My father, in a nearby barn, heard my cries, grabbed a pitch-fork, stepped outside and hurled it at the bull. It hit the bull on the neck which was just in¬ches from me. I will never forget seeing that fork sink into that massive neck as I laid there waiting for the end. Now the miracle: My father, a lifelong partial cripple and never a really strong man, had hurled that pitch-fork nearly 30 yards with perfect aim. We both agreed that the Lord had given him super strength and made sure his aim. To this day I can not look even a docile bull in the face without a twinge of fear. The Rollins family also suffered from the antics of Jimmy, the terrible bull. Another time I was knocked to the ground by a different bull. Almost uncon¬scious , I saw our hired man drop a huge rock on the head of the bull, causing him to change his direction. After a few minutes the hired man and I tried to lift the rock and neither could move it. Again I was saved by a miracle. Evidently the Lord wanted me to live. From that time on I stayed away from bulls, even though dairying was my pro¬fession. —Wallace A. Parrish, Logan POTPOURRI Once I was a normal gal before I climbed my family tree; Now my forbears are acquiant they make a battle ground of me. My great Grandpa from Ireland makes me dance with happy feet, But the English one, Lord Oglyn, walks sedately down the street. Then my Swedish Grandma, Olga, gives away each cent I make, While my Scottish grandpa shudders at the things I waste and break. My great grandma from Plymouth turns her head the other way, But my great grandma from Paris laughs and flirts the live-long day. So my ancestors divide me, English, Irish, Scotch, Paree— And I never, never can determine which of them is really me. 86