It looked exactly like a little dog waiting to be lifted into its mistress’ arms. It had dimension and a definite personality. It seemed more than a shadow or a wet spot. ...
In abandoned cisterns and old wells, in moldy heaps of straw forgotten in the corners of deserted barns, in reedy pools deep in the woods, in fungied hollows of dead trees, in all such secret places apart from man, strange life engenders, drifts in and takes root and form. In a place called Yancey’s Meadow such a thing grew and waxed and made itself a shape, listened and dozed and waited. ...
“Oh, no; I’m really here,” the voice, inaudible but mentally present, assured him. “You can’t see me, or touch me, or even really hear me, but I’m not something you just imagined. I’m just as real as … as Smokeball, there. Only I’m a different kind of reality. Watch.” ...
Pioneers have always resented their wanderlust, hated their hardships. But the future brings a new grudge—when pioneers stay put and scholars do the exploring! ...
It is the kind of news item you read at least a dozen times a year, wonder about briefly, and then promptly forget—but the real story is the one that the reporters are unable to cover! A time travel story that will stay with you long after you turned the final page. ...
