Quillby’s Laughing Footnotes — Every evening, when the moon hung between the tall archive windows, Quillby tapped each shelf with his wand and whispered, “Hush, hush, hush.” He wanted every book quiet before the owl-bell hooted nine. Read the full story →
Every evening, when the moon hung between the tall archive windows, Quillby tapped each shelf with his wand and whispered, “Hush, hush, hush.” He wanted every book quiet before the owl-bell hooted nine. The room smelled of dust, cedar polish, and old maps. Even his owl, Noodle, tucked her claws neatly and blinked like a judge.
Until one day, a tiny footnote leaped from a travel book and sneezed glitter into Quillby’s beard. “Pardon!” it squeaked. Because of that, the glossary began hiccuping jokes. Because of THAT, the atlas globe spun so fast that every ocean giggled blue, and Noodle laughed, “Hoo-hoo-HAA!” from her perch. Quillby tried to trap the footnote in a jar, but it bounced into his open spellbook and turned all the silent spells into ticklish runes.
At last, Quillby stopped chasing it. Joy that loud was no good locked up. He read one silly spell aloud, and the sparkles danced from shelf to shelf, waking the scrolls just enough to chuckle. If you ever catch moonlight on library dust, listen closely for Quillby’s new closing whisper: “Hush, hush… then laugh.”
