We paused at abandoned brick bus stations in Cottonville and Chancey, little tired-looking towns with only a few stores left open on the main street selling used vacuum cleaners and parts of agricultural equipment. In Bonnie View there was no bus station at all, just a little barbecue shack with a rusty metal awning casting some hot shade. In the back of the bus the Man of Music began talking about how women were mysteriously attracted to him.

“It’s an invisible force,” he said. “They flock to me everywhere I go, they can’t help themselves.”

“My daddy said she left because she couldn’t be satisfied,” said the little boy. “She had the can’t-help-its, my daddy said.”

“‘Don’t say can’t! Can’t never did a thing—,’” sang the Man of Music. “You know what they call me? They call me the Love Train. I’m a locomotive of love.”

“You may be wondering why I’m wearing these short white gloves,” said the little lady.

“It’s something about women and a stringed instrument,” said the Man of Music. “It’s almost too easy—like shooting ducks over bait.”

“My daddy can’t play a stringed instrument,” said the little boy. “He just works over at the silica mine.”

“You see,” said the little lady, “my brother-in-law’s wife was a great one for making jams and jellies.”