In the crevice of a tree--fallen and split--we found found four stringy, albino hags playing a game, the rules of which, though we observed for several minutes, we could not fathom. During a break in the game, they asked us what brought us into their neck of the woods.

We were loathe to tell the truth since the hags were too old for Poison Pie and too stringy. At the same time, we dislike falsehoods. Having to choose between a lie and the old hags' unwanted attentions, we chose to mumble.

Many people love to mumble and I am foremost among them. Mumbling mollifies a lot of people and mumbling mutes a lot of questions you'd rather not answer. We mumbled this and that and shuffled on our way.

When we were clear of the hags, Marie said, "You have really perfected the art of mumbling." It was not mere flattery. I had, believe me, I had lots of reason to.