The Land of Heart's Desire

Isaac Borrachsohn, son of rich and important men, had been taken to Central Park by a proud uncle. For weeks afterward, he was the favorite storyteller of the First Reader Class, and a great problem for its teacher, Miss Bailey, who found him now as talkative as he had once been silent. There was no subject in the school program that he couldn't connect to the wonders of his trip, and Teacher asked herself daily, in vain, whether it was better teaching to encourage "spontaneous self-expression" or to insist on "logically essential sequence."

But the other students felt no such uncertainty. They voted completely for spontaneity, and the self in question expressed itself like this:

"In Central Park there's a lake," Isaac declared, "and in the lake there's birds—a big bunch of birds—and fishes. And if you want to cross the lake, you call a bird, and you sit on it, and the bird moves its legs, and you get across."

"They must be very polite birds," Eva Gonorowsky began, but Morris interrupted.

"I once had an aunt, and she had a bird, a real polite bird. But if you called it, it couldn't come because it was in a cage."

"Did it have a rubber neck?" Isaac asked, and Morris had to admit it didn't.

"All the birds in Central Park have rubber necks," Isaac continued.

"What color are the birds?" asked Eva.

"All colors. Blue, white, red, yellow."

"And green," Patrick Brennan put in firmly. "The green ones are the best."

"Have you been there?" asked Isaac, a bit thrown off.

"No, but I know. My big brother told me."

"They must be stylish birds, too," said Eva longingly. "Stylish and polite. Red and green birds are very stylish on hats."

"But these birds are big. Really big! Men can ride on them, and ladies, and boys."

"And little girls, Ikey? Aren't they for little girls?" asked the only little girl in the group. She was a very small girl, with a soft, gentle voice and dark, gentle eyes fixed pleadingly on the storyteller.

"Yes," Isaac answered grudgingly, "if they sit next to somebody, little girls can go. But if nobody holds their hand, they might get scared of the rubber-neck boat birds and the lake and the fishes."

"What kind of fishes?" demanded Morris Mogilewsky, who was in charge of Miss Bailey's goldfish bowl, with professional interest.

"Gold fishes and red fishes and black fishes"—Patrick stirred uneasily, and Isaac remembered—"and green fishes; the green ones are the biggest; and blue fishes and _all_ kinds of fishes. They live way down in the water because they're afraid of the rubber-neck boat birds. And you know what? When a rubber-neck boat bird gets hungry, it stretches down its neck and eats a goldfish."

"Raw?" asked Eva with a horrified shudder.

"Yes, raw. Didn't I tell you little girls would be scared of them? Boys would be scared too," cried Isaac, and then, spurred by his rival's calm, he added, "The rubber-neck boat birds scream something fierce."

"I wouldn't be afraid of them. My dad's a cop," cried Patrick stoutly. "I'd just as soon sit on them. I'd like to."

"Ah, but you haven't seen them, and you haven't heard them scream," Isaac retorted.

"Well, I'm going to. And I'm going to see the lions and the tigers and the elephants, and I'm going to ride on the lake."

"Oh, how I wish I could go too!" Eva burst out. "O-o-oh, _how_ I wish I could see those things! Only I don't know if I need a ride on something that screams. I don't know if it's for me."

"I'll take you along if your mother lets you go," said Patrick grandly. "And you can hold my hand if you're scared."

"Me too?" begged Morris. "Oh, Patrick, can I go too?"

"I guess so," answered the leader of the line graciously. But he turned a deaf ear to Isaac Borrachsohn's pleas to join the party. Patrick knew all too well how grand Isaac's holiday clothes were and how easily impressed Eva was, and he feared that his own Sunday best, even if it was made from his father's blue cloth with brass buttons, might be outshone.

At Eva's earnest request, her cousin Sadie was invited, and Morris suggested that the boy who took care of the window box should not be left out. So Nathan Spiderwitz was raised to thrilling heights at the thought of a window box "as big as blocks and streets," where every plant, unlike his skinny ones, would have countless flowers. Ignatius Aloysius Diamantstein was chosen unanimously to join the expedition: by Patrick because they were neighbors at St. Mary's Sunday school, by Morris because they were classmates at the synagogue, by Nathan because Ignatius belonged to the "Clinton Street gang," by Sadie because he had a "long pants sailor suit," and by Eva because all the others wanted him.

Eva reached home that afternoon buzzing with excitement and worry. What if her mother, with one short word, closed forever the gates of joy and boat birds? But Mrs. Gonorowsky met her small daughter's long plea with a simple question:

"Who's paying your carfare?"

"Do we need carfare to go?" Eva faltered.

"Of course you do," her mother answered. "I don't know how much, but some. Who's paying?"

"Patrick didn't say."

"Well, you better ask him," Mrs. Gonorowsky advised, and the next morning Eva did. This buried the leader under the ruins of his dream, but he struggled out and suggested that each one should pay for themselves.

"But don't you have any money at all?" asked the guest of honor.

"Not a cent," answered the host. "But I'll get some. How much do you have?"

"A penny. How much do I need?"

"I don't know. Let's ask Miss Bailey."

School hadn't officially started, and Teacher was reading. She was hardly disturbed when the children poked sharp elbows into her side, and she answered Eva's "Miss Bailey—oh, Mrs. Bailey" with a distracted "Yes, dear?"

"Mrs. Bailey, how much does it cost to get to Central Park?"

Still reading, Teacher replied, "Five cents, honey," and went on, while Patrick called a meeting and made embarrassing explanations with great tact.

Then came weeks of saving and sacrifice for the exploring party, which had added a chaperone in the large and reassuring person of Becky Zalmonowsky, the class "idiot." Sadie's careful mother thought Patrick was too young for so much responsibility, and he, with a cleverness that promised well for his future, agreed to her wishes while keeping his own authority. For Becky, poor child, though twelve years old and looking reliable enough to fool anyone who hadn't talked to her, was in the First Reader Class only until a spot could be found for her in some institution for such unfortunates.

Slowly and in different ways, each child gathered the needed nickel. Some begged, some stole, some gambled, some traded, some earned, but their best source of income, Miss Bailey, was off limits. Patrick knew she would insist on having a more responsible guardian from a higher grade, and he announced fiercely that he wouldn't go at all under those conditions.

At last, the leader set the day: a Saturday in late May. He was upset to find that only Ignatius Aloysius could go that day.

"It's a holiday, all Saturdays," Morris explained. "We're not allowed to ride on cars."

"Why not?" asked Patrick.

"It's a rule, the rabbi said," Nathan added. "I don't know why, but we can't ride on holidays."

"I guess," Eva said wisely, "I guess even rubber-neck boat birds aren't for us on holidays. But I don't know if I need a ride on something that screams."

"You'll be fine," Patrick assured her. "I'll let you hold my hand. If we can't go Saturday, we'll go Sunday—next Sunday. You all meet me here on the school steps. Bring your money and your lunch too. It's a long way, and you'll be hungry when you get there. You get a really long ride for five cents."

"Does it take all that to get there?" asked the practical Nathan. "Then how are we getting back?"

Poor little poet soul! Celtic and careless! Patrick had imagined only the grand arrival and Eva's delight as she floated beside him on the fanciest boat bird. He hadn't thought about the return trip. So they had to start saving all over again. The struggle for the first nickel had been hard, but getting the second was almost impossible. The children were worn out from long effort and many sacrifices, because the temptation to spend six or nine cents is so much stronger than the urge to save small amounts. Almost every day, one of the group would confess to spending some money, and almost every day Isaac was asked to describe the wonders of Central Park all over again.

Becky, the chaperone, was the worst at saving. Over and over, she got up to seven or eight cents, only to blow it all on candy from Isidore Belchatosky's father's cart or on a strawberry soda. Then she would cry and regret her foolishness, and the others would scold her, telling her again of the joys she had wasted. And she would wail, "I saw the candy. Chocolate mice and sugar Foxy Grandpas—and I've never seen Central Park."

"But don't you remember what Isaac says?" Eva would urge. "Everything nice for us is in Central Park. Say, Isaac, tell Becky again about Central Park."

And Isaac's stories grew wilder and wilder, until the little girls trembled with longing and fear, and the boys polished their cap guns. He told of lions, tigers, elephants, bears, and buffaloes, all huge and loud, until he had trapped himself with his own lies and couldn't join the trip without being found out. With true artistic spirit, he left out all mention of cages and gave every animal and person in his tale the power of speech. He mixed the carousel with the menagerie into something irresistible.

"And all the animals," he told his spellbound listeners, "they go around, and around, and around, where music plays and flags fly. I sat on a lion, and he ran around, and around, and around. And you know what? He had a smiling look and hair on his neck, and when he said, 'I'm thirsty,' I gave him a peanut, and I got a golden ring."

"Where is it?" asked the jealous, skeptical Patrick.

"At my house," Isaac lied boldly, for he remembered how his shocked but kind uncle had caught him trying to steal the brass ring that riders grab as they go around. He'd gotten another ride—this time on an elephant with a raised trunk and big ears—but having to give the ring back was the one sad part of an otherwise perfect day.

Miss Bailey—helped by Aesop, Rudyard Kipling, and Thompson Seton—had prepared the First Reader Class to believe in talkative, kind lions, cows, panthers, and elephants, and the explorers' complete trust encouraged Isaac to even greater heights, until Becky was strong enough to resist temptation.

Finally, on a Sunday in late June, the little group, dressed in their best, met on the wide steps, boarded a Grand Street car, and set off for paradise. There was some confusion at the very start when Becky Zalmonowsky refused to give her pennies to the conductor. When she finally agreed, it took five embarrassing minutes to find the money hidden in her clothes. She had a penny in her shoe, one in her stocking, two in the lining of her hat, and one in the big old bag that hung at her knees.

Nathan Spiderwitz, who had been silent, now brought out his fare, moist and warm, from his mouth, and Eva scolded him.

"Didn't Teacher tell you that money in your mouth isn't healthy?" she asked sternly, and Nathan, after taking out more pennies, answered, "I washed them off—first." And they were indeed very shiny. "My pockets have holes," he explained, and put the money back in his mouth.

"But they don't taste good, do they?" Morris objected. Nathan shook his head. "And you could swallow them, and then you'd never get home," the goldfish monitor added.

But Nathan wouldn't change, even when the curious Becky tried his method and nearly choked before a kind passenger slapped her back and got the penny out.

When they got to Grand Street and the Bowery, things got even more confused with seven kids holding transfer tickets and all yelling—except Nathan—for Central Park. Two newsboys and a policeman helped them onto a Third Avenue car, and all went well until Patrick found his lunch missing and blamed Ignatius Aloysius. They argued until they found the lunch—squashed flat—under the large chaperone.

Jealousy might have played a part, because it was clear that Ignatius's bright red scarf was more eye-catching than Patrick's plain outfit. Patrick, the star of St. Mary's Sunday school, felt the tenth commandment was unfair as he watched the girls gaze at the red silk. If Eva liked flashy ties, she should say so now, before he spent the day on boat birds with someone who cared more about a scarf than about his brass buttons. So Patrick scowled at his rival, and cunningly asked Eva, "Red ties are nice, don't you think?"

"Awful nice," Eva agreed, "but not as stylish as high collars. High collars and derby hats are really stylish."

The gloom vanished from the Irish boy's heart, because around his neck he wore, though it choked him, the highest and stiffest of high collars, and on his head—and the back of his neck—was his big brother's old derby. Once more he saw himself and Eva by the lake, on a gentle boat bird, with his brass buttons shining.

As the car sped up the Bowery, the children felt like real adventurers. The noisy elevated trains above, the crowds in bright Sunday clothes, the clanging trolleys, and the glimpses of green as they passed side streets all made them more excited. At every bit of green, they got ready to jump off, but the conductor and Eva's wise advice held them back. She said Central Park could be recognized by "the screams from all those things that scream." So they rode on, trusting the conductor, past 59th Street, the usual entrance, until a kind passenger told them they'd gone too far. They tumbled off and hurried toward the green, only to find a high stone wall. They pressed against it, listening for the screams, but heard nothing. The silence scared them, until suddenly a terrible shriek cut the air—it would have done credit to the biggest boat bird or lion—but it was just Becky bursting into tears.

When her crying became words, she demanded to go home to her mother. The others seemed to feel the same, and three heads in spring hats drooped against the wall while Nathan took his money out of his mouth to say he was hungry. Patrick had to ask for help from people passing on Fifth Avenue. A kind-looking lady stopped and spoke to them.

"Yes, this is Central Park," she assured them.

"It looks like the country," Eva said.

"Because it is a piece of the country," the lady explained.

"Then we mustn't go in," cried Eva, "because we're not sick. We're all healthy, and the country is for sick children."

"I'm glad you're well," said the lady kindly, "but you can certainly play here. It's meant for all children. The gate is just down there, by the wall."

It was only a few blocks, and soon they were in the land of their hearts' desire. There were waving trees, flowering bushes, smooth green lawns, and, right in the middle of it all, a beautiful little lake with little boats floating on it. The children from the East Side stood for a moment, staring, then ran straight across the grass, ignoring the paths. A park policeman scolded them, but they didn't care. They gathered at the water's edge, grabbed the strings that guide the little boats, and pulled many to shore, to the annoyance of the little owners.

Becky stood so close that her bag fell into the shallow water. She tried to fish it out, getting her good dress wet. They finally got it back, no wetter than her outfit, and the Gonorowsky cousins had a hard time stopping her from taking off her dress to dry it right there.

Then Ignatius Aloysius, who was picky, loudly reminded them that they hadn't seen the rubber-neck boat birds, and maybe they were "screaming like anything" somewhere deep in the park. So Patrick gave orders, and they marched on, joy shining on their faces. Every turn of the path brought new wonders—they saw for the first time the great world of growing things that Miss Bailey had told them about. They followed the paths and didn't pick flowers, because Eva had heard that flowers "stick right up out of the ground." But there were other flowers hanging high and low, and birds hopped across the grass, and squirrels ran. But they never stepped off the path—they knew these pleasures weren't for them.

So they were surprised and worried when they came to a wide open space with a flag on a tall pole, where the grass was covered with children, and friendly policemen watched over them.

"Can we walk on it?" cried Morris. "Oh, Patrick, can we?"

"Ask the cop," Nathan suggested, his first words in an hour, since Becky's mishap had convinced him his own way of carrying money was best.

"Ask him yourself," retorted Patrick, who had meant to talk to a policeman (who would surely recognize his father's buttons), but a leader can't take advice from a follower. Nathan was again silent with money in his mouth, so it was Morris who asked and got permission to walk on the grass. With little dashes of running and test jumps, they crossed Peacock Lawn to the shade at the edge, where they sat and ate their lunches. Nathan waited until Sadie finished, then gave her his five shiny pennies to hold while he quickly ate an odd meal of dark bread and raw eel.

Becky lay flat on her bag, waving her still damp shoes. Eva lay face down beside her, peering into the grass.

"Doesn't it smell nice!" she gloated. "Doesn't it look nice! Oh, aren't we having a great time!"

"Don't mention it," said Patrick, trying to copy his mother's hostess manners. "I'm pleased to have you come."

"Central Park is so pretty," Sadie said, lying on her back, watching the branches and blue sky. "I wish we could live here."

"Well," began Ignatius, slightly critical of Patrick's guiding, "well, I haven't seen any lions, or rubber-neck boat birds. And we haven't ridden on anything. And I haven't heard any screams either."

As if in answer, there came from the road beyond the trees a snorting, panting noise, growing louder, and then a long, hoarse, terrifying yell. There was a flash of red, a cloud of dust, three more blasts, and the thing was gone. And so were the explorers. They ran to the far end of the field, with the panicking chaperone in the lead, and Eva and Patrick hand in hand, he pretending to be brave, she frankly terrified. In a quiet corner near the restaurant, they caught up with Becky.

"I saw the lion," she panted over and over. "I saw the fierce, big red lion, and I don't know where my mother is."

Patrick saw that one attraction had failed, so he tried another.

"Let's go see the cows," he suggested. "Don't you remember the poem Miss Bailey taught us about cows?"

Again the emotional chaperone interrupted. "I loved Miss Bailey too," she wailed, "and I don't know where she is either." But the others, proud of their learning, began to chant in singsong, swaying back and forth:

"The friendly cow all red and white, I love with all my heart: She gives me cream with all her might, To eat with apple-tart—Robert Louis Stevenson."

Becky's tears stopped. "Are there cows in Central Park?" she asked.

"Sure," said Patrick.

"And what kind of cream will he give us? Ice cream?"

"Sure," said Patrick again.

"Let's go!" cried the now eager chaperone. A passerby pointed them toward the menagerie, and seeing a real cow made the poem come alive in a way they'd never imagined.

They set off gaily through new and beautiful paths; through tunnels where their feet and voices echoed strangely; over bridges where they saw—partly proving Isaac right—men and ladies riding. They rode only horses, but that was a rare sight for East Side children, and Eva figured that if they watched longer, they'd see lions and tigers riding too. The cows seemed far away, but trees, grass, and flowers were everywhere. They walked through long stretches of "real country" until they came, hot but happy, to a green, shady summerhouse on a hill. There they rested, and Ignatius Aloysius, with poor manners, once again complained, "We haven't seen the rubber-neck boat birds, and we haven't ridden on anything."

"Don't you know how to behave?" cried Eva, shocked at his criticism of their hard-working host. "You should be ashamed to say that at a party."

"This isn't a party," he retorted. "It's a trip. At a party, people give you food; on a trip, you bring it. And anyway, we haven't ridden on anything."

"But we heard a scream," the guest of honor reminded him. "We heard a big, fierce roar from a lion. I'm not sure I want to ride on something that screams. I might be scared."

"You wouldn't be scared on the boats if I held your hand, would you?" Patrick asked eagerly, and Eva shyly said she might be brave then. To celebrate, Patrick ran and jumped onto the seat that circled the summerhouse, and the others joined in, stomping and dancing with delight. Suddenly Patrick stopped and shouted, "There's the lake!" and pointed through one of the openings.

His followers rushed to look, knocking him off the bench onto the grass. But he didn't mind—he'd done his job. There, beyond the rocks and lawns and red flowers, lay the blue, shining lake, ringed with green. And on its calm surface floated the rubber-neck boat birds—white and silent, not red and screaming—and their long, graceful necks were even more wonderful than Isaac had described. And all kinds of people—men, women, boys, and girls—were getting on and off the birds, gliding smoothly across the water.

Over rocks and grass, the army charged toward pure bliss, knocking over a few well-dressed toddlers who were too pampered to get out of the way. They pushed past everything until they stood, thrilled, at the edge of the landing, looking at the waiting swan boats.

Three minutes later, they were outside the railings, staring through tears at the placid lake, the sunny slopes, the bright sky, and the gleaming boat birds that, as Isaac had said, "moved their legs," but, as he'd forgotten to mention, only for money. So there they stood—seven sad little figures, swallowed up in the hopelessness of childhood and the bitterness of poverty. For these were poor children, and they knew that money meant for carfare couldn't be wasted on pleasures.

Becky sobbed loudly, drowning out the others. But Patrick didn't care about the general despair. His remorseful eyes stayed on Eva, who was crying quietly. Slowly she stopped sobbing, slowly she lifted her head with its little daisy hat, carefully blew her small nose, and softly she came to him. Gently, and not quite truthfully, she whispered, looking at the majestic swans, "Don't be sad, Patrick. I'm not. Didn't I tell you that I don't need a ride on a rubber-neck boat bird? I don't need it! I don't need it! I—" with a sob of longing, "I'm always scared of them anyway. Let's go home, Patrick. Becky needs to see her mother, and I guess I need mine too."