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1995-12-29
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29 lines
Copyright 1995(c)
CADWALADER'S MULCHING
By William Smith
They'd spent two and a half weeks looking for old Margie when
he found her.
She'd all'a'time been fightin' with Cadwalader about them
begonias they both claimed they developed because the seed split
and grew both ways. They'd both been trying to develop a new
strain, and neither one knew which of them had really succeeded,
but each insisted it was him. Or her.
She'd disappeared after one of their tiffs and they'd looked
everywhere. Only he went back to the source.
Cadwalader was mulching, she said the last time she called
them out. "Just smell that odor of decay," she said, lifting her
dainty nose in the air and sniffing it, wrinkling it in distaste.
"I might as well have pigs next door," she claimed.
Then he claimed she said he ought to get pigs. They made him
get rid of them.
Cadwalader had been mulching on a steady basis ever since. It
was a ritual he performed which drove her insane. No ordinance
existed to cover it, exactly. As part-time Mayor, Cadwalader made
sure none was adopted, either.
"So where'd you find old Margie?" asked his captain.
"Mulching," said he. "From the wrong side."
End