House cleaning one morning, Mrs. Arthur Martin of Syracuse, N.Y. dusted the plaster statue of St. Anne a little too hastily: it toppled from the window ledge into the cement driveway below and broke into pieces. It was swept up and dropped in an ashcan and there the eldest of the Martins' four children, a lively, questing, eleven-year-old named Shirley Anne, found it.
Shirley Anne took the head of the statue out of the ashcan. Only its nose had been dented. She pressed her lips affectionately against it. Then she ran shrilling into the house: "Mom, the statue cried. I...
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