Baxter Waits for the Updraft — Every day, Baxter polished the brass burner, tugged his red scarf tight, and waited in the wicker basket for the warm wind that climbed from High Valley. Read the full story →
Every day, Baxter polished the brass burner, tugged his red scarf tight, and waited in the wicker basket for the warm wind that climbed from High Valley. He wanted to ring the Sky Whistle before dusk, but the balloon only bumped and sighed while pine smoke curled below and snow peaks flashed like teeth.
Until one day, a cloud-goat stepped from a puff beside the ropes and sneezed silver mist. “Not yet,” it bleated, blocking the sun-warmed air. Because of that, Baxter sat on his paws while the valley rumbled. Because of that, he heard the hidden thunder roll through the pass where he had meant to fly.
At last the cloud-goat stamped once, and a sweet, warm gust smelled of clover and rain. Up sprang the balloon—whoof!—past the soft clouds and sharp white mountains. Baxter rang the Sky Whistle so hard it sang all the way down. If you spot his raised paw in the basket, you’ll know he is thanking the wind he waited for.
