ICHAEL and Stefan took off their shoes and socks and ran in the deep soft white sand of Jones Beach, stumbling, falling, laughing, getting sand in their ears and hair and down their necks and up their sleeves and in their pockets. It was autumn, a cool day, and the water was too chilly to swim in, but the boys raced along the damp sand at the water’s edge, and once in a while a wave would come up farther than the others and lick their heels with an icy tongue.
Meanwhile Michael’s father was sitting on a blanket assembling the big box kite. There were so many sticks to be fitted into so many other sticks. Michael’s father had his glasses on and seemed to be working hard. Presently he stood up and called to the boys. The kite was ready. It was as large as Michael.
“Now watch her fly,” said Michael’s father. He ran across the beach, holding the kite by its string. It just bumped along on the sand.
“Let me try it,” said Michael. He could hardly pull the big kite, but he ran across the beach with it. Still it wouldn’t fly. Then Stefan ran with it and still it wouldn’t fly.
“The wind blows it down instead of up,” said Michael’s father.
“Must be something wrong,” said Michael.
His father nodded.
“You can fix it, Daddy,” said Michael. “With courage and patience you can fix anything. Come on, Steffy. Let’s be cowboys.” And the boys galloped away.
Michael’s father studied the box kite very carefully and then he untied a string here and put it there, and untied a string there and put it here. The boys raced by on imaginary broncos, firing imaginary pistols into the real air. Michael’s father called to them.
“I’m going to try once more,” he said. “I am going to run from here to the edge of the water. If she doesn’t go up in the air by the time I get to the water, I am going to throw her in the ocean.”
“Yipe!” cried the boys. They didn’t know which would be more fun, to see the kite in the sky or in the ocean.
Michael’s father held the kite high in one hand. In the other hand he held a ball of string. He began to run. Suddenly the kite left his hand. It began to climb. Slowly but steadily ... up, up, up. Michael’s father was running hard, the boys were shouting. Michael’s father, looking up at the kite, tripped over a piece of driftwood and fell on his face in the sand, but he held onto the string.
Higher and higher went the kite. Michael’s father let the boys take turns holding the string. It was exciting because if you accidentally let the string go, the kite would come tumbling down out of the sky.
When lunchtime came they hauled the kite in and sat on the blanket and opened the basket. There were sandwiches and tomatoes and a thermos of milk and some oranges and cookies. The boys ate as much as they wanted, and then stretched out on the blanket in the warm sun.
“Think you could take a snooze?” said Michael’s father.
The boys said no.
“I could,” said Michael’s father.
“First some Rainbow,” said Michael.
“Will that make you sleepy?”
The boys said no.
“It will me!” said Michael’s father. “Well, where were we? Oh yes. Almost finished. The wolf said Rainbow had to come in this very minute and be eaten.
“ ‘If you want to eat me,’ shouted the proud little hen, ‘you’ll have to catch me first.’ And, turning, she scurried across the clearing toward the bush where Jimmy lay hiding.
“ ‘Ha, ha,’ cried the wolf. ‘I can catch you in two leaps.’ He squatted on his haunches with his big butcher-knife teeth glistening in the morning sunlight and made one great leap that carried him to the center of the clearing. And at that moment, five-year-old James Tractorwheel jumped out from behind the juniper bush, holding the baseball bat firmly in both hands.
“ ‘Halt!’ said Jimmy.
“ ‘Jimmy!’ cried the hen.
“ ‘YIPE!’ screamed the wolf.
“Rainbow was so overjoyed to see Jimmy that she flapped her wings and flew right to his shoulder and perched there.
“Jimmy put all of his muscle and all of his weight into one swing of the Louisville Slugger and brought it down on the wolf’s head. BONG! The wolf smiled foolishly and sank to his knees. Now what I want to know is this. Do you boys want Jimmy to hit the wolf again and kill him, or tie him up with some rope and drag him home and put him in a cage, or what? How do you want the story to end? Steffy, you’re company. You say first.”
Stefan smiled shyly and shrugged his shoulders.
“Ask Mike,” he said. “It’s his story.”
“Steffy, you are a very good, kind, polite boy, a credit to your mother and father,” said Michael’s father. Then he turned to his son and said, “Michael, you are also a very good, kind, polite boy, and, as Steffy says, it is your story. What shall we do with the wolf?”
“Make it that he gets up and runs away,” said Michael.
His father could hardly believe his ears.
“Let the wolf run away?”
“Yes,” said Michael. “As fast as his legs will carry him.”
“You don’t want him killed? Or even captured?”
Michael shook his head, no.
“This is the first time you’ve ever wanted a wolf to get away. What is this, be-kind-to-wolves week?”
Michael’s eyes were shining and he spoke in a loud whisper. “If the wolf gets away he will come back and steal Rainbow again!”
“Yea!” cried Stefan.
“You want that to happen?” cried Michael’s father.
Michael nodded his head, yes.
“Say! Whose side are you on, anyway?” said his father.
“You can kill the wolf at the very end, but this way we can have more story!” said Michael.
“Yea!” said Stefan.
“So go on,” said Michael.
And so Michael’s father made it that the wolf got up from his knees and staggered into the deep green forest and then the boys took a good rest on the blanket on the sand with the waves roaring agreeably in their ears.