Afternoon at the River
The ice crumbled and called for us three boys to come.
The trees begged for light and water and warmth; their branches were frozen solid.
We saw a brown streak in the air. The eagles were swooping and chasing each other. One, only a youngster; the other fully grown.
A rickety tree leaned over the river to allow three boys to cross.
On the other side, we chopped off ragged chunks of ice with our heels, and knocked them into the water.
We threw the cold, clear chunks at slush rafts floating by. The delicate slush, if not hit by the hurled ice chunks, would surely break apart in the wild river rapids.
The snow crunched under our boots; our breath was smoke.
Ice was hacked for the rocks beneath.
Then, after minutes, it seemed, the shadows began to lengthen and the snow turned from a crystalline white to and ocean blue.
It was time to go.
The flowing river, naked trees and crumbling ice called out in unison,
"Good-Bye!"
Then, we chased a turkey.*
written by:
~Robert Lewis Stevenson (aka, the ten-year-old boy)
~Alfred, Lord Tennyson (aka, the eight-year-old boy)
~William Makepeace Thackeray (aka, the six-year-old boy)
~the dictation secretary (aka, Mama)
*The reader should know that it was highly and hotly debated between the three authors whether or not to include this last line in the final draft. An agreement was never reached.
