e's cove which was not then
called that until later. It was a dark night and they went in row
boats with all the oars mufled. It was a formadible sight that would
have made even bolder men shrink with fear. But it was the brave
Higlanders who lead with their muskits straped to their sholdiers
climing up the steep rock by grabbing at roots of trees and shrubbs
and not a word was wispered but the french senntrys saw the tree
moving and asked qui vive again. The same sholdier who once studdied
hard and lernt french said la france as he had done before and they
got safe to the top and faced the city. At brake of day they stood
face to face, french and english. But Montcalm marched out to cut them
off there and Wolfe lined his men up in a line and said hold your fire
until they are within forty paces away from us. The french caused
many causilties but the english never wavered. Montcalm still on horse
back reseaved a mortal wound, he would of fell off if two of his tall
granadeers hadn't held him up and Wolfe too was shot on the wirst but
went right on. Again he was shot this time more fataly and as they
were laying him down one of the men exclaimed See how they run. Who
run murmurred the dieing Wolfe. The enemy sir replied the man. Then I
die happy said Generral Wolfe and with a great sigh rolled over on his
side and died.... And when the doctor told Montcalm he could only live
a few hours he said God be prased I shall not live to see Quebec fall.
Brave words like those should not be forgoten and what Wolfe said was
just as brave. No more fiting words could be said by anybody than
those he said in the boats with the mufled oars that night that the
paths of glory leed but to the grave." ...

I have folded up the carefully written pages, reverently, remembering
my promise to return them to Peter. But for a while at least I shall
keep them with me. They have set me thinking, reminding me how time
flies. Here is my little boy, grown into an historian, sagely
philosophizing over the tragedies of life. My wee laddie, expressing
himself through the recorded word.... It seems such a short time ago
that he was taking his first stumbling steps along the dim hallways of
language. I have been turning back to the journal I began shortly
after his birth and kept up for so long, the naive journal of a young
mother registering her wonder at the unfolding mysteries of life. It
became less minute and less meticulous, I notice, as the years s