A boy passed a flat smooth stone to another, his compatriot in the crime of disturbing a pristinely calm surface of lake water that lay on the edge of a thick wood. 'It's perfect!' exclaimed the other, taking the stone. Feeling the smoothness between his fingers, he worked the stone into his hand until it sat just right, and then whipped it out away from him. As it danced across the water, they counted. Five… no, six small dents bent the water, sending rings of ripples. ‘Well done, Pen!’ said the first boy, marveling at his friend’s great feat. ‘Jolly good stone,’ brushed off Pen, but his face held a delighted grin as both boys bent to search for another perfect stone. It was only a matter of seconds, however, before they both stood up ramrod straight. For, all at once, a sound came echoing out of the wood, loud enough to send echoes beaming across the lake.
Showing posts from July, 2018
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(Part II of Kit and the Magical House) ‘Please, call me Mrs. Francis, dear,’ said Mrs. Francis sitting down on a very lovely embroidered cushion that sat on a wooden rocking chair by the fire, and gesturing to Kit to do the same in a very comfy armchair that had two red cushions. ‘I’m Kit,’ said Kit in a small voice that was rather unlike herself. But a house had just dried her clothes, and she was feeling slightly unsettled. ‘Well, now, Kit, that’s a delightful name. Short for something, I’ll bet. And, I’ll bet, you have a very good story about why you’re here, my dear. I would love to hear it,’ Mrs. Francis said as she smiled encouragingly. How did she know, thought Kit? But it didn’t really matter. She had long desired to unburden herself about the horrible Mrs. Hendricks, and, perking up with the delight of scathingly reporting on her enemy, she took a fortifying swallow of cocoa from the cup that sat steaming alongside the table at her arm and set t
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(Part I of Kit and the Magical House) Raindrops splashed on the ground in great big sploshes, and as Kit danced in a puddle, there were a fair number on her head as well. The glory of her outfit made splashing a requirement; for what other actions would rain boots and slicker coerce a young girl into? Kit pranced and stamped, splashed and danced about, too distracted to notice the disapproving stares of passersby. And she was much too absorbed with the cascading water and its pools to see curtains pull back from a house and a pair of crinkled eyes which bore witness to her delightful shenanigans. It was an old pair of eyes that looked out the window, eyes that had seen much of life. They looked on the dancing child with an unmistakable twinkle, desperately hoping that the girl would dance outside the window frequently in the puddles and in the sunshine, for that was, the old woman felt, all that should make up a childhood. And the glory of witnessing such splendor