Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey 
her head as he worked with the right. She would 
hold one of her hands on her wound and tightly 
grasp his with the other. 
One night he had given her the little soup she 
would take, had tucked her in her hammock as 
usual, and was about to leave, but she moaned and 
seemed to feel terribly about being left. She ut- 
tered over and over that soft, “errr, errr,’ so that he 
finally sent for some blankets and made up his 
mind to stay with her. But he did not have a 
chance to sleep. About nine o’clock she was 
feebly holding one of his hands in her own, and he 
was trying to check up some accounts with the 
other, when she began calling in her whining voice, 
but low and softly now, for she was very weak. 
He spoke to her, and she had his hand, but that 
was not enough. She wanted something more. 
So he bent over her, saying, ‘What is it Jinny?” 
and stroked her gently. She took both his hands 
in hers, clutched them to her breast with convul- 
sive strength, shivered all over, then lay limp and 
still, and he knew that Jinny was dead. 
He was a big strong man. Men called him 
“rough,” but the tears streamed down his face as 
he told me the story, and added: “TI buried her in 
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