There was once a girl named Milo who didn’t know what to do with herself—not just sometimes, but always.
When she was in school she longed to be out, and when she was out she longed to be in. On the way she thought about coming home, and coming home she thought about going. Wherever she was she wished she were somewhere else, and when she got there she wondered why she’d bothered. Nothing really interested her—least of all the things that should have.
“It seems to me that almost everything is a waste of time,” she remarked one day as she walked dejectedly home from school. “I can’t see the point in learning to solve useless problems, or subtracting turnips from turnips, or knowing where Ethiopia is or how to spell February.” And, since no one bothered to explain otherwise, she regarded the process of seeking knowledge as the greatest waste of time of all.
As she and her unhappy thoughts hurried along (for while she was never anxious to be where she was going, she liked to get there as quickly as possible) it seemed a great wonder that the world, which was so large, could sometimes feel so small and empty.
“And worst of all,” she continued sadly, “there’s nothing for me to do, nowhere I’d care to go, and hardly anything worth seeing.” She punctuated this last thought with such a deep sigh that a house sparrow singing nearby stopped and rushed home to be with his family.
Without stopping or looking up, Milo dashed past the buildings and busy shops that lined the street and in a few minutes reached home—dashed through the lobby—hopped onto the elevator—two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and off again—opened the apartment door—rushed into her room—flopped dejectedly into a chair, and grumbled softly, “Another long afternoon.”
She looked glumly at all the things she owned. The books that were too much trouble to read, the tools she’d never learned to use, the small electric automobile she hadn’t driven in months—or was it years?—and the hundreds of other games and toys, and bats and balls, and bits and pieces scattered around her. And then, to one side of the room, just next to the phonograph, she noticed something she had certainly never seen before.
Who could possibly have left such an enormous package and such a strange one? For, while it was not quite square, it was definitely not round, and for its size it was larger than almost any other big package of smaller dimension that she’d ever seen.
Attached to one side was a bright-blue envelope which said simply: “FOR MILO, WHO HAS PLENTY OF TIME.”
Of course, if you’ve ever gotten a surprise package, you can imagine how puzzled and excited Milo was; and if you’ve never gotten one, pay close attention, because someday you might.
“I don’t think it’s my birthday,” she puzzled, “and Christmas must be months away, and I haven’t been outstandingly good, or even good at all.” (She had to admit this even to herself.) “Most probably I won’t like it anyway, but since I don’t know where it came from, I can’t possibly send it back.” She thought about it for quite a while and then opened the envelope, but just to be polite.
“ONE GENUINE TURNPIKE TOLLBOOTH,” it stated—and then it went on:
“EASILY ASSEMBLED AT HOME, AND FOR USE BY THOSE WHO HAVE NEVER TRAVELED IN LANDS BEYOND.”
“Beyond what?” thought Milo as she continued to read.
“THIS PACKAGE CONTAINS THE FOLLOWING ITEMS:
“One (1) genuine turnpike tollbooth to be erected according to directions.
“Three (3) precautionary signs to be used in a precautionary fashion.
“Assorted coins for use in paying tolls.
“One (1) map, up to date and carefully drawn by master cartographers, depicting natural and man-made features.
“One (1) book of rules and traffic regulations, which may not be bent or broken.”
And in smaller letters at the bottom it concluded:
“RESULTS ARE NOT GUARANTEED, BUT IF NOT PERFECTLY SATISFIED, YOUR WASTED TIME WILL BE REFUNDED.”
Following the instructions, which told her to cut here, lift there, and fold back all around, she soon had the tollbooth unpacked and set up on its stand. She fitted the windows in place and attached the roof, which extended out on both sides, and fastened on the coin box. It was very much like the tollbooths she’d seen many times on family trips, except of course it was much smaller and purple.
“What a strange present,” she thought to herself. “The least they could have done was to send a highway with it, for it’s terribly impractical without one.” But since, at the time, there was nothing else she wanted to play with, she set up the three signs,
SLOW DOWN APPROACHING TOLLBOOTH
PLEASE HAVE YOUR FARE READY
HAVE YOUR DESTINATION IN MIND
and slowly unfolded the map. As the announcement stated, it was a beautiful map, in many colors, showing principal roads, rivers and seas, towns and cities, mountains and valleys, intersections and detours, and sites of outstanding interest both beautiful and historic.
The only trouble was that Milo had never heard of any of the places it indicated, and even the names sounded most peculiar.
“I don’t think there really is such a country,” she concluded after studying it carefully. “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway.” And she closed her eyes and poked a finger at the map.
“Dictionopolis,” read Milo slowly when she saw what her finger had chosen. “Oh, well, I might as well go there as anywhere.”
She walked across the room and dusted the car off carefully. Then, taking the map and rule book with her, she hopped in and, for lack of anything better to do, drove slowly up to the tollbooth. As she deposited her coin and rolled past she remarked wistfully, “I do hope this is an interesting game, otherwise the afternoon will be so terribly dull.”
