3

At noon of that same day in the first week of August, Winnie Foster sat on the bristly grass just inside the fence and said to the large toad who was squatting a few yards away across the road, “I will, though. You’ll see. Maybe even first thing tomorrow, while everyone’s still asleep.”

It was hard to know whether the toad was listening or not. Certainly, Winnie had given it good reason to ignore her. She had come out to the fence, very cross, very near the boiling point on a day that was itself near to boiling, and had noticed the toad at once. It was the only living thing in sight except for a stationary cloud of hysterical gnats suspended in the heat above the road. Winnie had found some pebbles at the base of the fence and, for lack of any other way to show how she felt, had flung one at the toad. It missed altogether, as she’d fully intended it should, but she made a game of it anyway, tossing pebbles at such an angle that they passed through the gnat cloud on their way to the toad. The gnats were too frantic to notice these intrusions, however, and since every pebble missed its final mark, the toad continued to squat and grimace without so much as a twitch. Possibly it felt resentful. Or perhaps it was only asleep. In either case, it gave her not a glance when at last she ran out of pebbles and sat down to tell it her troubles.

“Look here, toad,” she said, thrusting her arms through the bars of the fence and plucking at the weeds on the other side. “I don’t think I can stand it much longer.”

At this moment a window at the front of the cottage was flung open and a thin voice—her grandmother’s—piped, “Winifred! Don’t sit on that dirty grass. You’ll stain your boots and stockings.”

And another, firmer voice—her mother’s—added, “Come in now, Winnie. Right away. You’ll get heat stroke out there on a day like this. And your lunch is ready.”

“See?” said Winnie to the toad. “That’s just what I mean. It’s like that every minute. If I had a sister or a brother, there’d be someone else for them to watch. But, as it is, there’s only me. I’m tired of being looked at all the time. I want to be by myself for a change.” She leaned her forehead against the bars and after a short silence went on in a thoughtful tone. “I’m not exactly sure what I’d do, you know, but something interesting—something that’s all mine. Something that would make some kind of difference in the world. It’d be nice to have a new name, to start with, one that’s not all worn out from being called so much. And I might even decide to have a pet. Maybe a big old toad, like you, that I could keep in a nice cage with lots of grass, and . . .”

At this the toad stirred and blinked. It gave a heave of muscles and plopped its heavy mudball of a body a few inches farther away from her.

“I suppose you’re right,” said Winnie. “Then you’d be just the way I am, now. Why should you have to be cooped up in a cage, too? It’d be better if I could be like you, out in the open and making up my own mind. Do you know they’ve hardly ever let me out of this yard all by myself? I’ll never be able to do anything important if I stay in here like this. I expect I’d better run away.” She paused and peered anxiously at the toad to see how it would receive this staggering idea, but it showed no signs of interest. “You think I wouldn’t dare, don’t you?” she said accusingly. “I will, though. You’ll see. Maybe even first thing in the morning, while everyone’s still asleep.”

“Winnie!” came the firm voice from the window. ‘ ‘

“All right! I’m coming!” she cried, exasperated, and then added quickly, “I mean, I’ll be right there, Mama.” She stood up, brushing at her legs where bits of itchy grass clung to her stockings.

The toad, as if it saw that their interview was over, stirred again, bunched up, and bounced itself clumsily off toward the wood. Winnie watched it go. “Hop away, toad,” she called after it. “You’ll see. Just wait till morning.”

4

“At sunset of that same long day, a stranger came strolling up the road from the village and paused at the Fosters’ gate. Winnie was once again in the yard, this time intent on catching fireflies, and at first she didn’t notice him. But, after a few moments of watching her, he called out, “Good evening!”

“He was remarkably tall and narrow, this stranger standing there. His long chin faded off into a thin, apologetic beard, but his suit was a jaunty yellow that seemed to glow a little in the fading light. A black hat dangled from one hand, and as Winnie came toward him, he passed the other through his dry, gray hair, settling it smoothly. “Well, now,” he said in a light voice. “Out for fireflies, are you?”

“‘Yes,” said Winnie.”

“‘A lovely thing to do on a summer evening,” said the man richly. “A lovely entertainment. I used to do it myself when I was your age. But of course that was a long, long time ago.” He laughed, gesturing in self-deprecation with long, thin fingers. His tall body moved continuously; a foot tapped, a shoulder twitched. And it moved in angles, rather jerkily. But at the same time he had a kind of grace, like a well- handled marionette. Indeed, he seemed almost to hang suspended there in the twilight. But Winnie, though she was half charmed, was suddenly reminded of the stiff black ribbons they had hung on the door of the cottage for her grandfather’s funeral. She frowned and looked at the man more closely. But his smile seemed perfectly all right, quite agreeable and friendly.

“‘Is this your house?” asked the man, folding his arms now and leaning against the gate.

“‘Yes,” said Winnie. “Do you want to see my father?”

“‘Perhaps. In a bit,” said the man. “But I’d like to talk to you first. Have you and your family lived here long?” “Oh, yes,” said Winnie. “We’ve lived here forever.”

“‘Forever,” the man echoed thoughtfully.

“It was not a question, but Winnie decided to explain anyway. “Well, not forever, of course, but as long as there’ve been any people here. My grandmother was born here. She says this was all trees once, just one big forest everywhere around, but it’s mostly all cut down now. Except for the wood.”

“‘I see,” said the man, pulling at his beard. “So of course you know everyone, and everything that goes on.”

“Well, not especially,” said Winnie. “At least, I don’t. Why?”

“The man lifted his eyebrows. “Oh,” he said, “I’m looking for someone. A family.”

“‘I don’t know anybody much,” said Winnie, with a shrug. “But my father might. You could ask him.”

“‘I believe I shall,” said the man. “I do believe I shall.”

“At this moment the cottage door opened, and in the lamp glow that spilled across the grass. Winnie’s grandmother appeared. “Winnifred? Who are you talking to out there?”

“It’s a man, Granny,” she called back. “He says he’s looking for someone.” “What’s that?” said the old woman. She picked up her skirts and came down the path to the gate. “What did you say he wants?”

“The man on the other side of the fence bowed slightly. “Good evening, madam,” he said. “How delightful to see you looking so fit.”

“‘And why shouldn’t I be fit?” she retorted, peering at him through the fading light. His yellow suit seemed to surprise her, and she squinted suspiciously. “We haven’t met, that I can recall. Who are you? Who are you looking for?”

“The man answered neither of these questions. Instead, he said, “This young lady tells me you’ve lived here for a long time, so I thought you would probably know everyone who comes and goes.”

“The old woman shook her head. “I don’t know everyone,” she said, “nor do I want to. And I don’t stand outside in the dark discussing such a thing with strangers. Neither does Winifred. So …”

“And then she paused. For, through the twilight sounds of crickets and sighing trees, a faint, surprising wisp of music came floating to them, and all three turned toward it, toward the wood. It was a tinkling little melody, and in a few moments it stopped.

“‘My stars!” said Winnie’s grandmother, her eyes round. “I do believe it’s come again, after all these years!” She pressed her wrinkled hands together, forgetting the man in the yellow suit. “Did you hear that, Winifred? That’s it! That’s the elf music I told you about. Why, it’s been ages since I heard it last. And this is the first time you’ve ever heard it, isn’t it? Wait till we tell your father!” And she seized Winnie’s hand and turned to go back into the cottage.

“‘Wait!” said the man at the gate. He had stiffened, and his voice was eager. “You’ve heard that music before, you say?”

“But, before he could get an answer, it began again and they all stopped to listen. This time it tinkled its way faintly through the little melody three times before it faded.

“‘It sounds like a music box,” said Winnie when it was over.

“‘Nonsense. It’s elves!” crowed her grandmother excitedly. And then she said to the man at the gate, “You’ll have to excuse us now.” She shook the gate latch under his nose, to make sure it was locked, and then, taking Winnie by the hand once more, she marched up the path into the cottage, shutting the door firmly behind her.

“But the man in the yellow suit stood tapping his foot in the road for a long time all alone, looking at the wood. The last stains of sunset had melted away, and the twilight died, too, as he stood there, though its remnants clung reluctantly to everything that was pale in color—pebbles, the dusty road, the figure of the man himself—turning them blue and blurry.

“Then the moon rose. The man came to himself and sighed. His expression was one of intense satisfaction. He put on his hat, and in the moonlight his long fingers were graceful and very white. Then he turned and disappeared down the shadowy road, and as he went he whistled, very softly, the tinkling little melody from the wood.” Babbitt, Natalie. Tuck Everlasting. Special edition, 40th Anniversary, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2015, pgs. 16-21.