“Clyde Livingston's shoes?” “I'm sorry,” said Zero. Stanley stared at him.
It was impossible. Zero was delirious. Zero's “confession” seemed to bring him some relief.
The muscles in his face relaxed. As he drifted into sleep, Stanley softly sang him the song that had been in his family for generations.
“If only, if only,” the woodpecker sighs, “The bark on the tree was just a little bit softer.”
While the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely, He cries to the moo— oo— oon, “If only, if only.”
When Stanley found the onion the night before, he didn't question how it had come to be there. He ate it gratefully.
But now as he sat gazing at Big Thumb and the meadow full of flowers, he couldn't help but wonder about it.
If there was one wild onion, there could be more. He intertwined his fingers and tried to rub out the pain.
Then he bent down and dug up another flower, this time pulling up the entire plant, including the root.
“Onions! Fresh, hot, sweet onions,” Sam called as Mary Lou pulled the cart down Main Street. “Eight cents a dozen.”
It was a beautiful spring morning. The sky was painted pale blue and pink— the same color as the lake and the peach trees along its shore.
Mrs. Gladys Tennyson was wearing just her nightgown and robe as she came running down the street after Sam.
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