Honey Child

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Honey Child came from the South, where the beautiful things grow. Her hair was still full of its sunbeams; she could never get it in order, and no matter how hard she tried to comb it, it was bound to be fuzzy-wuzzy just the same. She came from New Orleans, which is as close, they say, when the orange trees begin to flower, as anyone will ever get to paradise. No one could ever remember her right name and no one ever wanted to. She was just Honey Child, more to be prized than a thing of spun glass.

Honey Child knew the right from the wrong. She knew the right way to act at a football game, and never to ask questions when the ball was on the five yard line and there were only two and a half minutes to go. She knew the right way to wear a coonskin coat and have the collar slip down to her waist, and the right way to wave a pennant without putting someone’s eye out. She knew the right way to cock her little feathered hat so that it hid one eyebrow. An inch more and you looked inebriated, an inch less and you looked commonplace.

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