“You’re welcome to travel with me, kid, if you want to jungle-up for a month or two,” my companion said. “The fruit will be gettin’ ripe soon, and there’ll be green corn and new spuds and the gumps are fat already. I promise myself some famous mulligans around these parts.”

Many boys would have jumped at this chance, but I declined. Maybe it was a dislike for begging, or ambition, or my imagination pulling me westward. I don’t know; but it wasn’t the hardships, I’m sure. At the junction we parted.

“So long, kid. May see you out West next fall when I make the poultice route.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“That’s southern Utah, kid, the land of milk and honey. You’re always sure of a big pan of milk and a fresh loaf of home bread⁠—the poultice route, see? So long.”