But it was two years later when our first child was born--little William Lawrence. One Sunday we were down at the beach strolling along, pushing the go-cart in the twilight. A full moon beamed down upon us and a million stars twinkled in the clear sky. The waves washed with sleepy sounds against the sandy shore and now and then a sea gull came close enough so we could hear the swishing of its wings. Into this pleasant scene came a sound--at first so faint it could hardly be heard. It was a shrill scream of some object hurtling through the atmosphere above, almost like the whine of plane struts, only much higher pitched. Lahoma and I glanced up. There, far up, something silvery flashed. As our eyes adjusted themselves we saw that there were at least two of them, and they were coming closer. Just as they seemed about to crash into the sandy beach they paused. There were two large pieces of silvery substance and five small pieces. They hovered near us, quivering and scintillating. Then one of the two larger ones came over and touched my cheek softly. The warmth of its touch was almost human. With coruscating brilliance it left me to pause and touch Lahoma's cheek. Then it darted down the beach, the other large piece just behind it, and the five little ones trailing along. Lahoma put her arm around my waist and looked up into my eyes. And we both chuckled and chuckled and chuckled.