Ian M. Anderson

The protagonist of this story is a six year old boy. If he heard that last sentence read to him, he would want me to change the word protagonist to hero: fine -- hero it is. However, he has not heard that he is the hero of this story, but is busy moving his stuffies from his bed upstairs to the downstairs sitting room. (He was a hero last week, too, when he saved aforementioned stuffies, first of all Doggie, then Charles the Lamb, from a fire that suddenly erupted during his oatmeal breakfast. The oatmeal, as you may have guessed, had become pasty, and that's when smoke began to roll out from underneath the wingback chair in the adjacent room. It was put out quickly with the help of his beach pail, which just happens to hold endless amounts of seawater. But that was last week, and the stuffies, along with our hero, have long forgotten the excitement of those events.) Here he is, taking one stair at a time, his face hidden by fluff. It's obvious he's talking, but it's

The heart can think of no devotion Greater than being shore to the ocean -- Holding the curve of one position, Counting an endless repetition. -- "Devotion" by Robert Frost *** 1. The man walked aimlessly in a wilderness of pine needles and bracken. His hands bled at the palms and bruises darkened his fingernails, for he'd climbed many rocks and trees, always heading up and up though the way proved hard. Yet his purpose was hidden from him. Many times, as dry leaves crunched or sticks or needles snapped under his feet, he said, "I have forgotten why." But up he climbed. The woman, however, waded streams and watery paths so that her feet were wet and cold. She had resolved to find the water's source; "Long ago," she said to herself. "Long ago I began." And it was so. The streams she followed swerved and twisted and hid themselves deep underground for days on end until, with hope dying, she'd hear a fa