In a small town in Ireland, about a century ago there lived an old woman and her twenty-five year old son, Peter. They lived in a small cottage on a hill. The old woman made clothes for Peter to take to the store to sell. This was how they made their living.
One hot, summer, day Peter was one quarter of the way to the store when he heard a moan. He turned around and there was a little cat. Maybe it was pity, or maybe it was fate that made Peter pick up the cat, who knows. Anyway, Peter took the cat to the store with him and sold the clothing his mother had made. When he arrived home, his mother greeted him with hot soup. The old woman took the cat and cuddled it in her arms. "What a beautiful cat!" she exclaimed. "Let's call her Snowball." The old woman fed the cat and put her to sleep.
It was the twilight of the evening and Snowball ran out the door. Peter and the old woman ran after her. They followed her to the center of the forest. Suddenly, Snowball stopped. She said, "Do not be afraid, Peter, run back and get a shovel." Peter came back with the shovel. "Now dig here," said Snowball, indicating to [sic] a small hole in the ground. Half an hour later, the shovel struck something. A little more digging and there it was. Peter lifted it from the hole. There in his arms was a marble statue of Snowball with an emerald collar on its' [sic] neck. "Snowball, how did you know about this?" asked the old woman. But Snowball was laying on the ground, purring contentedly, never to talk again.
Written by me, in blue pen, cursive, on two sides of looseleaf paper with five (!) holes for what must have been a very sturdy binder, in fifth grade.