The two brothers trudged through the murky, ankle deep water and the heavy humidity of a Mississippi afternoon. Both had their overalls rolled to the kneed, but only Sweet was wearing a shirt. He was proper like that.
“Hey Sweet,” Pistol called, “Ain’t it true marshmallows come from the swamp, like this’un here?”
“I ‘spose so. Why’d you ask?”
Pistol shrugged, “Guess I thought I saw one or something.”
With a roll of his eyes, Sweet answered, “Even if they come from the swamp, I don’t think they’re out there, you know, looking like marshmallows. You shore it weren’t a mushroom or a turd or something?”
“Nah, it weren’t a turd,” Pistol said emphatically. Sweet paused and stopped where he was. He shifted the gunny sack to his other shoulder and eyed his older brother. They spent a lot of time together, as brothers do, but he still was surprised by him at times.
“Pistol?”
“Yeah Sweet?”
“Did you eat the thing what you thought was a marshmallow when I weren’t lookin’ at you?”
“Well, it weren’t a turd.”