Amy and Jean took the blue broom out on the front stoop. As soon as the door closed behind them Wispy tipped over on her side and floated in the air beside the girls.

They sat down, one behind the other, on the broom. Wispy sailed up into the air. But instead of flying across the street, she flew into the sycamore tree.

“Look, Jean,” Amy said.

The bluejay was perched on a branch. Her feathers were fluffed out around her. She looked lonely and sad.

“I wish my mother would let her live in our house,” Amy said. Then she told the broom, “Wispy, we can’t stay here. My mother doesn’t let me climb this tree.”

The broom jiggled up and down. But she stayed in the tree. Suddenly there was a whirr of blue feathers. The jay landed on the bristles of the broom. At once Wispy flew out of the tree. She zoomed up over the houses.

The two girls held tight to the broomstick. They were going so fast that it almost took their breath away. For several minutes neither of them could say a word. Then Amy said, “You were wrong, Jean. Wispy doesn’t seem to be afraid of the bluejay at all. I think she asked the bird to come along.”

“Where are we going?” Jean wanted to know.

“Why don’t we go to the beach?” Amy suggested.

“We didn’t bring our bathing suits,” Jean reminded her.

“We could go wading,” Amy said.

Jean thought about this. “Wispy, take us to Coney Island.”

The girls looked down. They were so high that they could see the ocean. But the broom was flying inland, away from the sea.

Amy tried to jerk the stick back. “Whoa!” she said.

Wispy kept right on flying the way she was going.

The bluejay was perched on the end of the bristles. She stared straight ahead. The wind whipped through her feathers.

“Maybe Wispy’s afraid she’ll get wet again,” Jean said. “And that’s why she won’t go to the beach.”

Amy was staring at the ground below. They were flying over a dark forest. “Jean,” she said in a low voice, “it isn’t moonlight now. So I can’t be sure. But that looks like the forest I saw in my dream.”

“You mean the one about the witches?” Jean asked. “Wispy,” she said to the broom, “turn around and go home now.”

The broom didn’t seem to hear her. She flew even faster. Now there were rolling hills below them. The hills became mountains. Far ahead Amy saw a tall bare mountain. The broom headed straight for it.

Now Amy was sure. “It wasn’t a dream after all,” she said.