Cat in Glass Read Free Page B

sometimes he did not.
    One afternoon during a fine round of our favorite game, missionaries and cannibals, we heard a strange sound. Harry and I stood still as rocks and listened. It was a noise like the beating of gigantic wings, accompanied by that odd roar and bellow that bulls sometimes produce when they are angry or afraid.
    “Cathy, there’s something in the field,” whispered Harry. The dry willow branch he’d been using as a cannibal spear dropped unnoticed from his hand. That, and a slight croak in his voice, made the hair on my arms stand straight up beneath the sleeves of my blouse.
    In a moment I saw what Harry was talking about—a huge, glowing thing that moved in waves just beyond the raspberries and the hedge. I got down on my hands andknees, crept through our secret hedge tunnel, and peeked out on the other side.
    Harry was just behind me, not to be outdone by a girl. “Is it anything awful?”
    I made room for him beside me. “Come and see.”
    Before us in that ordinary field was a sight that visits the dreams of an old woman to this very day. A tall but otherwise unremarkable chestnut tree grew there, and caught in its branches was the grand silver balloon. We saw immediately that the basket, all askew, hung empty. But directly beneath it a man lay in the grass, half propped on his elbows and looking very distressed indeed. Our friend the black bull pawed the ground no more than two yards away from him.
    I stood up for a better look and, as sometimes happens with little girls, fell in love straightaway. I had previously thought that no one could possibly be more handsome and dashing than Father, but as I stood watching in the afternoon sun, I knew that Father had met his match. The fellow sported aviator’s breeches and puttees and a lovely ivory-colored scarf. His eyes, the dazzling color of robins’ eggs, were set in a strong, well-tanned face, and his hair and mustache gleamed like heaps of gold coins. Moreover, he seemed clearly in pain and danger. At once I felt capable of even the most arduous rescue. I floated in visions of befriending him and showing him off to Father and Aunt Henrietta, who seemed to care so little for me that they would let me sit in a tree by myself half the night.
    “We’ve got to help him,” I said. Bravely, and I now thinkrather stupidly, I walked out into the field and flicked a stone at the bull’s broad flank.
    The bull looked around, distracted but unconvinced, and Harry yelped, “Don’t, Cathy! He’ll come after us.”
    “Nonsense,” I said, hoping the handsome aviator could hear me. “The bull knows us. See?” And I clapped my hands and cried, “Shoo!” as loudly as I could.
    Sometimes I think that God must station an angel on the shoulder of every little boy and girl and that only through that device does any child grow to adulthood. My angel must have been hard at work that day, for the bull turned and humped away as if it had been bitten by a fly.
    “Shoo!” I said again, and it lumbered off even further.
    Luminous with triumph, I turned to Harry. “Stand right here. Keep yelling ‘shoo’ and don’t stop until I tell you to.”
    “But, Cathy …” he whimpered.
    “Do it, or I’ll twist your ear off.” Poor Harry. I knew all of his weaknesses, even in those days.
    So Harry crouched, all the little blue veins in his neck standing out, and screamed, “Shoo!” while I ran to the aid of the dashing young balloonist.
    “Can you stand up?” I asked, breathless with a combination of excitements.
    “
Oui
, mademoiselle, I think so,” he replied. Oh, my knees nearly turned to butter.
    I helped him up. But he winced and jerked when he tried to put weight on his leg, so I told him to lean on me. Lean on me he did, heavily and deliriously, as we hurriedtoward the gate in the hedge. He smelled wonderful, like cold air and lightning and peppermint.
    When we stood safely on the other side of the gate, I called, “Run, Harry! Run!”
    Screaming