CHAPTER I THE WISHING STONE

HE children’s room of the Library was very still. Once in a while a murmur arose at the delivery desk, or some squeaky-shoed small feet crossed from open shelves to reading table. Occasionally a helpful child leaned across to another and whispered, “That’s a dandy book. Have you read the rest of them?” But all of these minor sounds were blended into the general effect of stillness and seclusion; and they did not even reach the ears of a small boy named Wendell, who bent over a large volume on one of the low round tables. He did not hear the footfalls nor the murmurs; he knew nothing of the rumble of traffic that rose through the windows; he was not even conscious of gathering dusk, though the librarian began to snap on lights in dark corners. Wendell read on and on, giving an excellent imitation of a bookworm.{2}

Absorbed as he was in his book, you probably picture him as a slight, pale little chap, somewhat underweight for his ten years, with pale cheeks, a bulging brow, large horn spectacles, completely immersed in a volume of Emerson’s Essays. Not at all. He had a round, brown face, a strong, lithe body, excellent arm and leg muscles, and nice brown eyes that were in unusually good condition because he never overworked them on school books. He had never opened Emerson’s Essays in his life, and the large volume that just now held his attention so completely was a book of fairy tales.

Wendell never read anything but fairy tales, unless it happened to be “required reading” at the select school for boys that he attended. In fairy tales he reveled. He read them in bed with the light on at night. He read them before breakfast and thus made himself late at school. He hid them behind his geography in study periods. He took them to Sunday school till his teacher found it out. He read them in the street when he went on an errand and greatly irritated traffic policemen by trying to cross the street, reading. Altogether, it was proverbial in Wendell’s family that he could always be kept out of mischief by a fairy tale. But oh! what low marks he did get in school!

For he didn’t like to study. He liked baseball and swimming and roller-skating, but he didn’t like the capitals of the United States, nor dates, nor fractions. Particularly he didn’t like fractions.

Thoroughly entranced, he read on till another boy reached across in front of his page to get a book{3} lying on the table. The interruption roused him. He glanced up, saw that the lights were on and the afternoon waning, reluctantly rose and returned his volume to the shelves, and sauntered out with two books of fairy tales under his arm.

He strolled through the upper corridor, with an approving glance at the great panel of the Muses, who looked to him like fairies on a large scale; but his goal was the delivery room at the other end, with its wonderful paintings of Sir Galahad and the Quest of the Holy Grail, illustrations de luxe of one of Wendell’s favorite folk tales. Long he lingered over Sir Galahad arriving at the Castle of the Maidens, and long he gazed on the old spellbound king. He sighed deeply as he left the room at length. Oh, to have lived in those days!

Through a cross street he hurried along to the Esplanade. Here was fairy land indeed, had Wendell but had eyes to see it! The sunset glow had not yet faded from behind the classic buildings on the river front, and twin necklaces of lights were strung between city and city. But it all seemed to the boy depressingly modern and unromantic. No suggestion to him of fairies or giants or witches or wishes. He walked along, still under the spell of his Library reading, regretting that there was not enough light to read as he walked, hurrying home to open his fairy books.

From the Embankment, he turned into an old-fashioned street on the slope of Beacon Hill, and began to climb the heights. His great-great-grandfather had lived on that street, in Wendell’s present{4} home, in the early days when fashion first built up the Hill. His great grandfather and his grandfather and his father, in turn, had lived there through many changes, as fickle fashion turned to newer avenues. As Wendell paused in front of his house,—a stern, square front, with a door whose solidity and heavy brass knocker and sentinel sidelights gave the impression that it had been put there to keep people out instead of to let them in,—he was hailed by a friend across the street.

Sammy Davis’ father had a name that ended in idsky when he lived in Russia; but after he came to America and moved into one floor of the decadent mansion next to Wendell’s, the family had decided to give an American twist to the name. So Davis it had become.

Sammy Davis crossed to Wendell.

“Where yer been?”

“Library.”

“Get a book?”

“Yep.”

“Lessee it.”

Sammy reached for the two books, grabbed them. Wendell grabbed in turn. Perfectly willing he was, of course, to show Sammy the books, but who doesn’t resent having things grabbed? Sammy ran across the street; Wendell followed, chased, ducked when Sammy dodged. There was an upright stone post at the inner edge of the sidewalk, barring vehicles from entering a narrow blind court that opened opposite Wendell’s house. Sammy dodged behind this, then out again, ran around in a circle and back{5} to the post to dodge once more, then ran out again, then back to the post. The chase was prolonged and I suppose that they encircled that post a dozen times.

When Wendell at length secured both books, he vaulted up and sat on top of the post, which was roughly hewn and small on top and not so very comfortable. Still, you could stick on.

“I’ll tell you, Sammy,” he said. “You come over to-night, and we’ll each read one—oh Jehoshaphat!” He had suddenly remembered his home work,—a double allowance of fractions because he had failed to-day.

“Make it to-morrow night, Sammy,” he said. “I’ve got home work to-night.”

A window on the fourth floor above was raised, a frowsy head stuck out. “Sammee!” called a strident voice. “Come in and eat.”

“So long. Sorry to leave you,” said Sammy, and departed upward, while Wendell sat and mused on the post. Once more he drifted away into memories of fairy tales. At length he shook himself with a heartfelt though silent, “Gee whiz! I wish I were living in a fairy story right now, here in Boston,” and slid down and went in to dinner.

Wendell’s family consisted of his father and mother and two older brothers, Alden and Otis. Just now there was also a visiting relative, Cousin Virginia, a sprightly young lady from New York, who tolerated Boston because it was only five hours from her delightful home town. She seemed to live in a constant state of amusement at things that{6} Wendell’s people didn’t consider funny at all. Her greeting this time to Wendell was,

“Well, Ralph Waldo Theocritus Shakespeare, how’s the Public Library to-day?”

Wendell didn’t see anything funny in that. He grunted.

“Did you happen to see that interesting new volume of correspondence between Socrates and Lady Jane Grey?”

Wendell didn’t even know that this was intended to be funny.

“I was reading fairy stories,” he said.

“Shocking!” said Cousin Virginia. “A descendant of the Puritans!”

“As to that,” broke in Wendell’s brother Alden, who was a Junior at Harvard, specializing in Original Sources, “the Puritans had some imagination. Look at witchcraft. Look at the Wishing Stone.”

“What wishing stone?” asked Cousin Virginia. “I’ve seen the kind they set in a ring on a girl’s third finger. Do you mean that kind?”

This bit of levity fell flat.

“The Wishing Stone,[A]” said Alden, “was a projecting boulder in the Common, somewhere near the present junction of the Beacon Street mall and the Oliver Wendell Holmes walk. There was a tradition that if one walked or ran nine times around the stone and then stood or sat on it and silently made a wish, the wish would come true.”

[A] Winsor’s Memorial History of Boston, vol. I., p. 554.

“And here you’ve shown me all the sights of Boston and left that out!” cried Cousin Virginia.{7} “Why, it’s much more interesting than Bunker Hill Monument. Let us hie us thither by moonlight as soon as we finish dinner. Careful, Wendell; if your eyes should pop right out, you couldn’t put them back.”

“The stone,” said Alden, “is no longer there.”

“Oh, where is it, Alden?” cried Wendell.

“According to the early diarists,” returned Alden, “most of those boulders on the Common were used for building stone from time to time. I doubt whether its history could possibly be traced.”

“Well, why couldn’t they hang on to it when they had it?” said Wendell in deep disappointment. Then he went up to his room to do his home work,—that sad double lot of fractions.{8}

CHAPTER II THE PIXIE STARTS IT

F course, Wendell’s intentions were excellent. He fully meant to devote himself to that home work, to forget the fairy stories that still hung like a mist about his brain and tackle those fractions like a man. But we all know how it is,—just as soon as we have looked at this one funny page of the newspaper, or read this one verse, or found out what the next chapter is about, we will certainly settle right down to business. There was the arithmetic. There were the two fairy books from the Library. Unless you are a seraph with wings and always do your duty, you will not be surprised to hear that Wendell treated himself to just one peek at the fairy stories before doing his home work, and that he never thought of those fractions till he heard his mother’s step on the stairs, when he shoved the fairy book into his desk drawer and opened his arithmetic at random.{9}

“Bedtime, my son. Have you finished your lessons?” asked his mother.

“No! Bothersome lot! Can’t make anything of this example—have to give me another half-hour,” muttered Wendell, not really wishing to deceive his dear mother, but a little bit ashamed to tell her how he had neglected his duty.

“I’m sorry, dear, but you’ll have to do it in the morning. You mustn’t lose sleep. And your brain will be clearer then. I’ll tell Jane to call you half an hour early.”

“Many are called, but few get up,” as the proverb hath it. Wendell, next morning, was not one of the few. Jane’s call fell on sleepy ears. He turned over for one more snooze, woke an hour later to find himself ‘way behind time, hustled through his dressing and his breakfast, and was off to school with lessons unprepared,—a sad thing that happened only too often in his easy-going life.

He managed to slide through most of his recitations, badly but not disgracefully, until he came to the arithmetic class. I might tell you in detail of his tragic floundering through problems that he was supposed to have prepared, of his guilty acknowledgment that he had not made up the delinquencies of yesterday and the day before, and of the stern wrath that was visited upon him by the arithmetic teacher, a strict and disciplinary spinster, whose patience he had often tried in the past. But this is not a school story. I have to record only such a part of his troublous career as led directly to the wonderful adventure of the Wishing Stone. So, briefly,{10} he was “kept in,” with three days’ problems to finish before he could go home.

His teacher, who bore the singularly happy name of Miss Ounce, left him alone in the deserted school-room. She had a lesson to give in another part of the building. Wendell pulled his book in front of him, flipped the pages open to the proper place, ran his fingers through his hair, and remained in that attitude, which may have denoted either deep concentration or utter dejection. He read the first problem through twice, and it had no more meaning for him than Dante’s Inferno in the original tongue.

“Jee-rusalem!” he said aloud after a long pause.

“Can I be of any assistance?” asked a friendly voice. It came from a little being perched on the desk in front of him, who certainly had not been there a moment before. He was about the size of a two-year-old child, but he had the face of an old man, a genial old man with twinkling eyes. His body was very round and quite filled his suit of blue knitted jersey, and his arms and legs were long and spindling.

“For goodness’ sake, who are you?” gasped Wendell.

“I’m a Pixie,” said the being.

“You are?” said Wendell. “I didn’t know there were any—out of fairy stories.”

“But I’m in a fairy story,” explained the Pixie politely. “I’m in the same fairy story you’re in.”

“Am I in one?” said the startled Wendell.

“Since last night,” declared the Pixie. “You wished to be, you know, on the Wishing Stone, after{11} you had run around it nine times. It’s a sure charm.”

“The Wishing Stone! Is that the old Wishing Stone—the alley post?”

“Somewhat fallen into disuse,” assented the Pixie, “but never-the-less the Wishing Stone.”

“Well, I never!” said Wendell.

It was so stupendous, such an unbelievable piece of good fortune, that at first he did not grasp its possibilities. Then his eye fell on the open book lying on his desk.

“Say!” he exclaimed. “If that’s all true, if I’m really living in a fairy story, there ought to be some way of settling junk like this in short order.” He gave a vindictive thump to the arithmetic.

“That’s what I came for,” said the Pixie. “I thought I saw a business opening here.”

“You mean—” faltered Wendell.

“Why, I’ll do your problems for you. That’s easy. And you do three tasks for me.”

“Three?”

“Yes, it’s always three,” said the Pixie.

“Say, I think I ought to get more than just these problems for three. I think you ought to do my home work till the end of the term.”

“Just as soon,” said the Pixie. “No trouble to me. Is it a bargain?”

“But what will you want me to do?” said Wendell.

“I don’t know what I want you to do,” returned the Pixie. “How should I know? Take a chance. Be a sport.{12}”

“All right,” said Wendell. “I will. Here are the problems.”

“Look in your desk,” said the Pixie immediately.

Wendell opened it. There lay three sheets of large pad paper, covered with problems completely solved. Wendell’s name and the date were written at the top in his own handwriting. The work was done neatly enough to pass, but not so excessively neatly as to arouse suspicion.

“Well, you are some little fiend at arithmetic,” pronounced Wendell with great relief.

“Glad you are satisfied,” said the Pixie. “Of course you understand that if you can’t perform my tasks, you belong to me.”

“Well, I might as well belong to you as to Miss Ounce,” ruminated Wendell. “Come on with your first task. I suppose it will be water in a sieve from the Charles River or something like that. They always are.”

“I should say not,” said the Pixie with scorn in his voice. “That might be all very well for the old Kobold that lives under Flag Staff Hill. It’s just his style, in fact. He’s using the same stuff he did when Merlin was practicing. No, I like to advance with the best thought of the time. I’m no back number. Trust me, I’ll find something up to date.”

“Well, speed up,” said Wendell. “What do you want me to do?”

“How should I know?” said the Pixie. “Give me time. I’ll drop around to-night and let you know.”

Just as he was speaking, the door opened, and in{13} came Miss Ounce, and maybe Wendell didn’t jump! He started so conspicuously that Miss Ounce fixed him with an accusing eye and said,

“Well, Wendell, up to mischief, I suppose, instead of doing your work.”

“No, Miss Ounce,” said Wendell, noting with relief that the Pixie was nowhere in sight, and promptly handed over his papers.

“Um, um!” murmured Miss Ounce. “Very good! Might be neater. Every one right, though. Now, Wendell, why is it that when you can do such excellent work as this, you have such a shocking daily record? Yes, shocking is the word.”

Wendell knew the answer to that, but he didn’t give it. He took his lecture silently, standing first on one foot and then on the other, but his mind was on the magic task that the Pixie was to set him, and as soon as he could he slid out of the room.{14}

CHAPTER III THE PIXIE’S FIRST TASK

HE Pixie came that evening, true to his word. Wendell, undisturbed by fractions, luxuriously idling over his fairy books, looked up suddenly and there sat the funny little fellow on the foot of the bed.

“How are you?” said the Pixie. “I didn’t have time to say good-bye to-day. Your Miss Ounce turned the door-handle too quickly.”

“That’s all right,” said Wendell. “Are you ready to spring my first task yet?”

“Yes, sir,” said the Pixie gleefully. “And you can’t say it isn’t up to the minute. You must bring me an aeroplane that you have found traveling underground.”

“Why, there’s no such thing,” said Wendell vexedly. “An aeroplane traveling underground! How silly! An aeroplane doesn’t travel underground. How can it?”

“Don’t ask me,” shrugged the Pixie. “How{15} should I know? You can’t expect me to make up the tasks and think up the answers too. Be reasonable.” And he vanished.

Wendell was greatly cast down.

“It’s a fool task,” he said as he went to bed. “In fact, it’s impossible.”

He woke with a sense of calamity hanging over him. Really, it was almost as bad as having fractions on his mind. He was so serious at breakfast that Cousin Virginia asked him if he was practicing to be a Puritan Ancestor at a fancy-dress ball. This levity seemed to Wendell ill-timed.

The brooding anxiety lingered with him all through school time. What if he couldn’t do the task? What would it be like to belong to a Pixie? He didn’t like the prospect.

He came out of his school on Beacon Street, still with the cloud lowering over him. He felt desperate. He thought of going over to the train yards of South Station and stealing a ride in an empty cattle-car bound for the prairies of the West. He meditated stowing away on a ship bound for Timbuctoo or Guam or somewhere. Just then a tempting truck passed him “south”-bound on Beacon Street. It was low and it was going slowly, and altogether it offered just the right opportunity to “hook” a ride. Wendell seized the opportunity and the truck together; and dodged down inside unseen by the driver.

In Allston, Wendell dropped out again. His mind was somewhat relieved by this pleasant adventure, and he didn’t wish to get too far from home. He hailed an electric for Park Street.{16}

Now, you may not believe it, but the first thing he saw when he got on the car was an aeroplane—a toy aeroplane about four feet long, carried in the arms of a freckle-faced boy.

Wendell sat down by the boy.

“Does it go?” he said.

“Sure it does,” said the freckle-faced boy.

“How?” said Wendell.

“You wind it up,” said the boy.

It was apparently a perfect model of a large aeroplane, a fascinating toy. The freckle-faced boy let him hold it, let him examine it closely. It was a joy to see such a perfect mechanical model on that small scale; but suddenly it brought a leaden lump to Wendell’s heart. It reminded him of his impossible task.

“Where you taking it?” asked Wendell.

“Home. I live in Medford.”

“Change at Park Street?” said Wendell.

“Scollay Square,” said the boy. They were now opposite the Public Garden.

“I’ll bet it can travel,” said Wendell.

“You’ve said it,” replied the boy. “But,” he added, grinning, as the electric sloped down into the Subway, “this is the first time it ever traveled underground.”

Wendell nearly bounced from his seat. “Say!” he almost yelled. “What’ll you take for that aeroplane?”

“Don’t want to sell it,” said the boy. “I just got it.”