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Updated: May 7, 2025
Peering over the shoulders of one of the squaws, from its perch on her toil-bowed back, was a wee pappoose, its beady little black eyes gleaming, its tiny face expressive of emotions that in later years it would speedily learn to suppress, wonderment and interest. A thinly-clad girl of five or six clung to the mother with one hand and clutched her little blanket with the other.
Through the open windows the heavy, damp night came miasmically floating in, the very cigarettes mildewed in my pockets. Earth and air seemed heavy and toil-bowed by comparison with other days. The jungle still hummed busily, yet, it seemed, a bit mournfully as if preparing for production and unhilarious with the task before it, like a woman first learning of her pregnancy.
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