Page 53 - 1960

As I rested on my island of safety, I remembered the happy days, walking through those very woods, listening to His voices and admiring the splendour of His majesty. I cursed the fate that dealt this cruel blow to man and nature. I remembered nights before this, an open campfire, reaching out to comfort and warmth, not one cruel and destructive like this one. I remembered just three days ago sizzling bacon on the fire. But then my rem- iniscence came sharply to reality and I remembered the cold campfire extinguished by a few handfuls of sand, the remains of the coffee pot all charred. The fire had come!
Alexina Heron
A Model O f Perfection
"Oh, yes, this is dear IittIe Gertrude," said Mrs. Tilsonbury, emphasizing her words "dear IittIe Gertrude," as she settled her portly frame into the dainty parlour chair. "She is only six years old, six, mind you! But, of course, you would never know but what she wasn'r at least ten. Everyone says so. And she is such a good child; never into mischief, and always does what she's told. She's just a perfect little angel, a little angel, that's what! Of course, everyone says that she is just Iike I was when I was a Iittle girl. And I was such a good child."
My mother murmured something about Gertrude being a pretty little child and Aunt Mabel threw one of her rare frosted smiles in the direction of Gertrude who was sitting demurely on a small stool next to her mother. She was a pretty blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl wearing a blue dress and a white pinafore. However, in comparison with the way that Mrs. Tilsonbury was dressed, Gertrude looked as if she was wearing her night-dress. But yet, there was something about the way Gertrude looked at you, the way her eyes seemed to sparkle, that made you wonder if she was really as much of an angel as her mother thought she was. And I began to wonder.
The conversation passed pleasantly from one topic to another, with Mrs. Tilsonbury doing almost all the talking and Gertrude saying nothing at all. Then, Aunt Mabel's cat, which had been sleeping soundly in front of the fire, got up, stretched itself and walked majestically out of the room. This cat was not just any cat; it was THE cat. It was Aunt Mabel's pride and delight and she always found time to expound upon its pedigree. However, I was of the opinion that most of the pedigree had rubbed off somewhere along the way and that the cat was little more than an alley cat. But1 it did belong to Aunt Mabel.
Upon seeing the cat, Mrs. Tilsonbury said to Gertrude, "Why don't you run along and play with the cat, darling?" I could see a look of horrified dismay on Aunt Mabel's face, but she said nothing.
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