Free Bradbury, Ray - SSC 11 by The Machineries of Joy (v2.1) Page A

me then,
boy?"
                   “Yes, sir."
                   "Good. And, God willing, many nights from
tonight, many years from now, when you're as old or far much older than me,
when they ask you what you did in this awful time, you will tell them—one part
humble and one part proud—1 was the drummer boy at the battle of Owl Creek,' or
the Tennessee River, or maybe they'll just name it after the church there. ‘I
was the drummer boy at Shiloh.’ Good grief, that has a beat and sound to it
fitting for Mr. Longfellow. 'I was the drummer boy at Shiloh.' Who will ever
hear those words and not know you, boy, or what you thought this night, or what
you'll think tomorrow or the next day when we must get up on our legs and
move!"
                   The general stood up. "Well, then. God
bless you, boy. Good night."
                   "Good night, sir."
                   And, tobacco, brass, boot polish, salt sweat
and leather, the man moved away through the grass.
                   Joby lay for a moment, staring but unable to
see where the man had gone.
                   He swallowed. He wiped his eyes. He cleared
his throat.
                  He settled himself. Then, at last, very slowly
and firmly, he turned the drum so that it faced up toward the sky.
                   He lay next to it, his arm around it, feeling
the tremor, the touch, the muted thunder as, all the rest of the April night in
the year 1862, near the Tennessee River, not far from the Owl Creek, very close
to the church named Shiloh, the peach blossoms fell on the drum.
                  
     
     
     
     

BOYS! RAISE GIANT
MUSHROOMS IN YOUR CELLAR!
     
     
                   Hugh Fortnum woke to Saturday's commotions and
lay, eyes shut, savoring each m its turn.
                   Below, bacon in a skillet; Cynthia waking him
with fine cookings instead of cries.
                   Across the hall, Tom actually taking a shower.
                   Far off in the bumblebee dragonfly light,
whose voice was already damning the weather, the time, and the tides? Mrs.
Goodbody? Yes. That Christian giantess, six foot tall with her shoes off, the
gardener extraordinary, the octogenarian dietitian and town philosopher.
                   He rose, unhooked the screen and leaned out to
hear her cry, "There! Take that! This'll fix youl Hah!"
                   "Happy Saturday, Mrs. Goodbody!"
                   The old woman froze in clouds of bug spray
pumped from an immense gun.
                   "Nonsense!" she shouted. “With these
fiends and pests to watch for?"
                   "What kind this time?" called
Fortnum.
                   "I don't want to shout it to the
jaybirds, but"—she glanced suspiciously around—"what would you say if
I told you I was the first line of defense concerning flying saucers?"
                   "Fine," replied Fortnum. **There'll
be rockets between the worlds any year now."
                   “There already are!” She pumped, aiming the
spray under the hedge. “There! Take that!"
                   He pulled his head back in from the fresh day,
somehow not as high-spirited as his first response had indicated. Poor soul,
Mrs. Goodbody. Always the essence of reason. And now what? Old age?
                   The doorbell rang.
                   He grabbed his robe and was half down the
stairs when he heard a voice say, "Special delivery. Fortnum?" and
saw
                   Cynthia turn from the front door, a small
packet in her hand.
                   "Special-delivery airmail for your
son."
                   Tom was downstairs like a centipede.
                   "Wow! That must be from the Great Bayou
Novelty Greenhouse!"
                   "I wish