Don't worry about months, Po Campo said. Can you tell stuff about a feller from looking at his spit? Pea Eye asked. Spoon, he said. Several times he cried at the thought of the finality of it.
A bull like that is going to get somebody sooner or later, and it might be me. Then they saw a strange sight: Po Campo was gathering hailstones in a bucket, the two pigs following him like dogs. The nights were no easier--almost every night the lightning flickered and thunderstorms rolled over them. Finally she got down and sat under the wagon, which provided a little shade.
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