One

A Little Girl Came Flying

    Walter was the first to discover the girl. She was huddled at the foot of a tree, smiling uncertainly.

    “There’s a girl sitting here in the middle of the forest,” Walter called to the others.

    “What sits where?” croaked Otto, crawling on his hands and knees out of the thick underbrush of spruce trees where he had been cutting mushrooms. With a knife clenched between his teeth, he looked like an Indian on the warpath.

    It had rained during the night, and the children had gone into the Hollewood to pick mushrooms. They had ventured much farther in than ever before, right up to the big clearing.

    Walter’s sisters, Gretel and little Lottie, came skipping down a knoll.

    “Where is the girl?” Gretel cried breathlessly.

    “I see her. I see her,” called Lottie, and clapped her hands in excitement.

    The strange girl had not moved. She was about seven or eight years old, with blonde hair that touched her shoulders and very big violet-blue eyes. Her skin was as white as snow. She was beautifully dressed. She wore a short red coat over a blue silk dress, a small red cap, blue socks, and blue velvet pumps. Around her neck hung a string of huge clear stones, which sparkled like diamonds in the sun. The girl looked like a little princess and did not seem to belong in this lonely, wild forest. There was a nasty bruise on her forehead, as though she had bumped her head badly.

    “What is your name?” Walter asked politely.

    “Mo,” said the girl.

    “That is no name,” Otto said with an air of importance. He took his glasses out of his pocket, put them on, and looked sternly at the girl. She blushed with embarrassment.

    “Is that your first name or your last name?” Walter asked pleasantly.

    “My father’s name is Kalumba,” the girl said. She had a soft, melodious voice, but it seemed a bit awkward and foreign.

    “How old are you?” asked Walter.

    “Eighty-seven years,” said Mo.

    The children looked puzzled.

    “Eighty-seven years?” Walter said slowly. “You mean seven or eight years, don’t you?”

    “No,” said Mo. “I am eighty-seven years old. I know exactly. My birthday was eight days ago.”

    Walter scratched his head. “That seems funny,” he said, and looked bewildered.

    Gretel kneeled beside the girl. “Are you sick?” she asked.

    “No,” said Mo. “I am very fine.”

    “You have a bad bruise on your forehead,” said Gretel. “Did you bump your head?”

    “It doesn’t hurt,” said Mo. She thumped it firmly with her finger, to prove that it did not hurt.

    “We must bandage it,” Walter said. “Has anyone a clean handkerchief?”

    Gretel and Lottie hadn’t any at all, and Otto, reluctantly, pulled a big checked one out of his pants pocket. It looked rather grimy.

    “Would this do?” he asked.

    “No,” said Walter.

    “I have a handkerchief,” said Mo, and from her coat pocket she took a large white one. She showed it to Walter. “It belongs to my father. He lent it to me because I had forgotten mine.”

    Together, Walter and Gretel tied the handkerchief around her forehead.

    “There,” said Walter. “That will keep the dirt out.”

    Mo looked at him gratefully.

    “How did you happen to get here?” Walter asked. “Did you lose your way?”

    Mo shook her head.

    “Where are you from, anyway?” he demanded.

    “From up there!” said Mo, pointing.

    Walter looked up at the tall spruce. “From the tree?” he asked skeptically.

    “Higher than that,” replied Mo.

    “Maybe you dropped out of the clouds?” Otto asked mockingly.

    “Higher than that,” said Mo.

    “Still higher?” The children gasped.

    “Perhaps she came in a plane,” said Gretel.

    Mo nodded eagerly. “Yes,” she said.

    “Did you really come by plane?” Walter asked in consternation.

    “Yes,” Mo said. “I came in a space ship.”

    “W-w-wi—with a space ship?” stammered Walter.

    “Yes—with a space ship.”

    The children were speechless.