Lantern Through Ferns

For one bouncy moment, Mitya thought he could hurry anyway. He hopped after a pale shape on a tree trunk. Squish! His foot sank in mud, and the basket tipped. Berries rolled under a fern like little red marbles.

Mitya sat back on his heels. His ears drooped. Then he remembered how he had packed his school satchel that morning: crayons in the side pocket, book flat at the back, snack tucked where it would not get squashed. Slowly was better than hurried.

He found every berry and placed them carefully back in the basket. From his satchel he took his tiny yellow rain cape, which Mama had folded there for damp days, and fastened it under his chin. The basket went beneath the satchel flap, safe and snug.

Mitya listened before he hopped. Drip-drip from the birches. Plink from the pond. Farther away, he heard a warm, familiar sound: Grandma’s wooden gate clicking gently in the breeze. He turned toward the click and followed the firm, rooty ground.

At the fork by the giant mushroom, the gate sound disappeared under a chorus of frogs. Mitya did not guess. He asked a mole pushing a neat pile of rain-dark soil, “Which way does Grandma’s cottage lie?” The mole pointed with his nose. “Past the sleeping log, where the ferns make a green doorway.”

Mitya thanked him and went on. At the sleeping log, a wren shook raindrops from her wings. “The fern doorway is close,” she chirped, “but take the pebble strip. Mud loves to steal little boots.” Mitya chose the line of smooth gray pebbles instead of the slippery brown shortcut.