Leaves and twigs scattered suddenly, as if the last, hurried pat of her seven-year-old palm, hitting the flattened surface of moist earth that moments ago revealed a fourth hole, was somehow acknowledged by the secret watchfulness of nature, and the little whisking breezes, surrounding her finished labors, had somehow bestowed their blessing upon her task.

She had left the house as surreptitiously as her tiny form and sincere energy would allow, running down the old boards, almost jumping across the eighteenth-century backdoor steps of the farmhouse, charging into the woods like an infantryman rushing into battle, head held high with quiet dignity and deadly purpose, without even an atom of fear, soul impervious to danger, defying threats to life and limb, lying just ahead in the enemy’s midst.

She felt that if the subjects of her special mission showed great strength and courage, then so should she, therefore she looked upon her four inanimate playmates with a mixture of wonder and resignation, and so, the night before at bedtime, she watched them reverently as they sat in a Buddha pose, exhibiting an air of perfect composure, their faces cradled by the soft glow of moonlight, their eyes looking straight ahead with resolve and confidence.

It would not be a communal grave; she wanted above all for each of her sweet friends to be laid to rest in his or her own sacred plot, so that the dog (Snowflake), the cat (Marshmallow), Raggedy Ann, and Raggedy Andy were to be given ...