The moon hung low and heavy over the placid green fields, full as a ripened peach and bright as a polished coin. The boy's ears twitched as he recalled an old tune, but he didn't have the heart to hum it. Not tonight, of all nights.
To his left, Horace Horsecollar worked a long stalk of hay around in his mouth, silently contemplating the bend of the Big Dipper and the shimmering arc of the Milky Way as he sat there atop the roof of the barn. Amid the blades of rain-soaked grass, the songs of a thousand hidden crickets echoed out. On most Summer nights, their song might have seemed a lullaby. Tonight, every chirp sounded like "Goodbye."
To his right, Clarabelle Cow tucked a sugar cube under her tongue.
The old bovine's sweet tooth was the stuff of legend. To most people, it was an innocent habit, but the boy knew better. She craved sweets in moments of sadness, when only the comforting taste of dissolving sugar could distract her from her sorrow. The saddest moments in the old farmhouse—the deaths of pets, the failure of crops, and the parting of old friends—were always accompanied by the rustle of candy wrappers.
"Life is a complicated thing, little mouse," she had told him, years ago. "Sometimes it's sad and sweet all at once."
She said that while recalling the fateful day of the Big Storm, which every farmer and shopkeep of Farthing Fields remembered so well.
"Sometimes I still weep when I remember the day that we found you in the barn," Clarabelle had said. "I remember how you shivered… I'd never seen anybody so afraid. The thunder was crashing, and the wind was wailing, and the rain came down like a torrent of stones. But as soon as Horace gathered you up in his arms, and you nestled your head up against his shoulder, you calmed right down. The storm raged on, but you knew you were safe. It was like you'd known us for years. I weep when I remember that day, because I know that you lost your family in that storm—whatever family you had, once. But that storm brought you into my life, Mickey. And you've given me more happiness than anybody else in this world, before or since that day. That's life in a nutshell, I suppose. Sad and sweet all at once."
He remembered every word of that conversation. If he wanted, he could have recited Clarabelle's words back at her, if only to comfort her. Instead, he put a comforting hand on her shoulder, pulled her close as the crickets chirped their mournful goodbyes.
Clarabelle gave a long sigh as the moon climbed high above the sleeping countryside, then perched in a comfortable spot amid the shimmering constellations. Just above it, a shooting star traced a graceful arc across the sky as it rose and fell, on its way to some strange distant country. Horace whistled at the sight.
"Make a wish, Mickey," he said. "That star belongs to you. You need it more'n I do."
The boy chuckled.
"Don't be silly, Uncle Horace. I don't need to make wishes. I've got everything I need right here."
"You're right about that, boy," Horace said, chewing at his straw. "But this time tomorrow, you'll be far away from this old farm."
Under his arm, the boy felt Clarabelle's body give a little shudder as she swallowed back a sob. He squeezed her shoulder.
"It's alright, Aunt Clara," he said. "I'll make a wish, just for you."
He contemplated the silver visage of the moon, a silent watchman over the country that had sheltered him so long. In days to come, he would remember Farthing Fields in all of his peaceful moments. But those memories would never be so strong as when he looked to the night sky, remembering the night that he calmed Clarabelle's troubled mind with a simple wish.
"I could wish for a lot of things, I suppose," he said. "There's wealth. There's power. I suppose I've always wanted to be strong and respected. But all those things will come when they'll come. I suppose for now, I wish that the Mighty Minestrone will always bring me back to you."
Beyond the rolling hills, and beyond the forests thick with shadow, the Minestrone wound its way through the rain-soaked country like a lazy snake, the moon's reflection shimmering upon its rolling waters like a flock of silver-winged moths.
"Ah, that old river…" Horace said, as he gazed into the distant horizon. "Take it from somebody who knows, boy: that old river'll take you anywhere you want to go. For a boy looking to find his place in the world, that's as fine a place to start as any."
As he said that, another sound mingled with the song of the crickets. Somewhere, far in the distance, a steam engine sputtered and chugged merrily along the length of the great river—the telltale sound of a steamboat.
Something about that sound charmed old Horace to the bone. As the engine's rhythmic sputtering echoed through the night, he threw back his head and tapped his foot. And as his ears began to twitch all over again, the boy remembered that old tune. An old ditty about a steamboat captain named "Bill". For tonight, though, he improvised a few new lines.
"Mickey Mouse, steamin' down the Minestrone,
Mickey Mouse, a mighty mouse was he,
Mickey Mouse, steamin' down the Minestrone,
He set out for the river, and he sailed away!"
The moon hung low and heavy over the cooling hardpan of Gooseliver Gulch. By the dying light of a campfire, a white-feathered old fellow counted his coins, his fingers twitching with delight as he slid them into a rough leathern bag and pulled the strings tight. All around the campfire, heavy bars of gold and silver were stacked in orderly piles. Farther back, emptied carts sat by the gleaming train tracks, ready for the morning's haul from the mines.
Nearby, a young lad of eighteen adjusted his cap and leaned upon a discarded pickaxe as he fought the urge to yawn. He wore a sailor's cap—though the nearest river was three days' ride from the gulch.
"Time for quitting yet, Uncle Scrooge?" the younger man asked. "We've been at it for hours!"
"Ach!" the older man spat. "Choke on your words, young Donald. Are ye lazy, or just impatient?"
"I'm sleepy Uncle Scrooge…" Donald protested. "I can swing a pickaxe all day or count gold all night, but I can't do both."
"But this is the fun part, lad!" Scrooge exclaimed. "Enjoy the fruits of your labor! Take joy in every shining coin that crosses your palm! Perhaps someday you'll have your own pool of money to swim in!"
Donald raised one eyebrow.
"You really do swim in money? I always thought Aunt Matilda just made that up…"
Scrooge blew a raspberry as he kept his eyes riveted on his piles of coins.
"And you call yourself a true-born son of Clan McDuck…" he grumbled. "Never thought I'd see a kinsman of mine grow weary of countin' his money!"
As the moon rose high above the desert, he yawned deeply and leaned against the nearest cactus. His eyelids grew heavy as he contemplated the feeling of his feather mattress back in Duckberg—but the sharp prickle of cactus spines woke him right up. Scrooge flinched at the sound of his yelp, scattering silver and gold coins all across the ground.
"Sorry, uncle…" Donald mumbled.
He raised his eyes to the night sky as the smoke of their campfire drifted into the air, the furtive flicker of sparks mingling with the smattering of Summer constellations. Then the column of wood-smoke touched the full moon, and the Man in the Moon seemed to grow a beard. As Donald chuckled at that thought, a shooting star tracked a graceful arc across the sky, just above the moon.
Donald whistled with delight as Scrooge gathered up his coins.
"It's a shooting star, Uncle Scrooge!" he exclaimed, pointing to the sky. "You better make a wish before it falls!"
Scrooge snorted. He dug into his pocket and plucked up a tiny silver dime, polished so lovingly that it seemed to sparkle.
"I've no wishes to make, young Donald. My Number One Dime brings me all the good fortune I could ever need. As for you, though… I suppose if there's a wish in that star, it ought to be yours. Heaven knows you could use some luck."
Donald's eyes followed the star as it cut a path across the heavens, dragging its shimmering trail of stardust behind it.
"Y'know, uncle…" he said. "I get the feeling I'm not the only one wishing on that star…"
The moon hung low and heavy as the boy made his lazy way along the dirt road.
Some people say that every native of Spoonerville is born lazy. Around Duckberg and Podunk Landing, the locals often joke that Spoonerites wear lead in their shoes, lest they hurry too quickly to their daily errands. The men of the Goof family, who lived on Spoonerville's east side, caught the brunt of that joke more than most.
Granted, Old Amos Goof didn't help his case when his only son was born. As his uncles and cousins gathered at the hospital to mark the occasion, each of them chimed in to suggest a name for the newborn boy. Some thought "Maxwell" suited the lad, while others—in a patriotic fervor—suggested "Jefferson" and "Roosevelt". A squeaky-voiced nephew suggested "Grayson," "Gulliver," "Gabriel" or "Gregory," insisting that a true son of the Goof family ought to embrace the letter "G" with pride. Even "Amos Jr." would have been just fine, one tiresome uncle told him.
But no. Out of all of the possibilities, Old Amos Goof named the boy "Goofy." And since that day—eighteen years gone—Old Amos Goof's only son had carried the name with pride.
Perhaps he was too lazy to think of something more creative. Perhaps he was too dull, as a few uncharitable souls had claimed. But Goofy knew that his father was neither of those things. He knew that the name for what it truly was: a seal of approval. A reminder that he'd never be an outsider in the hometown of the Goofs of Spoonerville, and a constant assurance that he accepted the boy as his kin, no matter what might befall him in the days to come. Now, with Spoonerville far behind him, Goofy took some weak comfort in that thought.
He was a week out from the nearest town, and his rucksack was growing light. Water still sloshed and splashed in the canteen hanging by his side, but there was no telling when he'd next see a well or a spigot. If he was going to settle down and find a lasting job, it would have to be soon.
He whistled a jaunty tune as he walked, his eyes fixed on the sky, where the handle of the Big Dipper pointed the way to better things. Then, just above the moon, a shooting star traced a graceful arc across the star-specked heavens.
"Gawrsh…" he said, marveling at the sight. "I s'pose that's a good sign…"
Silently, he wished for a promising sign of good things ahead. And as he lowered his eyes back to the road, that wish came true.
Illuminated in the light of the full moon, a freshly painted wooden sign was staked beside the road. In tall, bold letters, it read "Farthing Fields – 5 miles."
Goofy smiled. Even for a naturally lazy Goof of Spoonerville, five miles wasn't so bad…
The moon hung low and heavy over the restless waters of the Minestrone as the steamboat Oswald chugged its merry way along. Peg-Leg Pete strode his way along the deck and bellowed an order to his men:
"Stoke them engines, boys! We're pullin' into port at first light, got me? And we'll make Podunk Landing by week's end, even if I have to flog every last one of you to get us there! The Oswald's never missed an appointment, and she ain't gonna be late for this job!"
Skittering around at Pete's feet, Florien Foxglove nibbled at a cast-off morsel of potato peel.
"Say, boss…" he piped up. "Why do you call the boat 'she' if you named it 'Oswald'?"
Pete growled as he kicked a bucket at his red-furred cabin boy.
"It's tradition, you stupid fox! You can't call a boat 'he'! Everybody knows that!"
As Florien skittered away to dodge the bucket, he ran right into the thick legs of Darwin Apeworth, the quartermaster, as he galumphed his way up from the engine room below-decks.
His fur glazed with sweat, Darwin chucked his soot-covered shovel at Florien. The fox struggled to stay upright as he caught it; the shovel was twice as tall as he was. Sitting dutifully at his perch, Parnassus—the parrot—cackled mirthlessly at the absurd sight.
"Get your furry carcass below-decks, Foxglove. I've done my time at the furnace. Now it's your turn. That old engine's got a fierce appetite tonight…"
"So do I…" Florien whined. "I ain't had nothing to eat but cold porridge for two weeks…"
"I better not be hearin' a complaint out of you, pipsqueak!" Pete barked. "Now get shovellin'!"
Florien made a clumsy salute with one grimy paw. His thick tail bobbing up and down, he scampered below-decks.
Pete kept his eyes riveted on the stern. The full moon's reflection lit up the rippling surface of the wide river. But even on a dark night, the lights of a port town were impossible to miss. As the Oswald rounded the bend of the river, he picked out the lanterns of the first few riverside saloons, glimmering like so many fireflies.
As he watched the river rush on, he never bothered to glance at the sky—where a shooting star traced a graceful arc above the moon.
Pete took no notice of the star. Nor did Apeworth, dragging his knuckles along the deck as he strode to the railing for a cigar. Nor did Parnassus, pecking at a salty pile of sunflower seeds. Nor did Florien, who coughed and sputtered as the furnace belched a thick cloud of smoke. Only one man watched the star as it made its silent passage across the peaceful heavens: the grey-bearded old navigator, who answered only to "Sid."
The hook-nosed old mariner raised his eyes to the sky and smiled as he watched the star rise and fall. Just as well as any man, he knew what to do at the sight of a shooting star. But if he made a wish that night, he made no mention of it.
They didn't call him "Silent Sid" for nothing…