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"
.
.
.
four
.
.
.
five
.
.
.
six
.
.
.
"
This
time
the
cicadas
sang
even
faster
.
From
noontime
to
sundown
,
from
midnight
to
sunrise
,
one
man
,
one
horse
,
and
one
wagon
were
known
to
all
twenty
-
six
thousand
three
hundred
forty
-
nine
inhabitants
of
Green
Town
,
Illinois
.
In
the
middle
of
the
day
,
for
no
reason
quickly
apparent
,
children
would
stop
still
and
say
:
"
Here
comes
Mr
.
Jonas
!
"
"
Here
comes
Ned
!
"
"
Here
comes
the
wagon
!
"
Older
folks
might
peer
north
or
south
,
east
or
west
and
see
no
sign
of
the
man
named
Jonas
,
the
horse
named
Ned
,
or
the
wagon
which
was
a
Conestoga
of
the
kind
that
bucked
the
prairie
tides
to
beach
on
the
wilderness
.
But
then
if
you
borrowed
the
ear
of
a
dog
and
tuned
it
high
and
stretched
it
taut
you
could
hear
,
miles
and
miles
across
the
town
a
singing
like
a
rabbi
in
the
lost
lands
,
a
Moslem
in
a
tower
.
Always
,
Mr
.
Jonas
’
s
voice
went
clear
before
him
so
people
had
a
half
an
hour
,
an
hour
,
to
prepare
for
his
arrival
.
And
by
the
time
his
wagon
appeared
,
the
curbs
were
lined
by
children
,
as
for
a
parade
.
So
here
came
the
wagon
and
on
its
high
board
seat
under
a
persimmon
-
colored
umbrella
,
the
reins
like
a
stream
of
water
in
his
gentle
hands
,
was
Mr
.
Jonas
,
singing
.
