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Show Flying - 183 makers, sergeant-sculptors and for a l l I know sergeant-executioners just waiting for that magic hour of retirement when they can get their hand on that old lever and pass away their remaining years hearing the trap-door slap open and the neck break. Send me, God please send me, just once, a sergeant-sergeant, one that I can hate with a pure heart and a clear conscience. "That's the only way to make a living from the land," says Sergeant Hover. " I t ' s a clean relationship-I give them the "flowers and a place to stay and they give me the honey. We both benefit." John Henry walks out of the van. The rain has stopped, the sun is shining on the long grass, mist is rising off the h i l l s . He r o l l s up his poncho neatly and ties it to the back of his cartridge b e l t . A t a r a n t u l a , driven out of its warm tunnel by the r a i n , s c u t t l e s by just in front of him. John Henry jumps to his feet, but i t ' s not a general invasion, no others are in sight. S t i l l and a l l , there's no real safety out here. Hundreds of the hairy beasts may be crawling about under the innocent-looking grass, flooded out and feeling vicious. Oh for my native C a t s k i l l s . where only a bear or an occasional bobcat can do you hurt, where evil does not lurk under every foot of ground. Where the enemy does not have six g l i t t e r i n g eyes and four drooling fangs. |