Queer, now. One while I is with gleaning in of I, which after is no gleaning follow, where-by all is quiet in I. Yet other whiles I is with gleaning and an other is come by that is as like to it, which after many gleanings follow in a line, as with I’s people walking neath of trees. They gleanings come that many and that quick as there is not a thing in tween of they. One gleaning comes an other, as with pigs and logs.
I glean of mother hit I’s legs, yet now I is with glean as I is lie by she and all is good. Back of I’s big head lie on dirt, where is a rub of grits and dusts. They prickle on I’s head skin through I’s babe-hair, no more as is on a berry. All in mouth of I is titty-milk as hang in strings bout of I’s tongue, and there is not a thing in middle of I wants to run ways off, nor that is wanting of an other where.
I is in low of blanket-skins, by mother, warm in sniff of she, she’s breath with sour-root in. She big, I little as one of they Urk-kine.
Now is other glean in of I, where-in is I come big, I’s mother come more little now. We is in neath of trees. First bright is come and I is open eyes and see I’s mother, set with back gainst of a white-wood tree. Is little bits of bright fall now there on she face through branches bove of we, and on she eyes, and move she not nor is she look from bright. Say I now, Mother, come a-rise, yet is she not make move, she’s eyes full up with bits of bright. A fright is come in I.
Hold, Mother, say I now. Do not make queer with I. We’s people is rise up and want for journey on. Rise, that we may not fall in hind of they. Rub now I’s hand there on she leg for making quick of she. She is more cold as stones, and itchy-mites jump off she.
I is say more loud, rise up, and now take hold of she for pull and hit. There is no strong in hold of I, and down she fall. They bits of bright is move from out she eyes and hang on trees. She’s head is lie in rain-hole, hair a-float.
I glean not how to help of she. Jump I on top she there and make to put I’s will with-in of she, that he make she not cold, and make she for to move. She legs is hard, set one by other, knee on knee. There is not strong in I for open they, and is I’s will stand not. I lie he soft gainst of she belly-hair, and push, and push. She’s head in rain-hole move. She belly hair is cold, and sniff of she is other. Push and push.
A man is come now, of we’s people, and he pulls I off from she. He says I is as shit and makes for hit of I, where is I little ways run off, in neath of trees. Now many people is they come a-bout I’s mother. Pull they up she’s head from rain-hole now and say, there is no warm in she, there is no breath in she, and like. Now is we’s Gleaner-man come there, and by I’s mother set, in feather belt that itch up arse of he, where is he all whiles scratch.
Say he, she is no more alive, and it is work as makes she come that way, by look. Say he, lie she to dirt, which after journeys we ways off.
Up says a rough-mouth woman now that if I’s mother is no more alive, it is she’s idle son as makes she like to this, that make she all whiles work and find for he. And many there is saying Aye, and she is right and like.
More loud say rough-mouth woman now how if I’s mother is put down to dirt, it is not rough-mouth’s hole for dig. Aye, is say man as pulls I off I’s mother. Make boy dig she down to dirt, that he is work for she one while. Now Gleaner-man says Aye, and scratch at arse of he. Find boy, he say.
Make I to run. Ah, they is men, more long in leg as I, and I is that a-fright as runs at briar bush and falls there in. Out is they pull I, all a-scratch, for drag to feather-arse, as sets by mother. Down in wet she’s head is lie. They bits of bright is crawl slow off from tree, cross grass and back in of she’s eyes.
He scratch at arse and give I mother’s axe-stone, that there is no strongness in I’s hands for hold. Down is it fall, and Gleaner-man is hit I’s face that blood come out from nose of I. Now take it up, say he, and dig she hole. That queer-sniff spirits is not come to she and in they’s breath make sick of we. That rot-bird and rot-dog come not. That dirt is take dirt’s due and is glean good of we, that he is not come hard low of we’s feet. So Gleaner-man say now, and, licking nose-blood, digs I hard in dirt.
In low of grass is dirt cold, grey and soft as I may push all of one bit. Digs I a-bout of root and stone, and dig of I is slow. They sun-brights is come
