Goldenrod
followed the spider, who he found to be very good company. He now assumed that
all spiders were as friendly and well-spoken as this one, and so he no longer
had anything to fear from spiders. As they walked, Goldenrod talked with the
spider about everything he could think to talk about: he told her about his
family, and about how dearly he loved his mother and siblings. He told her
about the tall tree they lived in, and the other finches that he had made friends
with. He told her about his siblings’ flying lessons, and the impressive tricks
they were now learning. The spider enjoyed his chatter, and when he had finally
worn himself out from talking she told him that he was a very charming little
elf and that she had thoroughly enjoyed his company. Goldenrod was very pleased
to receive a compliment from his new friend.
“Have you ever seen any elves?”
Goldenrod asked the spider. “What do they look like? Are they a lot like me?”
“Yes,” the spider replied. “I’ve seen
very many elves, and my favorites are always the little children, who come to
me without fear. Elves have long, golden hair the color of a sunbeam, and their
faces are as sweet as roses and their voices as musical as bells. So yes, other
elves are very much like you.”
Goldenrod’s pleasure in hearing the
spider’s compliments was interrupted when he caught something out of the corner
of his eye: a small, faded milk-white thing lying on top of a patch of bright
green moss. Goldenrod had never seen such a thing before—a five-pointed thing
with patches of brown at the tips of the points, looking dirty and out of place
against the beautiful white of the rest of the object. The object was shriveled
and curling in places, and to Goldenrod it looked sick and weak, and he was
filled with the desire to help it and care for it. He turned to his friend and
said, “Miss Spider, what’s that?”
The spider turned her head—and to do
this, she had to turn her entire body—and said, “What’s what? Please point to
it.”
Goldenrod pointed to the sad-looking
object lying on top of the moss.
“That’s a magnolia blossom,” said
the spider. “They fall off of the magnolia trees one month after they’ve opened
up.”
Magnolia
blossom. They were the most beautiful words Goldenrod had ever heard.
Gingerly, he picked up the sweet little object and cradled it in his arms the
way his mother often cradled him. “Poor little thing,” he crooned. “Poor little
magnolia blossom.” The words were so
lovely that he sounded out each syllable as if he were trying to savor them,
like he would savor a sweet fruit. “Is she sick, Miss Spider? Is she very
sick?”
“Blossoms always weaken when they
break from the tree,” explained the spider. “Once that happens, they have
nothing to give them life anymore. That blossom will grow weaker and weaker
over time, and eventually it will die.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” Goldenrod pulled
the blossom close to him, as if he were protecting a child. “That can’t happen!
This magnolia blossom is too young
and pretty to die!” The spider attempted to say something, but Goldenrod would
not be spoken over. “I won’t let her die!” he went on. “I will take her home,
and my mother will know what to do to save her! The other elves can wait!”
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