Once upon a starlit night, there lay a little boy named Oliver, who, ever so bravely, climbed a steep hill rather than dwell in the shadows of the old knotted trees. For weeks he had wanted to sit under the stars and wonder his dreams, and now to his great joy, here he was with his golden stardust hair soft upon his shoulders.
But Oliver, thinking of all the stars in the sky, had to sit down with a thwump!. He did not know where to begin wishing, and he was soon disheartened. For where do you suppose dreams go when night turns to day?
As Oliver pondered this, sitting and thinking far away from any rooftops or chimneys, an owl came and settled down beside him.
“Hoo! Hoo! Such nonsense!” hooted the owl to Oliver. “You must be a child if you think wishing will answer your heart’s dream. Wishing is nothing but folly, you know—such a little thing cannot change a wee bit of anything. Will you never hear the stars sing out at night?”
“I can hear nothing, wise Mr. Owl,” said Oliver. “What would they sing to me? And not even though I should wish it most earnestly?” Oliver thought sadly.
“Listen! Listen!” called out the owl, most solemnly, “for such is the song of the stars:
Though a dream seem far away,
Make a step and trust the day.
Leap for the stars and take your flight,
Old cares vanish in delight.
And with a flap of his great brown wings, the owl leapt into the air, and off he flew.
Oliver grew brave and happier. Perhaps his dreams would fold like a flower, grow as he leapt, and touch the stars. He stood up boldly at once.
“I shall,” he said. “I shall leap for the stars.” And he did so. He felt, as he climbed back down the hill into the ways of men, as if he could touch the stars.
A great many mornings went by, yet still the stars sang and cheered Oliver on full merrily. But the world was so very busy and stared so in his eyes that the boy forgot.
Ah, adult people were never children. That is a great misfortune.