Fog Magic Read Online Free Page B

turn back and wave.
    It was almost clear when she reached home, but late. Her mother greeted her with relief. Father had finished milking and sat reading the paper. Greta’s conscience hurt her. She hadn’t once thought of the mail and someone else had gone to the post office. She held out the pail to her mother.
    â€œThere’s a surprise in it, Mother,” she said. Gertrude opened the pail.
    â€œI am surprised,” she said. “I never dreamed you’d find so many. It’s early yet tor strawberries.”
    Greta stood very still. Then she stepped over and looked into the pail. There were the berries she had picked. But there was nothing else in the pail!
    Suddenly she wanted to cry, but her father was looking at her over the top of his paper. He was smiling at her just with his eyes, but he looked as if he understood.
    â€œFog thick at Blue Cove today?” he asked.
    â€œHeavens, child, have you been way over there?” asked her mother.
    How did Father know she had been to Blue Cove? Greta no longer wanted to cry. She could look back at Father and almost smile.
    â€œYes, Father,” she said. “It was very thick today.”
    â€œI thought so,” he answered and went back to his paper.

4.
    THE SALVAGED EGG CUPS
    THE WEATHER was clear until the close of school in June. Only once or twice, and then during the evening, could the people of Little Valley hear the foghorn down in the Passage blowing its steady warning to vessels at sea.
    During the last week of school, their teacher asked the children to vote on the place for their school picnic. Greta was as surprised as anyone to hear herself suggesting T. R.’s beach, “because they could swim there.” T. R.’s beach lay on their own side of the mountain and Hazen turned around with astonished eyes.
    â€œI never knew you to want to go anywhere but to Blue Cove,” he whispered.
    â€œOh, no! Blue Cove! Blue Cove!” two or three others shouted before she could answer. “It’s too cold for swimming, anyhow, and at Blue Cove we can play games in the clearing.”
    Mrs. Collins rapped on her desk. “We’ll vote by raising our hands,” she said. “Now, for T. R.’s beach?”
    Greta, with Hazen loyally supporting her, raised her hand.
    â€œTwo. And now, for Blue Cove?” Every other hand in the room shot up. So it was settled; the picnic would be at Blue Cove. Greta could only hope for sunshine. “What if there’s fog?” she thought. “Will I have to share the village with them? or won’t it ever be there again—even for me—if we all go?” She needn’t have worried. It was a clear day. There was no mystery, no strangeness, and when they trooped back over the mountain, Greta for the moment almost forgot that Blue Cove still had a secret life of its own.
    The clear weather lasted well into July, and then one morning she woke to the steady sound of the Tollerton foghorn. The fog had swept in, blanketing everything. Even before she opened her eyes, Greta was conscious of the strange feeling of excitement that was beginning to mean fog to her. She hurried into her clothes, helped with the morning work, and then: “Mind if I go for a walk, Mother?” she asked casually.
    â€œGo along,” her mother said. “I’ve been expecting you’d want to.” She set the kettle down hard in her irritation. “You’d best take a sandwich,” she added. “The fresh bread will taste good with some of the sweet butter and jam.”
    â€œI think I won’t bother with lunch, Mother.” Greta was pulling on her beret.
    â€œWhy not?” There was suspicion in Gertrude’s voice. “It only wants an hour and a half ’til dinner. You’ll never be back by then.”
    Greta went into the buttery and cut two generous slices of the soft brown oat bread. She couldn’t explain how sure she was that