The Wishing-Stone Stories

by Thornton W. Burgess

But this day was different, and Tommy knew that at last spring had arrived. It was not that it was long past time, for it was now almost April. It was something more. It was just a something that, throbbing all through him, told him that this time there was no mistake—spring was really here. There was a softness in the touch of gentle Sister Southwind which was like a caress. From over in the Green Forest came the gurgle of the Laughing Brook, and mingling with it was the soft whistle of Winsome Bluebird, the cheery song of Welcome Robin, the joyous greeting of Little Friend the Song-sparrow, the clear lilt of Carol the Meadow-lark, the sweet love call of Tommy Tit, the Chickadee, and under all a subdued murmur, sensed rather than really heard, as of a gentle stirring of reawakened life. So Tommy heard the spring.

And in each long breath he drew there was the odor of damp, warm soil such as the earth gives up only at this season. And so Tommy smelled the spring.

And looking from the top of the hill above the wishing-stone down across the Green Meadows to the Old Pasture and beyond to the Purple Hills, he saw all as through a soft and beautiful haze, which was neither fog nor smoke, but as if old Mother Nature had drawn an exquisite veil over the face of the earth until it should be made beautiful. And so Tommy saw the spring.

He whistled joyously as he tramped down to the dear old wishing-stone and sat down on it, his hands clasped about his crossed knees. Seasons came and went, but the wishing-stone, the great, gray stone which overlooked the Green Meadows, remained always the same. How many, many winters it must have seen go, and how many, many springs it must have seen come, some early and some, like this one, late, but all beautiful!

In all the years it had been there how many of old Mother Nature’s children, little people in fur, little people in feathers, little people in scaly suits, and little people with neither fur nor feathers nor scales, but with gauzy or beautifully colored wings, or crawling with many feet, must have rested there just as he was doing now!

Somehow Tommy always got to thinking of these little people whenever he sat on the wishing-stone. From it he had watched many of them and learned much of their ways. But he had learned still more by wishing. That seems queer, but it was so. He had wished that he was a meadow-mouse, and no sooner had he wished it than he had been one. In turn he had wished himself into a red squirrel, a rabbit, and a mink, and he had lived their lives; had learned how they work and play; how sometimes they have plenty, but quite as often go hungry, sometimes very hungry, and how always they are under the shadow of fear, and the price of life is eternal watchfulness.

“I suppose some people would say that I fell asleep and dreamed it all, but I know better,” said Tommy. “If they were dreams, why don’t I have the same kind at home in bed? But it’s only out here on this old stone when I wish I were something that I become it. So of course it isn’t a dream! Now I think of it, every single time I’ve wished myself one of these little animals, it has been because I thought they had a better and an easier time than I do, and every time I’ve been mighty glad that I’m just what I am. I wonder——” He paused a minute, for a sudden thought had popped into his head. “I wonder,” he finished, “if those wishes came true just to teach me not to be discontented. I wonder if a wish would come true if I weren’t discontented!”

He was still wondering when, floating down out of the sky, came a clear “Honk, honk, honk, k’honk, honk, honk, k’honk.” Instantly Tommy turned his freckled face and eager eyes skyward.

“Wild geese!” he exclaimed.

“Honk, honk, k’honk, honk!” The sound was loud and clear, but it seemed to come from nowhere in particular and everywhere in general. Of course it came from somewhere up in the sky, but it was very hard to place it as from any particular part. It was a good two minutes before Tommy’s eyes, sharp as they were, found what he was looking for—a black wedge moving across the sky, a wedge made up of little, black living spots. At least they looked little. That was because they were so high, so very high in the sky.