For want of a stove I cook bread in a pot,
And sleep on the ground for want of a cot.”
As the voices of the Sirens lured Ulysses of old, so the doleful strains lured Perry and Fudge nearer and nearer.
“My ceiling’s the sky and my carpet’s the grass,
My music’s the lowing of herds as they pass.
My books are the streams and my Bible’s a stone,
My preacher’s a wolf on a pulpit of bones.”
By now the two boys were standing on either side of the door, listening raptly.
“The preacher he says from his pulpit of bones
That the Lord favors those who look out for their own.