On the edge of the meadow, just beyond a crooked wooden fence, there lived a very quiet cow.
She was black and white and moved as slowly as the drifting clouds above her. All day long, she grazed on sweet green grass and flicked her tail at the flies that bothered her. When the sun grew warm, she wandered down to the brook and drank water that slipped over stones and moss with a silvery sound.
The neighbor girl often stopped to watch her.
She liked the way the meadow felt calmer when the cow was near, as though the world took a deep breath and rested for a moment.
One summer afternoon, when the air smelled of hay and sunshine, the girl crossed the field with a small tin pail swinging at her side. Inside were strawberries—round and red and warm from the sun. Her father grew them every year, and she believed they were the finest strawberries anyone had ever tasted.
She reached through the fence and held one out to her four-legged friend.
The cow lowered her great head and sniffed her fingers. Her nose was cool and soft. When she tasted the strawberry, she closed her eyes and chewed slowly, as though she were listening to something lovely.
The girl smiled.
From that day on, the cow waited for her by the fence.
Each afternoon, as the shadows grew long, the girl returned with strawberries. The cow always knew when she was coming. She lifted her head before the girl reached the fence, and the meadow seemed to grow quieter when they met.
Then, one morning, something extraordinary happened.
The girl heard Mr. McCorkle calling out across his farm. Neighbors gathered. Cups were filled. And there, glowing softly in the sunlight, was milk the color of early dawn—pink as a summer sky.
“Strawberry milk!” Mr. McCorkle exclaimed in his overalls. “Straight from my cow!”
The girl watched from behind the fence, her heart fluttering.
She knew, of course, what had happened.
The strawberries had found their way into the milk, just as gentle things sometimes find their way into places they are needed most.
Mr. McCorkle said it was a miracle, the sort that belonged in old stories told by firelight. He said his farm was blessed. The girl smiled and kept her secret tucked safely inside her chest.
When autumn came, the strawberry plants faded, and the girl’s pail stayed empty. Soon, the pink milk disappeared. Visitors stopped coming. Mr. McCorkle grew worried and walked the fields with heavy steps.
The girl watched and wished summer back again.
When it returned, so did the strawberries—brighter and sweeter than ever. The girl brought them faithfully to the cow. And just as before, the milk turned rosy once more.
Mr. McCorkle named the cow Strawberry, certain the name had always belonged to her. He told the newspaper that Strawberry made her milk only in the warm months, when the fields were green and hopes grew easily.
People came from far away. They said the milk tasted like happiness. They said it reminded them of simpler days.
The girl grew older, as all girls do. But each summer, she still crossed the field with strawberries in her pail. And Strawberry, gentle and patient, always waited.
She never told the farmer the truth.
Some wonders, she believed, are not meant to be explained. They are meant to be cared for, shared kindly, and left just a little bit magical.
Copyright 2015 Jennifer Waters
LOGLINE
A quiet neighbor girl discovers that kindness and strawberries can create a summer miracle when a gentle cow begins producing strawberry milk—so long as the magic is lovingly kept alive.
PITCH
On a peaceful farm, a thoughtful neighbor girl befriends a gentle black-and-white cow by feeding her sun-ripened strawberries each summer afternoon. When the cow mysteriously begins producing strawberry milk, the farmer proclaims it a miracle, drawing visitors from far and wide. As the seasons change, the magic fades and returns again, known only to the girl who quietly tends it year after year. The girl celebrates small acts of kindness, the beauty of quiet secrets, and the enduring magic that grows when wonder is cared for rather than explained.
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