

 bag contained was enduring martyrdom. 



"That fella, him no good. Close up finis. B'mbi 

 me plant 'm along scrub." 



Thus spoke the pleasant-faced gin who passed with 

 the dilly-bag along a narrow aisle of the jungle, intent 

 upon ridding herself of a vexatious encumbrance, and 

 at the same time performing the rite of unrighteous 

 burial- 



Squirming in dirt was a naked infant — black, foul, 

 and but a few days old. 



"Mother belonga that fella him dead — finis. That 

 fella, him no good. Him sing out all a time. More 

 better tchuck'm away." 



Frail outcast — the very scum of a blacks' camp, its 

 repulsiveness was tragic. Dirt and odour sickened, j^et 

 its appeal was irresistible. That universal language, a 



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