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Ketut the Crab was the sort of busybody you find in every village. Geared for gossip and going red with anger when he heard any.

It would be unrealistic to say that Ketut was one of Henry's admirers. To put it bluntly, he detested him. Ever since the day Henry had tried to eat him for breakfast, Ketut did a slow burn whenever he saw the heron. Now, as Ketut sidled along, sheltering under the lily pads, he wondered what fresh devilment was under way. Seeing Henry on the scene, he had no doubt mischief was brewing, but when he swivelled his eyes around on their stalks and caught sight of the heron decked out as a Pedanda and gulping down one plump fish after another, he was stunned - but only for a second.

"You great feathered fake," he muttered, as he scuttled across the lily pads and shinned up Henry's long neck.

Then, before the gluttonous bird knew what was happening, the crab grabbed his windpipe and throttled him with his fearsome front claw.

And thus ended the career of a brilliant ideas man.

Have Snake - Will Travel

Keeping the wolf from the door is a pretty universal ocupation - except in the more frigid parts of Alaska, where I hear that the wolf is enticed to the door - and its pelt pinched for pelf.

In tropical Bali, where large fur-trimmed animals are noticeably lacking, the need for earning a living is ever-present and the problem is tackled in many different ways.

With such a variety - especially in the country villages - where to begin?

The young job-seeker, of course, will probably settle for the Duck Boy.

For this he arms himself with a long thin bamboo pole, tips it with a square of white cloth (which has been preiously blessed by the temple priest) musters up his flock of ducks and marches them into the rice fields. If he lives in the village, then the ducks are paraded down the street like a small detachment of soldiers, shepherded across a bridge (there is always a bridge) and guided up an embankment and into the rice paddies.

Here he chooses a spot, plants his bamboo pole firmly in the mud, its white cloth fluttering gaily in the morning breeze - and the ducks spend the day swimming and paddling happily within sight of the magic stick, merrily catching tiny eels and other goodies from the sawahs, with an occasional nibble from the square wooden feedbox, thoughtfully left for "afters".

Come nightfall, the Duck Boy returns, calls the ducks with an eerie cry, and they come waddling out of the rice paddy, to parade home peacefufly before him, with an occasional hint from the white flagged pole not to break ranks.

Such an occupation, however, could hardly be recommended to the rugged extrovert, who would do better as a Medicine Man.