The well in the wood

by Bert Leston Taylor

CHAPTER XIII
“MARY’S LITTLE LAMB”

As far as Buddie could see in either direction stretched a wide, straight road, bordered with small firs and floored with springy moss. In winter this road, which had been made by lumbermen, was smooth and level; in the spring it was all water, for it ran through a swamp; but as summer advanced it gradually dried out and made a very pleasant highway for little girls, who seldom or never came there, and for the people of the wood, who used it a great deal. Both sides of the road were white with the blossoms of Enchanter’s Nightshade; but as Buddie had seen no other flower since she entered the wood, she had grown rather tired of it, and would have welcomed a little variety.

“I wish these were violets,” she said, picking another bouquet. “Violets are prettier and smell nicer. Why, they are violets!” she continued, surprised and delighted to find that not only the blossoms in her hand, but those along the road had changed into her favorite flower—blue and white and yellow.

So she rambled along, gathering violets until her two hands could hold no more. And presently she began to wish she might see some roses. Violets are pretty and sweet, but one can get too much even of violets, don’t you think, Little One? Anyhow, Buddie thought so, and she wished again, out loud (for that is the only way to wish if you expect your wish to come true), that the violets were roses. And behold, they were roses! The swamp road was gay with them.

Luckily Buddie did not suspect that these wonders proceeded from the bouquet of Enchanter’s Nightshade, now forgotten, which was fastened in her hair; for had she wished it were something else, only to throw it away after it had become a bouquet of violets and roses, her adventures would have come to a sudden end.

AND BEHOLD, THEY WERE ROSES

She was not long exhausting the list of flowers she knew. Promptly at her wish the roses became harebells, the harebells became daisies, the daisies became marsh marigolds, and so on, until she could no longer think of a new flower to wish for. I think it was nice of her to be content with flowers, don’t you? She might have wished for candy, or oranges; or, as all the trees along the road were Christmas trees, she might have wished them decorated with toys and sweets. I am not at all sure she would have resisted the temptation if it had come to her; nor that such wishes would have come true. All I can tell you is, she was quite satisfied with the flowers, and walked for a long way before she got tired of the wishing game.

At first it was a relief to be alone in the wood—there had been so much talking and singing, and such a deal going on; but after a while Buddie began to think it would be pleasant to meet some of her wood friends again. There was her engagement with the Rabbit, who was to escort her to the Greenwood Club. What if it were past two o’clock, and the Rabbit had tired of waiting for her at the Corner, wherever that might be? One can tell time, the Donkey had said, by the way it flies, as one can tell a sandpiper or a crow; but he had neglected to explain just how to do it. No doubt time was flying—it always is; but Buddie, looking up at the blue sky, could make nothing of time’s flight.

While she was puzzling over this matter, which a grown-up would have found difficult, she came to a place where the roads forked, or, rather, where two roads met; for when a road forks, the tines of the fork should be smaller than the handle; but these roads were of the same width, and as like as two peas. However, there was no doubt which she should take, for there was a sign-board that read: