"No, silly. They was gonna use seeds to get carbon for them gas masks—that's what soldiers wear on the front line." 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." "Not nothing?" "Well, your Aunt Vic did send Jim-Bo to get a sack of flour, and Old Mister Hawk was in as usual for his plug of tobacco. Otherwise, I sold very little today. Here, let's get your heels warmed up so you can crawl in the bed. My goodness, this is a mighty long nightgown you've got on tonight." "It's a new one." I was just crawling up on Papa's knees when Mama came in from the kitchen. "Bandershanks! Shoo, shoo, to bed! It's time all chickens were on the roost!" "I ain't no chicken, Mama!" "Yes. You're a chicken. Mine and Papa's littlest chicken, not even feathered out yet!" She led me back to one of the double beds in the far end of the fireplace room. "I ain't sleepy, Mama." "You don't have to go to sleep. Just lie down and rest. I aim to work on my quilt for a few minutes while Mierd and Wiley finish their lessons. Then we'll all get off to sleep." "Mama, lem'me get in yours and Papa's bed." "Not tonight." Mama turned down the covers. "Just for a little while?" "No, no. You're supposed to sleep with Mierd." I climbed in while Mama was fluffing up my pillow. "Remember your prayer." "I will, Mama." Papa and Mama watched the fire and talked for a long time—about a letter from my married sister Gertie, and about Clyde and Walker finally coming home from the war. Papa said, "You know, Nannie, I'm in hopes Walker will stay on here at home and plant a crop, come spring."