The Preacher's Son

A lonely figure twirls itself, concealed by blades of wheat as clouds float through the sky. The form, a boy, looks up from golden field and sees the clouds as wedges of cream pie. He hides despair as if it were that wart beneath his sleeve. A no-fuss, lonesome lad, he thinks of things most wonderful to thwart forlornness. . . He rehearses being glad. Skipping to the thicket, near a brier, he spies some lovely flowers; standing there he uses the demeanor of his sire, pretends to hold a Bible, thumps the air. . . and preaching to forget-me-nots, the boy imagines what might be. . . imagines joy. For Chris' Anything goes!