Queen Mary died before her time, respected by all who knew or had heard
of her. The nearest squatter's wife sent a pair of sheets for a shroud,
with instructions to lay Mary out, and arranged (by bush telegraph)
to drive over next morning with her sister-in-law and two other white women
in the vicinity, to see Mary decently buried.

But the remnant of Jimmie's tribe were there beforehand.
They tore the sheets in strips and tied Mary up in a bundle,
with her chin to her knees -- preparing her for burial in their own fashion --
and mourned all night in whitewash and ashes. At least, the gins did.
The white women saw that it was hopeless to attempt to untie
any of the innumerable knots and double knots, even if it had been possible
to lay Mary out afterwards; so they had to let her be buried as she was,
with black and white obsequies. And we've got no interest in believing
that she did not "jump up white woman" long ago.

My uncle and his brother took the two eldest boys. Black Jimmie
shifted away from the hut at once with the rest of his family
-- for the "devil-devil" sat down there -- and Mary's name
was strictly "tabooed" in accordance with aboriginal etiquette.

Jimmie drifted back towards the graves of his fathers
in company with a decreasing flock of sheep day by day
(for the house of my uncle had fallen on times of drought and depression,
and foot-rot and wool rings, and over-drafts and bank owners),
and a few strips of bark, a dying fire, a black pipe,
some greasy 'possum rugs and blankets, a litter of kangaroo tails, etc.,
four neglected piccaninnies, half a score of mangy mongrels,
and, haply, a "lilly drap o' rum", by night.