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The smell of food brought me from the jungle the next
morning, with queasy, balking Henry's hand firmly in tow.
We found the little man, Mr. Birdsong, and grandmother
in the kitchen, sitting on the soft cedar floor around a low
table, cracking boiled crabs. "Molly," beamed grandmother, "you just in time for breakfast. This rat," nodding toward the little man, "be you uncle Tejean. How my Henry this morning? Get you some soup, boy." She picked up a raw oyster and sucked it loudly from its shell, at which Henry cringed and sank to his heels, a greenness rising into his white cheeks. "I've no hunger, thank ye madam." "You already too thin, honey." She picked up a crab and began tapping its shell with a little hammer. |
Copyright © Michael B.Stevens, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2005. All rights reserved. Format modified Aug. 2005