Wanda the Wanderer tiptoed through the Wishing Forest as dusk began to cloak the world in a tender shade of purple. It was here, whispered the breeze, that dreams and wishes frolicked among the trees. With a heart full of hope and a sprinkle of pixie dust, she believed there was a hidden magic wishing tree somewhere secret in this entrancing place.
“Do you have a wish?” she whispered to the first rounded wooden face she found — a plump field mouse peering with curious eyes.
“Oh, many! A thousand seeds in my smoothie, a warm house forever, and above all, a friend who would share all that with me,” piped the mouse.
Wanda smiled, her heart swelling. “You shall have them,” she promised.
A little further along, the solemn owl inquired about her cause. When Wanda described the wishing tree, he clicked his beaky mouth and uttered “Who, who.”
“Why do you look so sad?” Wanda inquired gently.
“I’ll tell you who will never come back, touching an old owl’s heart as she touches her young one — it was such a sweet way. She’s flown over the dark shining sea and will never, never return. Come, gather your dress, nestle on my shoulder and, who knows, maybe through my tears others may find the tree.”
High did he mount on his pinions. High fluttered Wanda’s petticoat and tight round her waist wound the long silken sash. Stormy pine trees stayed their crashing limbs to whisper in her ear as she passed. The white Broadway of the moon divided the forest into four and eight; only eclipsed by the murky pines.
From far, far away sounded the milking horn — such sweet music to the players in the great forest, who bade her, however, heedless farewell. Then crashing and crashing and crashing, bending blue bent ones on to the rear nest bowed themselves in silent mean beseeching gratitude.
And then appeared to her in the deep hush the glittering fountain plashing from rainbow-coloured cups.
“May I drink?” she whispered, kneeling by its side, and putting the wreath she contemplated so much into the water.
“One wish!” was murmured back in every dropping drop, as with a soft spurious glow they mid-way sat, moon hidden, bewitching the tall pines all loose-limbed, tortuous and sad — to laugh, to shake, and dance with joy.
“I will have a million,” cried Wanda, clasping her hands with childish glee. And that very night, peace to your dreams, fell and slipped gently past without as much as a murmur of other-reckoning.