Mierd didn't seem very much bothered about things soldiers put over their heads. She dumped her school books and dinner bucket on the edge of the porch and went off to play in the yard.
Most nights, after supper, Papa sat by the fire and counted his store money. But that night, when I got into the fireplace room, I saw his striped money sack was still hanging over the back of his chair. Papa was sitting there in his rocker, frowning and looking into the fire. So I knew he was thinking about Mister Ward. Mama had told Papa a hundred times to quit thinking of that man, but Papa said that was impossible.
Mierd and Wiley were at their study table in the corner, but they surely weren't studying. They didn't even have their books out. Wiley was trying to make a new slingshot out of a forked stick and an old leather shoe tongue; all Mierd was doing was holding her cat in her lap. Nero liked that. He was purring and purring as Mierd stroked his slick, yellow fur. Wiley flipped his slingshot over toward Nero's tail.
"Don't you hurt Nero!"
"Mierd, your old cat sounds like a pea thrasher!"
"Nero does not sound like a pea thrasher! Do you, kitty?"
"He sounds worse!"
"Now, now," Papa told both of them. "Y'all get to your school books. Bandershanks, you come here."
"Papa, we gonna count money?"
"No need to tonight, hon. I didn't take in much today. Folks was so carried away over the Armistice news they didn't buy."