The True Blue Scouts of Sugar Man Swamp by Kathi Appelt Page A

and fast evidence. He also knew that the bird would never, not in a million years, ever be more than a ghost if Jaeger Stitch’s plans came to pass.
    What would happen to the ivory-bill then? What would happen to the coots and terns and mud hens? Worse, what would happen to the Brayburns, Audie’s daughter and grandson? Where would they go? The plans for the arena would surely put them out of business, especially since they called for paving over the canebrake sugar. He knew that the pies depended upon that sugar.
    He took a sip of cold coffee and then set the cup on the console. Someone from the day shift would wander in pretty soon. It was time for him to sign off, so he did. “This is Coyoteman Jim, telling all you swamp critters to have a good day and a good idea.” Then he held his head back and bayed, “Arrrrooooo!”
    The Voice of the Sugar Man Swamp wouldn’t be back on the air until that night. In the meantime, he was ready for a mug of milk and a fried sugar pie.

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    S OMEONE ELSE WAS HUNGRY TOO. Operation Dewberry was in full swing. In less than five minutes, Bingo made it to Possum Hollow. In the dawn’s early light, he opened his eyes as wide as he could. He didn’t see anything or anyone. Only a big batch of gleaming berries.
    Let it be said that, in general, possums are relatively benign. But the possums in the Sugar Man Swamp are from an ancient, primeval tribe of possums, and “benign” is not how we would describe them. “Scrappy” might be a better choice of words. And they’re also protective of their dewberry patch. Their delicious dewberry patch.
    Bingo held his ear to the ground. All was quiet. There were no rumbles to be heard. He held his nose in the air. Possum scent was everywhere. But so was dewberry scent. He reached out and—“Ouch!” He had forgotten about the stinging pricker vines that the dewberries grew on. He tried again.
    â€œOuch, ouch, ouch.” He shook his paw. Maybe thiswasn’t such a great idea after all. Maybe he should go right back to the DeSoto and call it a day. Maybe . . . His belly growled. The fresh scent of dewberries filled the air.
    Soon, even though he had a few stings from the pricker vines, his belly was full of ripe, juicy dewberries. He rubbed it with both of his paws. What a nice, round, tight little belly.
    Buuurrrppp! Oops. He certainly hadn’t meant to do that, even though he had to confess, it felt good.
    So he did it again, Buuurrrppp! He rolled over onto his back in the cool morning air. He was in dewberry heaven. Then he felt decidedly bad that J’miah wasn’t here with him, enjoying the bounty. Wasn’t one of the Scout orders to be true and faithful to each other?
    No problem, he thought. He would pick a pawful and take them back to the DeSoto. And just in time too, because as soon as he picked the last one—
    â€œStep away from the dewberry patch.” The voice that delivered that statement did not sound at all friendly, nor did it smell friendly or look friendly. Indeed, possums are not friendly, and this one was not playing dead.
    Bingo froze. But did he drop his dewberries? The ones he had picked for his dearly beloved brother, who was at that very moment sound asleep in the old DeSoto? No, he did not. But did he scoot out of there as fast as his little legs could carry him? He did, buckaroos, he did. Yeehaw!

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    C HAP PUSHED HIS HAIR BEHIND his ears. He needed a haircut. In fact, it seemed like he always needed a haircut. Every few days, his mother trimmed his bushy hair with the kitchen scissors. “It’s just like the vines in the swamp,” she said. “Grows just as fast.”
    With the exception of chest hairs, Chap was a fast grower, period. Already his shoes were two sizes larger than his grandpa’s.
    He remembered Audie telling him, “Son, big feet come in handy in the swamp. They’re like boats and will keep you