Slips There are no flaps on Stearman wings, (Though they have a biplane’s pair), Was taught the way to scuttle height, Was side-“slip to the flare”. It took some nerve on those first tries, As the ground rushed up at me, To hold back stick and aileron-- Top rudder—(so’s to see). With the low wing skimming near the grass, I’d shove the rudder straight, As I rolled in neutral aileron, The tires and earth would "mate". It soon was “just a thing one did”, An accepted way to land, At least in Navy flying school-- Taught to every ‘hand’. But when it came to ‘civil’ flight, And a Stearman, I would fly, The pilot who would check me out-- He was an ‘Army’ guy. We did stalls in turns-- and level too-- Checked out the two-turn spin, I tried to be as smooth as silk, As I slowed-- to bring us in. There were poles and wires that blocked our way-- On the final path to land, So I kept us high ‘til we passed them by-- Side-slipped the way I’d planned. The nose swung ‘round and we touched the ground, Three tires-as one- did ‘squall’, I felt pleased-- at the way we’d “greased”— Been really “on the ball”— But then I looked at the man in front, I’d never seen this done- He’d climbed the cabanes on our up-wing side— Even now—still clung to one; He chewed me out for slipping in— And carrying it so low— This Army guy didn’t land that way— (“Twas a dangerous way to go!”) Well, I heard him out, went off alone, On the solo ride I’d bought, But when once more--- I came to land, Did again what I’d been taught.Bill Woodall