"Great Baiame is their god, good spirit, and they think you are a goddess. That gin wants to touch your hair. Better let her, she won't hurt you."
Jean smilingly bent her head and let the black woman run her fingers over her shining tresses. The gin smiled and, seized by a sudden impulse, Jean said,
"She may have a curl if she wants it, Uncle. I have plenty and mother won't care." He handed her his knife and she snipped off a silken strand, which the gin took with many expressions of delight.
"You have certainly made a hit among the Blacks," said her uncle teasingly. "She will wear that as a charm and be the envy of all the tribe. Your hair is pretty.
"'The world to me knows no fairer sight
Than your long hair veiling your shoulders white,
As I tangle my hand in your hair my pet.'"
he quoted as he stroked the shining mane.
"Uncle, I don't think cattle runs are as nice as sheep runs. There aren't any wool sheds, but just open yards."
"These are the stock and branding yards. You see the cattle roam the hills, some of the runs being as large as five thousand square miles, on which the cattle find their own food and water."
"If they wander over all that distance, how do the owners ever tell their own cattle?" asked Jean.