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

into the production room and made a recording.
    He got it down on the first try. The only thing left to do was take it to Paradise Pies and let Chap and his mother give it their nods of approval. He slipped the copy of the recording into his jacket pocket and headed out the door.
    Meanwhile, at the café, Chap needed to do something. Anything. The disappointment of the drawing, combined with his feelings of being outmanned by Sonny Boy and Jaeger, all on top of a small power surge from the one-third cup of coffee, made him feel like an unlit bottle rocket.
    His mom, sensing his short fuse, gave him a chore. “We need some fresh cane,” she said.
    Yes! Chap untied his apron, hung it on a hook by theback door, and reached for his muck boots. He turned them upside down and shook them first to be sure nothing was nesting inside them, like a brown recluse spider or a scorpion. Satisfied the boots were empty, he slid his feet into them. Then he grabbed his grandpa’s old machete and headed out. The heft of the machete felt solid in his hand.
    Chopping cane was not for the faint of heart, not only because the machete was sharp enough to slice off a finger or a toe, but also because of the canebrake rattlers. So the first thing to be done, of course, was the lullaby. As Chap neared the canebrake, he started to hum, and as he got closer, he lifted his voice and sang his grandpa’s tune:
    Rock-a-by, oh canebrake rattlers
    Sleepy bayou, rock-a-by oh
    Canebrake rattlers
    Sssslleeeepp
    Right there, underneath the boiling Texas sun, Chap stood up a little taller. Gripped the machete a little firmer. Sweated a lot more profusely. In fact, despite the fact that it was his mother who taught him how to do it, Chap realized just then that chopping cane was . . . oh, yes it was . . . wait for it . . . manly!
    In less than an hour, he chopped out a bushel of freshsugar. He bundled it together with a length of twine and tied it with a knot, just like Audie had shown him. The fresh, sweet odor of sugar filled the air.
    â€œThere’s nothing like it,” Audie had told him. And there wasn’t.
    But cane wasn’t the only thing that Chap knew how to chop. He had used this very same machete in his almost daily forays through the swamp with Grandpa Audie. Chap knew how to use the wide blade to clear a path through the stinging vines that covered the forest floor and crept up the trunks of the trees.
    Thinking about chopping his way through the woods made Chap think of his grandpa’s long search for the DeSoto.
    And for possibly the millionth time in his twelve years on Earth, Chap asked, “Where is it?” For a long moment he gazed at the banks of the Bayou Tourterelle, with the stalks of cane racing to the sky, and scanned the landscape for any sign of the old car.
    Nothing. It was a ghost car. Just like the ivory-billed woodpecker was a ghost bird. The cloud of lonesome bunched up above his head.
    And as if the rattlesnakes sensed his keening, they started to buzz. Chichichichi . . .
    That was Chap’s signal to skedaddle. He tugged on thesugarcane and headed back to the café. As he pulled the bundle into the kitchen, for possibly the billionth time in his twelve long years, his mother greeted him with a dab of flour, this time on his cheek.
    â€œMom!” he said. Was that any way to treat a man?
    As Chap wiped his cheek, Coyoteman Jim walked through the front door. Seeing him, Chap’s pulse quickened. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, the radio man had come up with a great commercial, one that would encourage customers from far and wide to drop in and try one of their delicious fried sugar pies, even if they had a hard time finding them along the Beaten Track Road.
    And then Chap had another good idea—signs! He could make some signs. As if it agreed, the morning sun shot a beam of light against the front windowpane, and the air inside the café turned