Mrs Drogmire (everyone knew her as Dear Mrs Drogmire for no one knew her first name) lived alone in a cottage somewhere in the country. She had lived there since her husband died almost fifty years ago. For the last twenty years she had retired from her work with the Manufacturing Association where she developed flame resistant fabric for furniture and vehicles.
These days she read, gardened and knitted. Her husband had passed on before they had even thought of starting a family. But who needs grandchildren to fill in a busy day?
The country thing that Dear Mrs Drogmire loved the most was the skylarks. Their singing, high in the sky, brought a great deal of joy to her summers. These days, with her slightly fading eyesight, she could rarely pick them out in the bright sky, but her hearing was still acute, and their singing was as if made for heaven. She would sit in a chair outside with a good book and a cup of tea, and the skylarks turned life to bliss.
And then two youths came by with their slug guns and started firing at the singing skylarks.
“What are you doing?” asked Dear Mrs Drogmire.
“We’re practising,” they said. “These skylarks are good target.”
“Don’t shoot my skylarks,” said Dear Mrs Drogmire.
“Why don’t you go drown yourself, old lady?” said the youths getting in their old truck and driving off.
They came back the following week. Leaving their truck the youths walked up the road and into a field. They started shooting the skylarks again. Suddenly their truck burst into flame. It was a gigantic explosion. Bits of truck flew into the air all over the place.
“What happened? What happened?” exclaimed Dear Mrs Drogmire dashing out of her house. “Thank goodness you weren’t in the vehicle when it overheated.”
“The cause of the explosion is unknown to us,” said the visiting policeman. “Not even the sweet little old lady who lives nearby saw a thing.”