Sol and the Six Good Things

Click, click, click. The lantern on the barn door swung in the evening wind, and its hook ticked against the wood. Sol's ears turned to find the sound. Sol was a puppy, small and brown, with one white ear that flopped over like a folded leaf. He sat in the barn doorway where the light was going soft and blue.

Inside the barn, the hay smelled warm and sweet, and under the hay smell was the smell of apples. The hens were already in their corner, muttering. "Mutter means a sleepy grumble that's nearly words," said Old Pell. Old Pell was the sheepdog, gray around the chin, and he knew all the barn words. "They're saying goodnight to each other," he said. "They say it every night."

"What are you doing, Old Pell?" asked Sol. "Noticing," said Old Pell. "This farm gives out little presents every night. Small ones. The trick is noticing." Sol looked around, quick quick quick. He wanted to catch a present in his paws and give it to Vera the lamb.

First, Sol saw the lantern light. It made a gold puddle on the hay, and the puddle wiggled when the lantern swung. Sol jumped at it, paws first. He landed on plain hay. He looked under his paw. Nothing but hay. "Hm," said Sol. "It got away."

"Say it out loud," said Old Pell, "and it stays." Sol didn't know what that meant, so he tried again.

Second, Sol heard the hens. Their mutter was soft and brown, like a blanket dragged over the floor. Sol crept close and cupped his paws. The mutter slid right between his toes. One hen opened an eye and said, "Cluck," very politely. "It got away again," said Sol, and he felt wobbly inside.

Third, Sol smelled the apples in the basket by the door. The smell was round and sweet. Sol opened his mouth to catch it and got a mouthful of nothing at all. "Three tries," said Sol. "Three got-aways."

Vera came in from the field with a bit of straw stuck in her wool. She was a lamb, round and woolly, and she was Sol's best friend. "Why is your tail down?" she asked.

"I tried to catch a good thing to give you," said Sol, "but good things won't sit in paws." Vera sat down in the hay beside him. "You already gave me three," she said. "You told me the gold puddle, and the hens' mutter, and the apples."

Sol thought about that. His tail went wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. "Say it out loud," he whispered, "and it stays."

"Let's count them," said Vera. So Sol counted on his toes. "One, the warm hay." Down went a toe. "Two, the gold puddle from the lantern." Down went another. "Three, the hens muttering goodnight."

"Four," said Vera, "your white ear that flops." Sol wiggled it for her. "Five, Old Pell's tail." Old Pell's tail was going thump, thump, thump on the floor, the way it always did when he was happy.

Old Pell opened one eye. "Six," he said. "The lantern, still swinging. Click, click, click."

Sol put all his toes down and sighed a big sigh. "Six good things," he said. "And they're all still here."

Now the barn grew quiet. The hens tucked their heads under their wings, and their mutter got smaller and smaller until it was only breathing. The lantern swung slower. Click. Click.

Vera curled up beside Sol in the warm hay, and Old Pell lay across the doorway like a long gray shadow. Sol counted once more, very softly, the way you count when your eyes are already closing. "One, warm hay. Two, gold light. Three, hens. Four, Vera. Five, Old Pell. Six, the quiet."

Click, click, went the lantern, slower and slower. Sol's toes went loose and his white ear went still. Six good things, he thought, all of them staying. Then he was asleep in the warm, apple-smelling dark.