Wade sat glumly on a big rock and stared out to sea. "Oh, how I wish I could go with the others tomorrow", he thought to himself." I guess I'll never get to go. He continued to stare in to the gloom of the evening as the waves crashing on the rocks below echoed his dark mood.
Wade lived in Pacific Grove, California and shared the big house that loomed behind him in the gathering darkness with 10 other boys - all orphans like himself. The source of his discomfort was the Monarch butterfly expedition that the famous zoologist, Alphonso Stanley sponsored each year. Mr. Stanley invited only the very rich and Wade and the others had never even seen the Stanley estate, much less go on a butterfly hunt there.
"Bedtime, Wade, you must come in now," called Mrs. Stevenson, "you have a big day ahead of you tomorrow." Wade reluctantly left his perch and followed his foster mother into the house. Sleep did not come easily. Wade tossed on his hard bunk for hours, kept company by nine snoring boys and his collection of flying insects, which were his childhood obsession. When sleep did come, it was filled with dreams of magnificent Monarch Butterflies. But each time Wade would reach out to capture one of the beauties, Mr. Stanley's leering face would appear and the butterfly would fade from view.
The sun rose over Monterey Bay with a blaze of glory. Light touched the rippling water and split into brilliant rainbows that scattered among the sea lions at play on the rocks along the shore. It would be a glorious day on the peninsula. But for Wade and the other orphans, it was to be but another day of drudgery on the tidal flats below the lighthouse as they gathered kelp to be dried and sold to local farmers as fertilizer and mulch. Already the boys were at their chores and thoughts of a butterfly expedition were lost in the muck and slime of the kelp beds.
"Wade, Jimmie, Alphie. You boys come quickly - and bring the others." Mrs. Stevenson's voice held unusual excitement, as she summoned her small charges toward the house. They responded, but with a certain resignation that comes from a lifetime of being shifted from one temporary home to another.
"Wow," muttered Jimmy as the neared the house, "look at that set of wheels. Who do the Stevenson’s know with that kind of money?"
“That car belongs to the landlord, Skinflint Stanley", Wade responded. "He must have come to evict us." And to himself Wade sadly wished Mr. Stanley had picked another day to come, rather than being here now as a reminder of the butterfly hunt which was beyond his grasp.
"Boys, Mr. Stanley has exciting news for you," Mrs. Stevenson exclaimed. "Mr. Stanley, they are all here now. Please tell them."
The great zoologist wasted no time in get ting to the point. "Gentlemen, he began, "I have an unusual request. I want you all to come to my butterfly hunt today. Mrs. Stevenson has clean clothing laid out and I will provide the equipment." Mr. Stanley's voice broke slightly. His eyes softened and he momentarily drifted away to some tender scene only his mind's eye could see. "One of you will not return tonight." He paused to collect his emotions and continued. "12 years ago, I was in the Pacific hunting for rare butterflies. My only daughter and her husband were in an automobile crash in Europe and both died in a hospital. It was months before I knew. And it was almost a year before I learned that my daughter had given birth to a son just before she died. I have spent 11 long years tracing that little boy from orphanage to orphanage all over Europe and the USA. Now I know that he is standing right here before me. Only I am not certain which of you is my grandson." Mr. Stanley paused one more time and then flashed a confident smile. "I'm sure that by the end of the day I will know my grandson's identity. The grandson of Alphonso Stanley will show his true heritage by the way he tackles the butterfly hunt. After all, the Stanley’s have been expert zoologists for generations. Come on, boys, let's go find some butterflies - and my grandson."
Wade stepped out of the big car and, net in hand, stood at the edge of the great pine and cypress forest on the Stanley estate He felt a mysterious kinship with this place - and with the man who had so unexpectedly become the focus of his young life." I must do well", he repeated over and over, "Somehow I feel that I belong here. I must prove myself by collecting more and larger Monarchs than anyone." And off in to the woods he strode, confident that his would be the biggest prize of all at the end of the day.
Muffled shouts of triumph reverberated through the woods as first Jimmy, then Alphie, then Tom reported catches. Wade began to feel desperation and depression intrude upon his once elated spirit. It was nearly dark and he had not the first moth in his net, much less a Monarch. He stood sadly at the edge of the woods and watched the other boys gather excitedly around Mr. Stanley, showing him their winged prisoners. The group seemed miles away, even though only a steep, grassy slope separated them. Mr. Stanley looked up and waved Wade down.
"I simply can't face them and admit failure", Wade cried to himself. "I must get away. Surely there is another orphanage someplace where I can go and forget all this." A sob racked Wade's chest and he turned back into the woods.
Sunlight lingered over the forest, as in a solemn farewell to a heartbroken boy, and then died in a last burst of brilliantly reflect light. The unmistakable patterns of a giant Monarch butterfly froze Wade in his tracks. There, resting calmly on a low branch, was the butterfly of Wade's dreams. His heart jumped within him. The flush of anticipated success raced across his face like an August brush fire. The net came carefully to the ready as Wade stepped toward the prize, and then started its descent. The butterfly rose in confusion, the net closed on its target. And then Wade's foot came down clumsily on the edge of the steep slope before him. The butterfly, and Wade's future, fled together into the darkness.
The frightened, defeated boy rolled and tumbled down the hill and came to rest - a heap of bruised bones and broken dreams - at the feet of his host. Gently Mr. Stanley lifted the boy to his feet, wiped the tear-streaked face and brushed the grass and leaves from his faded jeans. Tenderly he held the sobbing child close. "Come, son, let's go home," he whispered. "I suspected all along that you were my grandson. Now there is no question."
Wade looked up a t the great man in confusion and disbelief. "No, it can't be," he protested. "You are the greatest zoologist in California. Surely your grandson would have caught the finest butterfly of the day. I have caught nothing. Not even a common moth."
Mr. Stanley only smiled. "Oh, yes, Wade, you are my grandson all right. When I saw you tumbling down the hill, empty net flying wildly through the air, I knew for sure." His eyes sparkled. "Remember, Wade, you are not only the son of my daughter, but of my son-in-law as well. His name was William Stone. And everyone knows that a rolling Stone gathers no moths."
end
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