By ten minutes after nine all was in readiness: the lights blazing, the film threaded properly, the orchestra tuning up, popcorn popping and filling the lobby with its tantalizing smell; and, most important, a special ramp was snubbed up tight against the stage. To test it, the manager stomped up the ramp and stomped back down again as if he were a whole cavalcade of horses. “Solid as the Brooklyn Bridge!” he said in satisfaction.
By nine-fifteen the ushers took their posts, the doorman opened the plate-glass doors, and down in the pit the orchestra began playing “Pony Boy, Pony Boy, won’t you be my Pony Boy?” At the same time the pretty cashier climbed to her perch in her glass cage.
By nine-sixteen she was looking out the porthole saying, “How many, please?” “Thank you.” “How many, please?” “Thank you.” Her fingers flew to make change and tear off the right number of tickets.
No one, not even the manager, was prepared for the swarms of people coming all at once—Boy Scouts and Cub Scouts, Girl Scouts and Brownies, Campfire Girls and Bluebirds, classes from schools, from churches, from orphanages, families of eight and ten, with neighbor children in tow. It was a human river, so noisy with shuffling and shouting that even the drums in the orchestra could scarcely be heard.
By nine-forty every seat on the first floor was taken. By nine-fifty the balcony was filling up, and by one minute to ten there was not a seat left anywhere, not even in the second balcony. From floor to ceiling the theater was packed.
At the stroke of ten the asbestos curtain went up, the ponderous red velvet curtains parted, and the house lights dimmed, except for the tiny red bulbs at the exits. With a crash of cymbals the music stopped. A hush spread over the theater and rose like heat waves from a midsummer hayfield.
Then in all that breathless quiet the picture flashed on the screen, and suddenly Time ceased to exist. A thousand people were no longer in a darkened theater. They were transported to a wind-rumpled island with sea birds crying and wild ponies spinning along the beach. By pure magic they were playing every role. They were roundup men spooking out the wild ponies from bush and briar, and suddenly coming upon the Phantom with her newborn foal, Misty. And then they were that foal, struggling to swim across the channel, struggling to keep from being sucked down into a whirlpool. And in a flash they were a daring tow-headed boy, jumping into the sea, grabbing Misty’s forelock, pulling her to safety.
Even the ushers in the aisle were caught up in the spell—cheering when the Phantom raced Black Comet and won; laughing when Misty came flying out of Grandma’s kitchen; gulping their tears when Paul bade farewell to the beautiful wild mare who was Misty’s mother.
An unmistakable sniffling filled the theater as THE END flashed upon the screen. Grownups and children smiled at each other through their tears as if they had come through a heartwarming experience together.
Then a handful of boys in the balcony began shouting: “We want Misty. We want Stormy!” And the whole audience took up the chant.
From the wings the manager walked briskly onto the stage. His face was one wide happy smile. He raised his hand for silence. “Boys and girls!” he spoke into the microphone. “Thank you for coming to this gala performance. All of the proceeds today—every penny you paid—will be used to restore the island of Chincoteague and to rebuild the herds of wild ponies on Assateague.”
The applause broke before he had finished. He opened his lips to say more, but the same handful of boys shouted, “We want Misty. We want Stormy.” And again the whole audience joined in. “We want Misty. We want Stormy!”
When the chant showed no signs of diminishing, the manager shrugged helplessly, then signaled to the stagehand. As if he had waved a wand, the lights went out, one by one, until the theater was in total blackness. An utter quiet fell as a slender beam of light played up and down the left aisle. It steadied at a point underneath the balcony.
And there, from out of the darkness into the shaft of light stepped two ponies. They were led by a spry-legged old man and flanked by a boy and a girl, but no one saw them for they were lost in shadow. Every eye was riveted on the two creatures tittupping down the aisle—one so sure-footed and motherly, one so little and wobbly.
From a thousand throats came the whispered cry, “There they are!” And the murmuring grew in power like water from a dike giving way. The children in the balconies almost fell over the railing in their urgency to see. And down below, those on the aisle reached out with their arms, and those not on the aisle crowded on top like a football pile-up, and the fingers of all those hands stretched out to feel the furry bodies.
The theater manager cried out in alarm: “Don’t touch the ponies—you might be kicked!” But it was like crying to the sun to stop shining or the wind to stop blowing.
With his body Paul tried to protect Stormy and Misty. But they didn’t want protection. They were enjoying every minute of their march down the aisle.
• • •
And now the little procession has reached the ramp to the stage. Misty walks up calmly, in almost human dignity, and with only a little pushing from behind, Stormy joins her. The stage is ablaze with light so that the audience is nothing but a black blur, far away and quiet now. Misty looks around her at the big bright emptiness. It is bigger than her stall at home, bigger even than Dr. Finney’s stable. Her eyes give only a passing glance to the artificial palm trees. Then they pounce on the one thing she recognizes. Her stepstool! In seeming delight she goes over and steps up with her forefeet, nickering to Stormy: “Come to me, little one.”
Stormy shows a moment of panic. Her nostrils flutter in a petulant whinny. Then, light as thistledown, she skitters across the stage. And with all those faces watching, she nuzzles up to her mother and begins nursing, her little broomtail flapping in greedy excitement.
So deep a silence hangs over the theater that the sounds of her suckling go out over the loud speakers and carry up to the second balcony. In quiet ecstasy each child is hugging Stormy to himself in wonder and love.
Done with her nursing the filly turns her head, wiping her baby whiskers on Paul’s pants leg. The audience bursts into joyous laughter.
The spell is broken. Misty jostles her foal and nips along her neck just in fun; then she licks her vehemently as if to make up for that long separation during the ride from Chincoteague.
• • •
All this while none of the human creatures on the stage had spoken a word. But suddenly Grandpa was over his stage fright. “If Misty ain’t careful,” he bellowed to the last row in the balcony, “she’ll erase them purty patches off’n Stormy.”
The children shrieked. When at last they had quieted down, Grandpa thanked them in behalf of all the people of Chincoteague, and the ponies that were left, and the new ones which their money was going to buy.
“And Stormy thanks you, too.” Grandpa set her up on the stepstool alongside her mother, and they posed with their heads close together even when a flash bulb popped right in their faces.
Then Grandpa selected one boy from the audience and one girl and invited them up on the stage so that Misty could shake their hands and so thank everyone. Eagerly the two children ran up the ramp, but once on the stage they suddenly froze, their arms rigid at their sides. It was Misty who without any prompting offered her forefoot first. Then timid hands reached out, one at a time, to return the gesture. But again it was Misty who did the pumping and enjoyed the whole procedure.
Grandpa threw back his head and howled. Still chuckling he explained, “In my boy-days I was an organ-pumper on Sundays. If only I’d of had a smart pony like Misty, she could’ve done it fer me!”
Then a man went up the aisles with a microphone, and children asked their questions right into it.
“Was Misty really in your kitchen during the storm?”
“Was it funny to see a pony looking out your kitchen window, instead of Grandma?”
“Why are colts mostly legs?”
“How many days old is Stormy?”
“How many ponies will the firemen buy with our money?”
“Will they go wild again on Assateague?”
“Did Grandma get mad at Misty messing in the house?”
“Did Wings live through the storm?”
Grandpa patiently answered each question, with a nod and smile of agreement from Paul and Maureen. With dozens of eager hands still waving for attention, time ran out. The musicians started playing “America, the Beautiful,” while Misty and Stormy went down the ramp and up the other aisle this time so that more hands could reach out and touch.
The sun seemed brighter than ever when the little procession reached the door of the theater. Paul and Maureen drew a deep breath. It had been a rousing, heart-lifting performance, and they knew they had never been so happy.
Chapter 25
THE LAST SCENE
IT WAS afternoon before Misty and Stormy were loaded into the truck for the long drive home. All the way Grandpa and the children sat in quiet contentment, too full for words. They rode in silence, each one tasting his own memories of the performance, each one filled to the brim with a deep, almost spiritual happiness.
The pine trees were throwing long shadows and the sun was slipping into Chincoteague Bay when they arrived back at Pony Ranch. Grandma came hurrying out to meet them, her eyes asking a dozen questions. She waited expectantly for the news, but all she got was a “Hi, Grandma. It was great!”
Grandma buttoned her sweater against the evening breeze and sat down to watch the unloading. “No use pressin’ now; else I’ll only get half the story,” she told herself. “Allus the ponies come first. I’ll bide my time.” Nanny shouldered up to her, butting very gently. Unconsciously Grandma tucked her skirt out of Nanny’s reach. Then she settled herself to watch and wait.
Grandpa and the children were like actors working in pantomime. Each one knew exactly what to do. Paul lowered the tailgate of the truck and led Misty down to the fence. Grandpa picked up Stormy, carried her out and set her beside Misty. Maureen took off Stormy’s halter. Then she and Paul quickly went around to the gate to let the bars down. But before even the top one was lowered, Misty did something she had done only as a yearling. From a standing start she leaped nimbly over the bars and landed inside. Then she turned around as if wondering what to do about her youngster. Stormy let out a frightened squeal, then with head and tail low, she scrambled under the bars and found her mother.
The twilit quiet ended in a crash of noise. A gaggle of geese rose in a honking cloud, the peacock let out a hair-chilling scream, Skipper yelped, the goats blatted. Even Grandpa swelled the racket. “By thunder!” he boomed. “’Twas quieter in that there movie house with a thousand kids screeching.”
In the midst of all the confusion Misty let Stormy nurse, but only for a matter of seconds. After the long hours of being a sedate mother, she suddenly had to be a wild pony again. She took off down the pasture in a quick streaking run, Stormy hopping along behind.
“Look at that little tyke go!” Paul exclaimed.
Maureen cried out in sudden alarm as Misty began crow-hopping, twisting, swerving, kicking at the sky. “Stormy’ll get hurt!” she screamed.
But Stormy was trying out little kicks of her own, kiting away, falling to her knees, picking herself up, yet always keeping out of reach.
“She knows just how far to stay away,” Paul laughed proudly.
“Why, they’re brimful of spirit after all the doin’s!” Grandma exclaimed. “Wisht I felt like that.”
“I feel spry as a hopper-grass,” Grandpa boasted.
“So do I,” Maureen said.
“I don’t,” Paul declared. “I feel better . . . and bigger . . . and wilder.”
“How do you mean, Paul?” Grandma asked.
He pointed a finger to the darkening sky. “See that gull ’way up yonder heading into a cloud?”
“Uh-hmm.”
“Well, I can fly up there right alongside him.”
Grandma took off her spectacles to study the white soaring wings tipped with the last gold of the sun. “You can?” She smiled at him in pleased wonder. “Even without wings?”
Paul nodded, embarrassed, not knowing how to explain.
There was a strained silence. At last he spoke in a hushed voice, “Grandma, today in the theater I felt and knew things I never knew before.”
Grandpa put an arm around Paul and another around Maureen. “I know jes’ what he means, Idy. And I don’t think no one—not their teacher, nor the postmaster, and mebbe not even Preacher Britton—could really put it to words. Idy, to those city kids in Richmond, today was like a fairy story come to life. It meant something real to ’em. And you’d of thought Misty and Stormy was borned actors, the way they played their parts.” He sighed in deep satisfaction. “Fer oncet everything come out jes’ ’zackly perfect. And fer oncet in my lifetime I’m too happy to eat.”
Misty and Stormy seemed to feel the same way. Their kicking and cavorting done, they turned tail on their friends and walked down the meadowland toward their pine grove by the sea.
It was like the end of a play, their walking off, slow-footed and contented, side by side. Without benefit of words they were playing the last scene. It was good to be out under the big sky. And good to breathe in the fresh, clean air. And how cool the marshy turf felt to their feet. Home was a good place to be.
Epilogue
TO MAKE THE STORY COMPLETE
MISTY AND LITTLE STORMY showed no ill effects, even the next day, because of their trip to the theater. They were, as Grandpa Beebe said, “borned actors.” They seemed to burst into bloom like the daffodils after the storm. And so they traveled to more and more theaters. Each time they seemed eager to go, eager to meet their enraptured audiences, and deliriously happy to come back home.
At the end of the tour there was money enough to start the Volunteer Firemen buying back the ponies sold in other years.
But this is only half the story. While Misty and Stormy were doing their part, boys and girls all over the United States were helping, too. They deluged Chincoteague with a fresh tide—of letters! From big cities and tiny hamlets they came, and tucked inside were pennies, dimes, and dollars.
The letters are stories in themselves:
Here is a check for four dollars and four cents for the Misty Disaster Fund. It is an odd number because we earned it weeding dandelions and they grow odd. We hope the money will come in handy. Please excuse our poor writing. We are doing this in my tree house.
We had a lemonade stand and Mother didn’t charge us for the lemons. We made three dollars to help restore your herds. We think the new ponies will be glad to go wild again.
I was sad to hear of your disasterous flood because I feel like Misty and Phantom and the Pied Piper are my friends. I know that a quarter is just a drop in the bucket, but I hope that enough people send in “drops” to fill it up.
The radio said your ponies and chickens drowned. I will send you a surprise with this letter. It is one dollar. I know that isn’t much, but that’s how much I can give.
We all voted to give our class treasury of five dollars to the Misty Disaster Fund so you can buy a whole pony in the name of us fifth graders. We want Pony Penning Day to go on forever.
I been picking blueberries all day and here’s my fifty cents. Give my regards to Misty.
During our Story Hour we set out a jar marked “For Pony Pennies” and we marched around the library until 386 pennies were dropped in.
We are a group of 4-H girls, 10 to 16 years old. Every year we have a horse show and we do all the planning, fixing rings, making jumps, and getting prizes and ribbons. From our proceeds this year we want to give a hundred dollars to help replenish the herds that were drowned.
Day by day the Misty Disaster Fund grew and grew. By June the firemen had bought back enough ponies to restore the herds on Assateague. And on the last Wednesday of July the annual roundup and Pony Penning took place just as it has for over a hundred ye
ars. Thousands of visitors came, and they marveled at how quickly the new ponies had gone back to their wild ways. The celebration was a rousing success.
Of course Stormy and Misty were on hand where everyone could see and pet them. They were not wild at all. Yet they were the heroes of the day.
For their help the author is grateful to
RALPH AND JEANETTE BEEBE, uncle and aunt of Paul and Maureen
SAM BENDHEIM, SR., AND SAM BENDHEIM, JR., President and Vice President of the Byrd Theaters, Richmond, Va.
THE REVEREND RAYMOND BRITTON, Chincoteague
WARREN CONANT, Postmaster of Chincoteague, and his wife, PAULINE
DR. GARLAND E. FINNEY, JR., veterinarian of Pocomoke, Md., and his wife, MARAH
MILES HANCOCK, terrapin trapper and woodcarver, Chincoteague
LT. WILLIAM LIPHAM, U.S. Coast Guard
WILLIAM E. NICHOLS, JR., Councilman of Chincoteague
ROBERT N. REED, Mayor of Chincoteague
TOM REED, naturalist, Chincoteague
JOYCE TARR, map maker, Chincoteague
MARGUERITE HENRY is the beloved author of such classic horse stories as JUSTIN MORGAN HAD A HORSE, KING OF THE WIND, and MISTY OF CHINCOTEAGUE, all of which are available in Aladdin paperback editions.
OTHER BOOKS BY MARGUERITE HENRY
Album of Horses
Black Gold
Brighty: Of the Grand Canyon
Justin Morgan Had a Horse
King of the Wind
Misty of Chincoteague
Misty’s Twilight
San Domingo: The Medicine Hat Stallion
Sea Star: Orphan of Chincoteague
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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