All the chatter and interviewing and congratulations took ages, and it was nearly suppertime before we finally got away. And when we reached the red house, the news had already preceded us, via sundry telephoning friends, and I found my mother and father and Deborah and Dickey LeBaron (who had been pressed to stay) waiting in congratulatory mood. And we all had supper together.
All this was gratifying, in a way. You can't help but feel good when your father shakes your hand and says he's proud of you, and your mother looks at you and smiles and suddenly has tears in her eyes.
But I knew the credit really belonged to the well, and I said so.
The party broke up early, out of regard for the weary legs of the travelers. And I went to my room a mass of mixed emotions, as the books say.
It seemed to me my adventure proved the magic was real all right. All those things couldn't have just happened.
And the well had heard my wish, too. Because the magic could easily have arranged for me to find the gas leak without that long deiour to the Breitenwishers' house first. But I had asked for magic-seeming magic; so I got a castle and a captive princess and a spy story thrown in.
Of course they weren't really magic, like ghosts and witches, but that was logical, too.
We were older now, and the time had come to put away childish things.
It was when I remembered that, and thought of Muriel Breitenwisher, that my spirits sank, and people's congratulations were as the taste of ashes.
What did it matter if I was everybody else's hero, when love was an idle dream and women were fickle deceivers, and Muriel Breitenwisher had pulled the wool over my eyes and called me a little boy?
I lay awake and brooded about this for a long time.
Yet every cloud has a lining, be it ever so silver.
In school that next Monday morning Mrs. Van Nest made me stand up in front of the class while she told everybody all about the adventure at the movie theater. And when recess came, a lot of the kids wanted to hear about it all over again.
It was then that I noticed Florence Squibb on the edge of the crowd, hanging back sort of shyly. And when the others had turned from me to a game of run-sheep-run, she came closer.
"I think it was just wonderful, what you did," she said.
"Oh, it was nothing," I said.
"No it wasn't. It was just wonderful," she said.
"Do you really think so?" I said.
"Yes, I do," she said.
I had known Florence Squibb ever since we first moved to the country, and never thought twice about her before. But now suddenly I saw that her eyes were as big and blue as Muriel Breitenwisher's, and her hair, while not golden, was a pleasing shade of brown.
A week ago I wouldn't have noticed a thing like that, but I was a man now. And the magic had done that for me, too.
"Ahem," I said. "Would you like to go to the movies with me sometime?"
"Yes," she said, "I would."
And we went that very next Saturday afternoon. We are going this coming Saturday, too.
So now I guess you might say I have a girl, in a way. And I don't have as much time as I used to for the well, or magic, or secret meetings with Kip and Laura and Lydia and Gordy and Dicky LeBaron.
After school when I don't have football practice, I generally walk home with Florence Squibb and carry her books.
Sometimes I look back regretfully on the old happy carefree days of wishes, and magic planning, and Saturday walks in search of mysterious adventure.
But having a girl is a kind of magic, too.
And if you don't think this is true, all I can say is, wait till you have one yourself.
And you'll see.
8. Everybody Ends
This is Laura writing now. James got to begin this book; so it is only right that I should end it. But there will be a little bit from everybody else in this chapter, too.
After James's adventure we could just about tell that the magic was over, at least for a while. After all, everyone had had a wish. And Thanksgiving was coming, which seemed to put a logical end to it, somehow.
I had an idea about that. And I told my mother and she agreed that it was a good one. So we had a big Thanksgiving dinner at our house and invited Kip and Lydia and Gordy and Dicky LeBaron. I made the turkey stuffing and James mashed the potatoes.
Before dinner, while we were enjoying our cranberry juice cocktails and while our minds were still sharpened with hunger and before the glut set in, I passed this book around for each one to write down truly what he was most thankful for. I thought it would make just about the best ending the book could have.
I took people in the order in which their wishes had happened; so Gordy got the book first.
And from here on you can read what each one had to say.
This is Gordy, and I am thankful to have had a wish on the well all to myself. Last summer when the magic happened before, I didn't get one.
Not that last summer wasn't wonderful. And not that the well didn't do me a good turn in letting me meet James and Laura and the others, and get to know them and start doing things with them.
I guess it is no secret how I feel about them; so I needn't be ashamed of putting it down here that the well gave me a chance of my own, and brought Doctor Emma Lovely across my path, and led me to Sylvia.
I am glad to have helped Sylvia, partly for her own sake, but even more for mine.
Because good as it is to know people you think are wonderful, it is good to have somebody think you are wonderful, too, once in a while.
And Sylvia seems to think I am as wonderful as I think James and Laura and Lydia and Kip are. And yes, Dicky LeBaron, too.
I know I am not wonderful, of course, but it is good to have somebody think I am.
And that is what I am thankful for.
And I guess that's all.
This is Laura again now, just to say that Madame Salvini and Mr. Adam Appledore were married in Mr. Chenoweth's church this last Saturday morning.
It was a simple but picturesque ceremony. Madame Salvini wore her wedding costume from the second act of Lucia. She wanted to sing, "Oh Promise Me," but we explained to her that brides just don't sing at their own weddings.
Lots of the Well-Wishers were there, and Deborah was flower girl, and the only attendant. The flowers were late chrysanthemums from Madame Salvini's own garden, and Deborah says there wasn't a bug or a beetle on them.
And Mr. Appledore tells me their orchard is coming along fine.
This isn't what I'm most thankful for, and I'll be back once more to tell you what is. But I thought you'd like to know how that wish ended.
And now it's Lydia's turn.
This is Lydia.
I suppose I ought to point out all kinds of morals, and say that the lesson I learned that day I tried to get even with Dicky LeBaron struck deep into my very vitals, and made me a better girl.
And in a way that is true.
What I learned was not only that Dicky LeBaron can be a good friend in a crisis, but that when you get to know him, he is a lot of fun, too.
And I think it's a good thing we did get to know him, because what with the way James has faded out of the picture lately and spends all his time with Florence Squibb of all people, we need somebody with a little gumption around here.
Dicky doesn't come around all the time, but when he does, he and I are the leaders now. At least we are the venturesome ones. But we have Laura and Kip to be sensible, and Gordy and Deborah to be cautious and keep us from going too far.
The thing is, though, that when you like somebody as much as I like Dicky LeBaron now, you realize how much time you wasted in not getting to know the person sooner.
And that's what the magic taught me, and I'm glad.
But I won't say I'm not thankful the hornets stung Stinker and Smoko, too.
Because I am.
This is Kip writing now.
I really have the most to be thankful for, because the magic sent the bigges
t wish to me. To me and Deborah, that is. And Dicky LeBaron, too, I guess.
I'm happy to report that the new family seems to be getting along just fine. And their garden is the neatest on Silvermine Road. Though of course it'll be spring before we see it in its glory.
And another thing.
This year some people started a teen canteen in town, to give the high school kids a place to go for sandwiches and dancing on Saturday nights. And on Saturday afternoons it's open to us sixth, seventh, and eighth graders.
There is a jukebox in the canteen, but there is a piano, too.
And the father of the new family has volunteered to give one Saturday night a month, and one Saturday afternoon, to the canteen. Because it turns out he can play pop just as well as he can classical.
Dicky LeBaron is good, but the father of the new family is tops. He can teach Dicky a thing or two, and sometimes he does. And when the two of them
get together, playing four-handed, the place really rocks.
Last Saturday afternoon at the dance I heard a boy whose father was one of the Smugs on that first day say he didn't know how we'd have got along if the new family hadn't moved in.
So it just goes to show that people can live together if they try.
I'm just sorry some people don't try first, instead of getting excited and stirring up trouble.
But I think maybe the magic taught this town how true this is. And if I helped the magic do that, then that's what I'm thankful for.
And now the end of the story of the new family belongs to Deborah.
This is Deborah writing all by myself, and not with Dicky LeBaron or anybody.
Hannibal just got elected treasurer of the first grade.
This is Dicky LeBaron.
I don't think I belong in this book by rights, not really being in the Well-Wishers' Club, but Laura said I should write something, and the book is her idea in the first place, so here goes.
I'm glad I got to know these kids. I always kind of wanted to, though I would never have said. That's why I used to watch them, well spy on them really. Some of the things they did looked pretty square and childish, and yet they seemed to have more fun than anybody.
I see now why they do. It's the way they look at things, as if anything could happen the next minute. And generally something does. If you want to call it believing in magic, okay, call it that.
I always thought they'd despise me for being poor. Not that they're so rich, but you don't have to have much to be richer than I am. But they don't think about things like that.
In some ways knowing them has changed me a lot. I've learned to like reading, which I used to think was a waste of time, and even doing good turns, which I used to think was corny. And Kip is getting me interested in classical music. You wouldn't think such a "down-to-earth guy would have longhair tastes, but he does.
Sometimes, though, a man doesn't feel like books, or good turns, or pretending, or Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. A man just wants to go play Kick the Can with the fellows in the vacant lot. Or listen to Elvis Presley.
And when I feel like that, that's what I go and do.
I always come back, though, in the end.
, My motto still is, stay cool, dad. And be yourself.
Only not too much so.
And now I'll pass this book on to James. That's if he can stop thinking about Florence Squibb long enough to write in it. Ha ha.
This is James.
I don't mind Dicky and his jokes. He just hasn't found out about life yet. Though sometimes I think he and Lydia are beginning to see the light.
But every time I think that, the next minute they begin pushing each other around, and scuffling, and insulting each other, and become utterly childish again.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, while you're young.
In fact, if we're all giving thanks, I think I'd say a happy childhood is what I'm grateful for most.
It's been wonderful having the well, and the magic, and now that I'm moving on into adult life, it will always be something to look back to. And tell my own children about.
I believe a man should marry young and have as many children as possible.
Of course I realize I have a lot to go through before then. High school and college arid finding my place in the economic structure and all that.
But I don't believe a man can start thinking about his responsibilities too early.
When I first knew Florence, I told her all about the magic, and the well. I thought she might want to join the club, and wish with us.
But she couldn't think of anything to wish for.
And in a way, I consider that a tribute to me.
I'll admit, though, that once in a while when Florence is busy after school, it is fun to sit around with Laura and Kip and the others, just like in the old days, and idly plan what we will do if the magic ever starts up again.
I don't think it's very likely that it will, though.
After all, we are all growing up now, and if the others don't realize this yet, they will sooner or later.
So I'm afraid that for us it is good-bye to the well, and the magic, too.
But I'm thankful to have had it, while it lasted.
This is Laura writing now, for the last time.
I am thankful for every single thing that has happened since we moved into the red house, for the well and the magic and the good turns we have managed to do, and all the new friends we have made.
But yesterday, with Thanksgiving Day already more than a week ago and fading into the dim past, I was sitting by the living-room fire reading this whole book over. And I couldn't help feeling sad, in a way.
James can be awfully stuffy at times, particularly since he has started going around with Florence Squibb, but there is something in what he says, all the same.
We are growing older, and things do change.
And it stands to reason that the well has run out of wishes, at least for us.
After all, magic has come into our lives now twice, and I know how lucky that makes us. Some people never have any magic adventures at all. It would be greedy to hope for any more.
But I am not disbanding the Well-Wishers' Club. Not yet.
There will always be good turns to be done, no matter how grown-up we get. And if they grow less and less magical as time grows on, we can still try to keep doing them by ordinary means.
All the same, as I sat by the living-room fire yesterday and thought of winter coming, and how wonderful the summer and fall had been and how quickly they had passed, and as I looked out at the bare trees and thought of how James has changed and how we hardly ever see him anymore and how pretty soon the others will probably start changing, too, I, couldn't help feeling sad, as I say. And rebellious at life, and the way it is.
Because I don't want things to change, or people, either. I want them to stay exactly the way they are.
That was how I felt yesterday.
But this morning I got up, and everything was different. There was frost on the ground but the sun was shining and squirrels were scolding, and on the gable over the wishing well a late-departing phoebe sat and wagged its tail.
I looked at the world, and suddenly I felt as if magic were surely going to happen any minute. I can't describe how that feeling feels, but if you have ever had magic adventures, as we have, you will know.
I couldn't think for a minute why I was smiling. But then I remembered. It wasn't magic that was in the air. It was something else.
Today is December first.
And Christmas is coming.
Edward Eager (1911–1964) worked primarily as a playwright and lyricist. It wasn't until 1951, while searching for books to read to his young son, Fritz, that he began writing children's stories. In each of his books he carefully acknowledges his indebtedness to E. Nesbit, whom he considered the best children's writer of all time—"so that any child who likes my books and doesn't know hers may be led back to the master of us all."
Look for more of Edward Eager's tales of magic in Odyssey Classics editions
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