Fog Magic Read Online Free Page A

added. “It’s all rock here and we can’t have our own. When folks die they have to go over the mountain to be buried. Now let’s go back to the Post Road and I’ll show you the shore and the wharf and the fish houses and the stores.”
    In one of the door yards two very small children were playing. As they came near Greta saw that there was a man seated on the ground, his back against the fence. One child tripped and sat down heavily, jolting out an indignant wail. The man reached out a long arm. He set the small thing on its feet again as you would set a ninepin, and gave it a comforting pat. The wail died suddenly and the man slumped back. Greta laughed.
    â€œHe must like children,” she said, “or they must like him. Why, he didn’t even have to speak to that one.”
    â€œSss-h,” Retha warned her. “He can’t speak, but we —we don’t quite know—for sure—whether he can hear.”
    Whether he heard or only felt their approaching footsteps, the man turned suddenly and looked up at them between the pickets. A lean, dark, strange, and foreign face. The eyes were piercing, searching. Greta found she was standing quite still, giving this strange man a chance to look at her. Retha didn’t seem to think it unusual. She was smiling at him and saying slowly,
    â€œAnthony, this is my friend Greta Addington. She’s from over the mountain.” Then she pulled Greta gently away. The man turned to watch until they faded into the fog.
    â€œBut, Retha, you said he couldn’t hear, and then you spoke to him. And he looks almost—almost savage. And still he was minding those babies.”
    â€œI said we don’t know whether he hears or not. Or whether he could speak if he wanted to. But he’s not savage. He only looks that way when he sees a stranger. I guess it’s because he’s always trying to find someone —someone he knows, I mean. But, Greta, did you see his—his legs?”
    â€œI didn’t see anything but his eyes. And anyhow, he was almost hidden in that clump of monkshood. What about his legs?”
    â€œHe—he hasn’t any,” Retha said quietly.
    â€œHasn’t any legs?” Greta could only stare in horror.
    â€œThey are gone just above his knees, so all he can do is crawl, and mind babies. But no matter how fierce he looks, they understand him. And he’s always gentle.”
    â€œBut what happened?”
    Retha hesitated a moment. “We don’t talk about him much. I’d like to ask Mother first if I should tell you. Let’s go down to the wharf now.” And Greta had to be content.
    When they reached the Post Road, Retha pointed toward the shore. “See! The fog’s lifting a little. You can see the end of the wharf from here and you couldn’t see anything an hour ago. Come on.”
    Greta stood still. She couldn’t explain it even to herself, but suddenly she knew how Cinderella felt when the first stroke of midnight began to sound.
    â€œI think there isn’t time to go down today, Retha,” she said. “But I’d like to go next time I come. I must go home now. It’ll be late when I get over the mountain.”
    â€œYour berries! You left your pail at our house,” Retha reminded her.
    They ran back to the house. In the doorway Mrs. Morrill stood holding the pail.
    â€œThe fog’s lifting,” she said quietly and held out the pail. “I put a piece of strawberry pie on top of your berries, but I don’t think it’ll crush them any. And come again, child. We’d like to see you often; that is, if your mother doesn’t worry. You’re like a visitor from another world.” Then she added as an afterthought, “Coming as you do from over the mountain.”
    Greta thanked her and took the pail. Retha went as far as the Post Road with her. They said good-by hurriedly. Greta left without daring to