"Holá, Ramón!", I called and waved to our head landscape man, with whom I am practicing my Spanish, much to his amusement at times, I think. Although he has no right to ridicule, given his limited ability to converse in English. He wouldn't ridicule anyway, of course; his courtly manner is famous in the neighborhood.

I was in the swimming pool, languidly doing gentle, easy exercises, because the water was bathtub warm and not conducive to my water aerobics routine. (I'm not going to complain about it since I was the one who made the loudest noise about the heat being turned off from December 1 to March 1!) I was studying what I thought was a very sad phenomenon...it appeared to be a fledgling bird, somehow lost from its mother and sitting frozen in fear on the concrete patio area. (You must understand, of course, that I have worn glasses since I was fifteen!)

"Parece que hay un pajarito, muy pequeño, que no puede volár!". I was so proud of my prowess at remembering the words for bird and fly.

Ramón's response, as usual was in rapid-fire Spanish, something about the "madre" having left her baby. He smiled, waved, and went on his way up the hill, dashing my hopes that he would come and rescue the baby bird. I knew that I couldn't pick it up...I have an aversion to touching small live things that fly or wriggle. So, I decided to watch it a little more closely and make sure it was alive.

I leaned over the rim of the pool and peered myopically at the strange creature...and discovered it was not a bird at all, but rather a large butterfly, still shedding its cocoon! What I had thought was an eye was actually a large spot near the tip of one wing. And I was swept back in time to the day that Harriet Horsley introduced me to Gene Stratton-Porter.

"Maureen," Mrs. Horsley said gently in her soft, Southern, ladylike voice, "you should read something besides Nancy Drew and Judy Bolton. There are many fine books that will teach you more than those do." (I guess that's arguable now, in these days of the feminist movement and the independent woman.) I was not especially interested in being taught by the books that I read for pleasure, since I privately thought that I got enough of that kind of reading in school. But I was raised to be polite to my elders, and I mumbled something like "But I like Nancy Drew. She's exciting".

Mrs. Horsley had a five-year old daughter, Martha Garland Horsley, who, when asked, always gave her full name as "Marfa Garnan Horsey" in a clear and precise little voice. They lived next door to us on River Street in El Paso, and my mother always told me to be nice to them, because there was no Mr. Horsley...I

never did know why he was missing, but in 1938, the single mother was a rarity in our social milieu. Mrs. Horsley worked in the Popular Dry Goods Store, or maybe it was the White House, the only other department store in town. She was in charge of the book department, and when she said she wanted me to come to the store one day so she could give me a birthday present, my mother and I thought I should go. So, I did.

"Now", Mrs. Horsley said, "there are two conditions attached to this birthday gift. First, you must choose a book from the group that I have picked out for you. They are over here on this desk, and, second, you must come and tell me about the story after you have read it. I want a book report."

I walked over and looked at the titles with a sinking heart. They did not sound especially appealing to my eleven-year old mind, steeped in mystery and adventure with the likes of Nancy Drew!

"Heidi", "Little Women", "The Campfire Girls at Camp Runamoka" or some such place, "Freckles", "Girl of the Limberlost", and I can't remember the rest of them.

I looked at Mrs. Horsley for guidance, and she smiled. She had one of the most beautiful smiles I can recall. She was tall, statuesque, I guess you could say, with black hair swept back into a bun on her neck, pale white skin, and very blue eyes. She wore a black dress when she was at work, and red lipstick which made a lovely contrast against her white teeth. I thought her the perfect ideal of a lady. But it seemed clear that she was not going to make the selection of a book for me. So I reached out and picked up the closest one and thanked her politely for the lovely gift.

"Remember," she said, "I expect a book report later", and softened her firm tones with another dazzling smile.

"Yes, ma'am" I responded and walked home to show my new book to my mother.

Whatever else I may or may not remember about Harriet Horsley, I shall always be grateful for the door she opened for me. Reading was something that our family did as a matter of course, and with great avidity. The most severe punishment my parents could think of when we misbehaved was to take our library cards away from us for a month, which seemed to last for a year. And, I have always been fond of mystery and adventure stories, but, thanks to Mrs. Horsley, I found a whole new world involving nature, family, and friendships that has remained a source of great pleasure to me.

So, from the rim of our large bath-warm swimming pool, I watched a butterfly emerge from its cocoon just as Elnora Comstock did in the Limberlost, and I marveled again at how lucky she was, in spite of a family life that started out poorly but ended up in love.

Just as a footnote, I still have that tattered copy of "Girl of the Limberlost", and still re-read it about once a year. It's one of my "comfort" things when I am lonely or sad.