There was a pensive pause.
"I suppose that's the last adventure?" said Jack.
"H'absolutely the h'end!" said the Natterjack.
"Well," said Ann, "it's been just lovely."
"All things considered," said Eliza.
"Thanks a lot," said Jack.
"Good-bye," said Roger, feeling that this sounded inadequate and wondering if he should offer to shake the Natterjack's hand.
"Will we see you again?" asked the tenderhearted Ann, who hated all partings.
"H'I may nod in passing," considered the Natterjack. "But don't h'expect to waste my time in vain conversation and h'idle regrets. I've h'other things to do. Besides," it added, "you won't be 'ere very much longer."
"That's so," said Eliza. "Vacation ends next month. I start Latin this year. They say it's awful. You decline nouns. All I can say is, who wouldn't?"
"That," said the Natterjack, "is not precisely what I 'ad in mind." And it hopped away before they could ask it anything more.
It was not until the next day that the four children learned what the Natterjack did have in mind, precisely. After breakfast (of a wonderful corn porridge called samp which was one of Mrs. Annable's specialties) old Mrs. Whiton told them that she had had a long cablegram from their parents and that the play was a success.
"Good," said Ann and Roger.
"I thought somehow it might be," said Eliza. And she made a sitting motion to the others, which the others loftily ignored.
And then old Mrs. Whiton went on to tell them a lot more news that had been in the cablegram. It seemed that the London theater people wanted Roger and Ann's father to stay on in England and write another play, a musical play this time, and so Ann and Roger were to go to school in London for a year. And they had talked it over with Uncle John and Aunt Katharine, and Jack and Eliza were to come, too. Jack would go to a boys' school with Roger, and Eliza to a girls' school with Ann.
"Coo Lummy!" cried Eliza, in what she believed to be British tones. "Now we'll really see London! That other was just practice."
"Still it may come in handy," said Ann. "I feel at home there already."
"Ahem," said Roger, with a meaningful glance in the direction of old Mrs. Whiton.
But old Mrs. Whiton, unlike many a grown-up, did not embarrass them by asking what they were talking about, but tactfully changed the subject to that of packing and getting ready to leave in time to catch the boat from New York the following Monday.
And from then on that is mainly what they did. It is amazing how many new possessions may be accumulated by four children in the course of one summer vacation, but a few were eliminated and the rest pushed in on top of other things, and the trunks finally closed.
At last the day of departure came. Old Henry was to drive the children into the village to catch the Boston train. Old Mrs. Whiton said she hated scenes of farewell at railroad stations and would have none of them. Besides, the four children wanted it that way. It seemed right, somehow, to go as they had come. They would change trains in Boston without adult aid, as they had done before, and in New York their Uncle Mark would meet them and take them to his house for the night, before putting them on their ship in the morning. He would arrange official things like passports, too.
On the last morning Mrs. Annable cooked a particularly lavish breakfast and then bade them a terse good-bye. Old Mrs. Whiton added a gruff but affectionate one and followed them out of the house.
"Just a minute," said Ann, suddenly. She ran into the garden and through the opening in the hedge onto the thymey bank. Jack and Roger and Eliza followed. The four stood looking at the leafy green hummocks, and breathing their scent for the last time.
"This is one place we'll never forget," said Roger.
"Will we find any magic in England, I wonder?" said Eliza. "Or is it good-bye to childish folly?"
"A boys' school!" said Jack. "How'll I get to know any English girls?"
The Willys-Knight honked in the driveway. But Ann thought she had seen something moving among the tiny dark green leaves.
"I'll catch up with you," she said, lingering behind as the others turned reluctantly to answer the summons of the horn.
She waited till they were out of earshot. Then she spoke. "Good-bye," she said. "It really is good-bye this time. It's been wonderful. Even if we neVer have any magic again, it was worth it."
Something moved once more among the dark green leaves. Something hopped nearer. The Natterjack looked at Ann. It nodded. Then it passed by, hopping away out of Ann's sight forever.
Ann sighed. There didn't seem to be anything more to say. She ran to catch up with the others.
The last car door slammed. The Willys-Knight roared, shifted gears and purred. The last good-bye died on the breeze.
Old Mrs. Whiton stopped waving. She stood on the steps of the old house, looking up at the sky, where clouds were piling in the northeast. That meant a storm was coming, and old Mrs. Whiton's eyes flashed. She liked storms. They were a challenge to her. She went into the house, and soon her typewriter keys were clacking wildly, furiously, as though the storm were already there and she were racing the wind of it.
But in the garden the sun still shone. The innumerable bees hummed. The scent of thyme hung on the air. But only the Natterjack was there to breathe the fragrant essence of it.
He and thé garden were waiting. They were waiting for more children. They didn't care how long they waited. They had all the time in the world.
* * *
Edward Eager (1911–1964) worked primarily as a playwright and lyricist. It wasn't until 1951, while searching for books to read to his young son, Fritz, that he began writing children's stories. In each of his books he carefully acknowledges his indebtedness to E. Nesbit, whom he considered the best children's writer of all time—"so that any child who likes my books and doesn't know hers may be led back to the master of us all."
* * *
Edward Eager, The Time Garden
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