Neverside

Author's Comment

"I wonder why they call me a scarecrow," the little boy of straw thought. No one was afraid of him, really--were they?

Now that he thought of it, though, as he sat among the large field, his arms outstretched, no one ever played with him. The rabbits that hopped through Mr. Smith's fields said nary a thing in passing. Butterflies and bees were much too fast for him to keep up with, and the birds, well, they laughed at him. Just thinking about it made the little boy sad.

And so his days passed, one sad day unto another. The sun would rise and set, and creatures of the field would come and go. "Much too busy!" some might say as they brushed by him, rustling his clothes. Others might laugh at him or--even worse--ignore him altogether.

But still the little boy desperately wanted a friend, so much so that he found himself praying about his dilemma one chilled, autumn night. His words were small and weak, fragile like the straw within him, but he prayed with all sincerity, gazing at the stars as he did so.

Seven days passed, and the little boy of straw began to lose hope. He no longer tried to speak to Mrs. Bird or Mr. Grasshopper. No one seemed to notice his silence or even his presence.

Until one day, that is...when he heard the rattle and squeak of a cart on wheels. There was a glimmer of pink and yellow among the field rows, and the little boy began to get excited. Who was this? He had never seen this creature before!

Why, it was Mr. Smith's daughter, shoving her cart of teacups and kettles over the lumpy ground. She was coming his way!

The little girl stopped when she came to him and looked up with a huge, snaggle-toothed smile. "My name's Sara," she said proudly and explained that she was "this many" years old, as she held up four fingers. She continued to smile as she thought for a moment, then said with utmost certainty, "You must be James."

And so it began. Every day, Sara came to the fields--sometimes with teacups, sometimes with books or drawings, or whatever was her interest of the day. She could talk for hours, it seemed, but the little boy of straw--James--never tired of listening.

He finally had a friend.

-----

Lelia Katherine Thomas
www.leliathomas.com

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