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63 WIND DUMMY Scarecrow in uniform, the soldiers’ toy, a stuffed and patched-up boy. They toss him here and there in roughhouse play, and promise him an airplane ride— a grown-up bombing mission. His smooth, unfeatured face can’t show his joy, his keen anticipation or his pride. Comes the ascent, and all is in position: they grab him by the neck and hurl him out— all mute and blank dismay— to ascertain which way the wind is blowing, in order to predict without a doubt the place their bombs are going. A sorry fate for any boy, yet better than a human sacrifice, an outworn vice. Supposing we are merely a sophisticated brand of wind dummy, dispatched by a more clever species’ hands to see which way the wind blows here below in case they care to sample our condition. How long before they come to a decision is anybody’s guess. Till then we’re at the mercy of the air, hurtled by currents, landing who knows when or where. ...

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