The Star Baby

Dominion, Volume 23, Issue 80, 28 December 1929, Page 24

The Star Baby

By Lauretta Maud Willoughby

For "The Junior Dominion."

“Last night,” said the Plush Owl, his head on one side, and mystery dreaming in his round eyes, “Last night, as I flew through‘the blue dark, half listening to the music of the stars, I wrote a story.”

“How could you write while you were flying and listening to things?” asked Bo 80. “I don’t see how you could.”

“I wrote it in my head,” explained the Owl. “One can write stories anywhere in one’s head.” “Oh tell me,” cried Wandeen. “You can sit in my little chair with the blue cushion.”

The Plush Owl said he would like very much to sit in the cushioned chair. “It’s so soft,” he said, “and it is always so much easier to tell a story if one is comfortable.” “Yes,” murmured the Rabbit impatiently, “Please begin Owl, dear.” The Plush Owl seemed to dream. He looked beyond . Wandeen and the Bo Bo Dog, and the little Rabbit, beyond even the clouds that floated in everchanging shapes across the quiet sky. “Every evening when the sun leaves only the drowsy glow of its love to linger until the dusk,” he-said, “a star flies down to the world.” “A star!” exclaimed Wandeen, and the Bo Bo Dog echoed, “A star!” “Yes,” answered the Owl, “Night after night she sought the moon with pleading in her eyes, and tears that fell in pearls at his feet, crying, “Give me wings dear moon—dear moon.” “Wings!” repeated the Bo Bo Dog. “Why did she want wings?” “Please don’t interrupt me,” said the Owl. “The star pleaded for wings so she might fly to earth.” “Why ever did she want to fly to earth?” asked the little Rabbit. “Oh!” cried the Owl, exasperated, “if you had a star baby with wide eyes and a little red mouth like a rose, and it tripped over a cloud and fell to earth, you would wish for wings to follow it. You would want to seek and bring it home. If you interrupt me you can finish the story yourselves. I can’t tell a story with people interrupting.” “I—l’m sorry,” apologised the Rabbit, “I’m sorry Owl dear, please go on.” The Owl lent back against the deep blue cushion.

He said, “The star clung to the moon with her pale arms, her hands clutched at his silver robes and her voice quivered with yearning. The moon looked down at the little hands that clung to him. He looked into the eyes and his heart pained him so that he could not breathe.”

“Did he give her wings?” asked the Rabbit, in the faintest whisper. “Yes,” answered the Owl, “Little soft —soft wings, and all the gold curls of her hair tossed over them, and all the light of the moon’s eyes followed her down to the world. “It was dusk, the wind flew singing over the trees. He saw the silver of her wings, and he called to her, ‘Vi hat is it you seek?’ “ ‘A little fallen star,” she answered, and she flew close to him so that he saw the wistful tears in her eyes. ‘Ah F whispered the wind, ‘I know—l know, for I carry all the stars that fall to the garden—the garden,’ he whispered. ‘The leaves never fall from the trees that shelter it. It lies in a valley where purple shadows sleep—where the shadows of flying birds dance over the grass. “ ‘Gently I carry them, for they are asleep, and while they are sleeping the earth changes them to beautiful flowers, so that she may ever love and care for them. They are happy in the garden. The birds sing to them in the morning, and in the evening the dew falls softly down.’ “ ‘How beautiful!’ cried the star. “‘I will take you there,’ called the wind. ‘Follow me—follow me.’ “And he flew away over the trees into the hills—into the valleys where the dreams are and the purple mist. “And there she saw the Star Child changed to a marvellous flower. “She stood with her hands clasped and no word did she say, nor did any sound pass her lips. “The wind stole close to her and looked into her face, and all the joy of the garden was mirrored in her eyes.” “Did she fly back to the moon again?” murmured the Rabbit, twitching his little nose.

“She flew back to the moon,” went on the Owl. “She has shown him the valley where the garden lies. It is there he looks when he first shines down from the sky at night It is there he rests his tired, tired eyes when ■ the stars are fading and the birds fly singing to meet the dawn.” The Plush Owl moved in his chair. “That’s the end,” he said. “Oh, it’s a beautiful end!” cried Wandeen, and the little Rabbit said, s “Not if I thought all night could I think of a more beautiful ending.” ■ “You are very clever,” remarked Bo Bo Dog admiringly. “I expect you are what people call an author.” “A what?” said the Plush Owl. “An—an author,” repeated the Bo Bo Dog. “I’m no such thing,” said the Owl, indignantly, “I’m no such thing Bo 80. I’m just Wandeen’s little Plush Owl.”