her.
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” said Leilah softly. “Two of them are my brothers. And they always call me Crazy Leilah. I made the mistake, you see, of trying to convince them about the Wizard. So they don’t talk to me any more. But that’s okay, because I don’t talk to them either.”
David didn’t say anything.
“It’s the babies who know about the Wizard,” Leilah continued. “Only because they are real little, and don’t talk very well, no one pays any attention to them. That’s where most people make a mistake. Children know a lot, only they forget most of it when they grow older. My brothers are only nine and ten, but they’ve forgotten already. I just have an awful good memory and what my granny calls twenty-twenty ear-hear. You have probably just forgotten about wizards.”
David didn’t answer, but he doubted that very much. He never forgot anything, that he could remember. Then he said, “I’ve just moved to New York. That’s why I haven’t heard of your wizard.”
Leilah thought about that for a moment. “Probably,” she admitted. After a while she continued. “I listened very carefully to all the baby talk about the Wizard. And then I thought about it,” she said. “If all the little ones really believed there was a wizard, well, they couldn’t all be wrong. So I started to wade. No one over six wades in the fountain. They think they’re too old. And no one over twelve does, either. That’s the law. But I did. I waded and waded and waded half the summer. Until yesterday he gave himself away.”
“How did he do that?” asked David. Even though he didn’t believe in the Wizard, he had to admire a girl who had so much patience.
“He uses the silver sprayer like a submarine thing—oh, what do you call it?”
“A periscope,” said David, scratching a scab on his arm and trying to pretend he was only half interested.
“A periscope,” said Leilah.
“And?” David said, not wanting her to slow down the story.
“And then, yesterday, it moved about.”
David looked puzzled. “What moved about?”
“The periscope,” said Leilah. “And I said, ‘I caught you!’ And out of the periscope came a sad voice that said, ‘So you have.’”
David scratched D. Dog’s head. “If that’s all true,” David said at last, “where is the Wizard now? And what does he look like?”
“He’s…” Leilah began, when the small black door in the side of the Arch began to open slowly. David stared as it moved inward and a cave darker than midnight appeared.
From behind the door, into the sunlight, stepped the weirdest little man David had ever seen. He had a long, silky white beard that was parted slightly off center and flowed down to his waist. He was no taller than a four-year-old. He wore a robe of inky blue and a pointed hat that sparkled with stars. The stars weren’t just painted on and they weren’t rhinestones, either. David could see that they moved, floated in the blue-black space of the hat as though it were a window opening on a night sky.
“How do you do,” said the little man to David in a voice full of apologies. “I’m the Wizard of Washington Square.”
David meant to say “How do you do” back, but he just stood there with his mouth open. Even D. Dog was too surprised to bark.
The Tunnel Under the Park
“H OW DO YOU DO. How do you do,” said the Wizard. David thought he was terribly polite. Perhaps too polite. And David, not being very polite himself, didn’t trust that. But the Wizard was so sincerely sad-looking, David forgot his distrust and put out his hand.
“I’m sorry, my boy, but I can’t shake your hand. If I take your hand, we might both be whisked to goodness-knows-where. That’s the trouble with magic, you know. There’s no containing it. It does what it wants.”
“But I thought,” said David, “that magicians were the masters of magic.”
“Oh, no. You’ve heard wrong,” said the Wizard. “Magic is
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” said Leilah softly. “Two of them are my brothers. And they always call me Crazy Leilah. I made the mistake, you see, of trying to convince them about the Wizard. So they don’t talk to me any more. But that’s okay, because I don’t talk to them either.”
David didn’t say anything.
“It’s the babies who know about the Wizard,” Leilah continued. “Only because they are real little, and don’t talk very well, no one pays any attention to them. That’s where most people make a mistake. Children know a lot, only they forget most of it when they grow older. My brothers are only nine and ten, but they’ve forgotten already. I just have an awful good memory and what my granny calls twenty-twenty ear-hear. You have probably just forgotten about wizards.”
David didn’t answer, but he doubted that very much. He never forgot anything, that he could remember. Then he said, “I’ve just moved to New York. That’s why I haven’t heard of your wizard.”
Leilah thought about that for a moment. “Probably,” she admitted. After a while she continued. “I listened very carefully to all the baby talk about the Wizard. And then I thought about it,” she said. “If all the little ones really believed there was a wizard, well, they couldn’t all be wrong. So I started to wade. No one over six wades in the fountain. They think they’re too old. And no one over twelve does, either. That’s the law. But I did. I waded and waded and waded half the summer. Until yesterday he gave himself away.”
“How did he do that?” asked David. Even though he didn’t believe in the Wizard, he had to admire a girl who had so much patience.
“He uses the silver sprayer like a submarine thing—oh, what do you call it?”
“A periscope,” said David, scratching a scab on his arm and trying to pretend he was only half interested.
“A periscope,” said Leilah.
“And?” David said, not wanting her to slow down the story.
“And then, yesterday, it moved about.”
David looked puzzled. “What moved about?”
“The periscope,” said Leilah. “And I said, ‘I caught you!’ And out of the periscope came a sad voice that said, ‘So you have.’”
David scratched D. Dog’s head. “If that’s all true,” David said at last, “where is the Wizard now? And what does he look like?”
“He’s…” Leilah began, when the small black door in the side of the Arch began to open slowly. David stared as it moved inward and a cave darker than midnight appeared.
From behind the door, into the sunlight, stepped the weirdest little man David had ever seen. He had a long, silky white beard that was parted slightly off center and flowed down to his waist. He was no taller than a four-year-old. He wore a robe of inky blue and a pointed hat that sparkled with stars. The stars weren’t just painted on and they weren’t rhinestones, either. David could see that they moved, floated in the blue-black space of the hat as though it were a window opening on a night sky.
“How do you do,” said the little man to David in a voice full of apologies. “I’m the Wizard of Washington Square.”
David meant to say “How do you do” back, but he just stood there with his mouth open. Even D. Dog was too surprised to bark.
The Tunnel Under the Park
“H OW DO YOU DO. How do you do,” said the Wizard. David thought he was terribly polite. Perhaps too polite. And David, not being very polite himself, didn’t trust that. But the Wizard was so sincerely sad-looking, David forgot his distrust and put out his hand.
“I’m sorry, my boy, but I can’t shake your hand. If I take your hand, we might both be whisked to goodness-knows-where. That’s the trouble with magic, you know. There’s no containing it. It does what it wants.”
“But I thought,” said David, “that magicians were the masters of magic.”
“Oh, no. You’ve heard wrong,” said the Wizard. “Magic is
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