SONG BIRDS FROM THE SUNNY SOUTH
Inside is a platform and some benches.
“Them birdies has gone south, Magpie,” says I.
The next tent proclaims to be the abode of—
THE PEARL OF EGYPT, THE POETESS OF MUSCULAR
MOTION, DIRECT FROM THE SULTAN’S HAREM
It’s as empty as a last year’s coyote den and smells like a muskrat burrow.
At the next tent we meets the last survivor. It sets there gnawing on a hunk of bread and don’t pay much attention to us. I never seen such outright hair on any human being. His head looks the same from front and back, and all he’s got on is the collar and sleeve of a dirty shirt and a skirt of swamp-grass. The words “water” and “bath” sure was a dead language to that hombre.
“Just about who in —— are you?” asks Magpie.
The feller looks up at us, masticates a few times and then points at a dirty sign on the tent.