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Wallace
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Fly Fishing Digest
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The Flying Squad
No Description Available
The Flying Flea, Callie, and Me
Who ever heard of a cat that didn't eat birds? The house people had picked me out of my litter to be a mouser. Callie was getting too old for the job. So it was mine. But I didn't plan on getting dive-bombed by a mockingbird building her nest...or adopting the baby who fell out. No joke! I'm a cat, but I do not eat birds. Mice, yes. Birds, no. Flea -- that's what I named her -- couldn't even fly. She was so scared when she toppled onto my head that she said, "Eat me...it's quicker than starving to death." She was pathetic. I had to help her. The first step was protecting Flea -- and me -- from the monster rats in the barn (that's saying a mouthful!) and Bullsnake under the woodpile. Next, Callie and I had to teach Flea to fly. After all, how could she stay up North with us when her bird family was flying to Florida. I'm not a Florida kind of cat. It's just too hot for us furry types. I know I'll miss my Flea. But she'll come back -- after she's seen the world!
Wallace's Monthly
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The Flying Squad
Lady's Stairs was a crazy wooden house overlooking and overhanging the creek between canal and river. You saw it from the lock that marked the place where canal ended and the broad, muddy estuary began, a sagging barn of a place, supported on huge wooden piles, with a dingy facade which had once been painted white, and then not painted again. It was streaked and blurred by nature to strange neutral shades that would have rendered it invisible but for the fact that it was wedged between a high warehouse on the one side and the barrel-roof of an ironworks on the other. Beneath the main rooms the creek ran, rising to within a few feet of Li Yoseph's sitting-room in flood-time.
