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"Stardust." Terrific didn't know the words to that. He lay back in the grass, his arms folded behind his head, and listened with his eyes closed. Behind us, the bag lady hummed. I could see her shadow sway in the rhythm of the song.
    When he had finished "Stardust," Hawk said
to the woman, "Popsicles all around. My treat."
    But she turned, muttering. I could catch the fragments of what she was saying, the same as the day before: "Root beer. They change everything without asking anyone," and with heavy, shuffling steps she moved away, still talking to herself. We watched her go, watched her move down the path to disappear behind some bushes and a statue and the groups of picnicking people, like a huge black bird seeking shade.
    Hawk shrugged. "Guess she don't want one," he said cheerfully. "Watch my horn a minute."
    He loped with his long, thin legs over to the Popsicle cart and came back with three green ones. We sprawled in the grass and slurped.
    "You know what, Hawk?" I asked. "That woman, you know why she didn't want a Popsicle? She told Tom and me yesterday."
    "She didn't really tell
us,
" Tom corrected. "She was just telling. We were standing there, but she didn't even look at us."
    "Okay. Anyway, Hawk, she said that they used to have root beer Popsicles, and she liked those because her father used to make root beer, and it reminded her of her father—"
    "Me too," said Hawk. "My daddy used to
make root beer, too. I remember the smell. Summer nights, we kids used to sit on the porch drinking Daddy's root beer."
    "Well, anyway," I went on, "she said the guy with the cart stopped carrying root beer because not enough people bought them."
    "I would," said Hawk cheerfully, licking his empty stick.
    "Me too," said Tom Terrific.
    "Well," I confessed, "I wouldn't because I don't
like
root beer. But I don't think it's fair, Hawk. There are a whole lot of bag ladies around—Tom counted twenty-four yesterday—and probably
all
of them wish there were still root beer Popsicles. But nobody pays any attention to what
they
want because they're bag ladies."
    Hawk was listening intently. He was grinning.
    So I went on. It's nice to have someone listen to what you're saying. "But the reason that no one listens is because they don't make a scene. They just mumble, and nobody pays any attention, and they don't even talk to each
other.
Probably not one single bag lady here ever talks to another one, so they don't even
know
that they all want root beer Popsicles. It seems to me that they ought to
organize.
"
    Hawk's eyebrows moved up higher on his glistening brown forehead. "Like the Teamsters?"
    I shrugged. "I don't know anything about the Teamsters. But like nurses at a hospital. If they want more money or different schedules, they all go on strike. Then the administration has to listen, right?"
    "Right," said Hawk. Tom Terrific was examining a worm that he had found in the dirt.
    "Right," said Hawk again. "Trouble is, the Popsicle guy don't care about the bag ladies' business. Twenty-four root beer Popsicles now and then, that's not going to make him a millionaire. He's probably already a millionaire anyway. You notice he's branching out into balloons?"
    I sighed. Hawk was correct. Even if the bag ladies went on strike, it wouldn't have any effect. None of them bought Popsicles anyway. So much for my great idea.
    "I have to go to the bathroom," Tom Terrific announced.
    "Wait a minute," said Hawk thoughtfully.
    "I can't wait very long," said Tom.
    But Hawk hadn't been talking to him. "It's true," he said, "that the guy doesn't care about their business. But what if they organized and picketed? Caused a disruption. Then
other
people
wouldn't buy Popsicles, and his business would be affected—"
    Tom Terrific stood up. "I have to go the bathroom
right now
" he announced loudly.
    "Good grief," I said. "I don't even know where a bathroom is, Tom. Maybe you could just go behind a bush."
    Tom looked stricken. He shook his head