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CHAPTER ONE
MISS MATHILDA HOCKERSNICKLER of Upper Little Puddle-patch sat at her half opened window. The book she wasreading attracted her whole attention. A funeral cortegewent by without her shadow falling across the fine lace cur-tains adorning her windows. An altercation between twoneighbors went unremarked by a movement of the as-pidistra framing the center of the lower window. Miss Math-ilda was reading.Putting down the book upon her lap for a moment, sheraised her steel-rimmed spectacles to her forehead while sherubbed at her red-rimmed eyes. Then, putting her spectaclesback in place upon her rather prominent nose, she picked upthe book and read some more.In a cage a green and yellow parrot, beady-eyed, lookeddown with some curiosity. Then there was a raucoussquawk, ‘Polly want out, Polly want out!’Miss Mathilda Hockersnickler jumped to her feet with astart. ‘Oh, good gracious me,’ she exclaimed, ‘I am so sorrymy poor little darling, I quite forgot to transfer you to yourperch.’Carefully she opened the door of the gilt wire cage and,putting a hand inside, she lifted the somewhat tattered oldparrot and gently drew him through the opened cage door.‘Polly want out, Polly want out!’ squawked the parrot again.‘Oh, you stupid bird,’ replied Miss Mathilda. ‘You AREout, I am going to put you on your perch.’ So saying, she putthe parrot on the crossbar of a five foot pole which at itsdistal end resulted in a tray or catch-pan. Carefully she put alittle chain around the parrot's left leg, and then made surethat the water bowl and the seed bowl at one end of thesupport were full.7
 
The parrot ruffled its feathers and then put its head be-neath one wing, making cooing chirping noises as it did so.‘Ah, Polly,’ said Miss Mathilda, ‘you should come and readthis book with me. It's all about the things we are when weare not here. I wish I knew what the author really believed,’she said as she sat down again and very carefully and mod-estly arranged her skirts so that not even her knees wereshowing.She picked up the book again and then hesitated half-waybetween lap and reading position, hesitated and put the book down while she reached for a long knitting needle. And thenwith a vigor surprising in such an elderly lady—she gavea wholly delightful scratch all along her spine between theshoulder blades. ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, ‘what a wonderfulrelief that is. I am sure there is something wrong with myliberty bodice. I think I must have got a rough hair there, orsomething, let me scratch again, it's such a relief.’ With thatshe agitated the knitting needle vigorously, her face beamingwith pleasure as she did so.With that item behind her, and her itch settled for themoment, she replaced the knitting needle and picked up thebook. ‘Death,’ she said to herself, or possibly to the un-heeding parrot, ‘if I only knew what this author REALLYbelieved about after death.’She stopped for a moment and reached to the other side of the aspidistra bowl so that she could pick up some soft can-dies she had put there. Then with a sigh she got to her feetagain and passed one to the parrot which was eyeing her veryfiercely. The bird took it with a snap and held it in its beak.Miss Mathilda, with the knitting needle now in one handagain and candy in her mouth and the book in her left hand,settled herself again and continued her reading.A few lines on she stopped again. ‘Why is it that theFather always says that if one is not a good Catholic—agood Church—attending Catholic—one is not able to attainto the Kingdom of Heaven? I wonder if the Father is wrongand if people of other religions go to Heaven as well.’ Shelapsed into silence again except for the faint mumbling thatshe made as she tried to visualize some of the more un-8
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