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Show 63, Jeffries, Islamorada Dusk into twilight. They slipped down through the oak and the pines toward the gorge, where 100 years ago you wouldn't have cared to go because of rattlers. Night-listening, she had said; she had them cup their hands behind their ears and open their mouths. Getting the owl ears on, it was called. Then they moved a little farther into the old forest and she played her tape recorder, the barred owl cry 'Who cooks FOR YOU? Who-cooks FOR YOU?' and shortly she said, "he's coming now, I think. . ." A silent and thoughtful night hunter slipped noiseless through the upper foliage, in his specially modified fringed feathers. And startlingly and with a bit of melancholy the owl answered the tape, "Who-oo-who-hoo?" And later, when the hikers were sharing the creamed bug repellent Dory edged up behind her, with a hand on that First World War type brown and green uniform so that she stumbled and backed into him, wondering "Oh, my-" and he answered, "What a disaster-I cook for myself," and she giggled and of course had dinner with him out in the country at the Aurora Treadway Inn that weekend. "Row," she had said, "Row is fine." But Rowena, he thought. Your Teuton fairness. Your cool Saxon |