Quill and the Fence Whisper — Past the last squash leaf, Quill could see the scarecrow’s sleeve dripping straw like golden rain. Read the full story →
Past the last squash leaf, Quill could see the scarecrow’s sleeve dripping straw like golden rain. He wanted one strand for his curly stem, just one, but the fence between them creaked in the cold. The corn made a dry shh-shh sound, as if it knew he had never rolled beyond his own row before.
Quill bumped forward anyway. Thunk went his side on a rail. Scratch went a corn leaf across his cheek. At the fence post, a round knot opened one dark wooden eye. “Trade,” it whispered. “A grin for a secret.” Quill’s candle fluttered cinnamon-warm, but he smiled his widest jack-o’-lantern smile. The knot sighed, “The scarecrow isn’t guarding the field. He’s lonely.”
So Quill paid his price: he left a tiny chip of orange rind on the rough rail and rolled right up to the straw hands. “Hello,” he said, very small. The scarecrow’s button smile seemed to brighten in the moon-milk air. Quill came home without stealing a strand. Instead, he carried a secret: first courage sounds like dry corn and a fence going thunk. If you spot that rough post, keep quiet—maybe it still remembers Quill’s grin.
