When they were babes, and all through their primary years, the colors who lived in the Land of Many Colors were one of these three only: Red or Yellow or Blue.

Still, because these came in varied and subtle shades, no two colors looked alike. And after they grew and developed, and bloomed into the fullness of their hue, each expected to choose another color to blend with.

The blending of colors was a sight to behold—though it was mostly done in private. Sometimes colors merged in a gentle spilling together . . . sometimes with a tumultuous splashing about.

Pale Blue and Misty Yellow blended slowly into soft Summer Greens, one touch lighter than the other.

Deep Blue rolled into Blushing Red, and of that union came two luscious Purples, one bolder, one more plush.

Vivacious Red swirled together with Vibrant Yellow, and two Stunning Oranges burst forth. Yes, however it was done, the merging of colors was one event that was always worth repeating.

Although two colors were often joined for life, some tried different blends before their true colors could show. Some came together for a while—a long while in cases—but then grew pallid and lost their spark, and went their separate ways . . . to find partners with more depth or more shine, partners that changed them in ways they preferred.

These goings-on were generally accepted in the Land of Many Colors, so long as aesthetics were maintained. Occasionally, an unfortunate match produced a Sickly Chartreuse and a Tacky Pea Green . . . or a Burnt Sienna and a Raw Salmon, but even these were tolerated, for the Land of Many Colors was a land of gradations, where variation was valued and deviation . . . understood.

Nevertheless, there was in this land one bizarre phenomenon that the colors found distasteful and preferred . . . not to discuss.

Some colors, it would seem, choose to maintain their primary pigment . . . the color of their youth. This was discouraged, to be sure, sometimes angrily and bitterly . . . and some colors of this persuasion were dropped by their friends or forsaken by family. They were accused of refusing to grow up. They were called immature and regressive; they were chastised and mourned—all for keeping their primary color.

Of course, some colors who made this choice were considered too unsightly anyway, and undesirable for blending. These colors were pitied and invited to lunch.

Others were simply too serious for mixing, and maintained their separateness to pursue some higher calling. These colors were often asked for advice.

But it was generally believed by the colors who merged—those who had successfully passed into their secondary phase—that those who stayed in the primary were secretly miserable, yearning for transformation, sleeping with tormented dreams of Turquoise and Teal and Indigo.

Now there was a certain Bright Blue, who had a gorgeous hue, and his mother, who was Violet, worried and frowned over his devastating good looks. She gathered all mirrors and hid them away, so they wouldn't distract or inflate him. And although it was true that he loved being Blue, it was not his own reflection that moved him, but the sight of other Blues. He felt slightly faint when he saw Pale Blue, and he swooned with delight when Peacock Blue strutted by. At Royal Blue, he gazed shyly from a distance, and when he looked at Midnight Blue he had stars in his eyes. Sky Blue made him happy, Navy Blue somber, and Powder Blue tender, but few were the Blues, in the Land of Many Colors, who didn't catch his eye . . . or turn his head . . . or fill his heart.

As Bright Blue moved closer to coming of age, he grew uneasy and ashamed. He liked Greens well enough, especially the darker tints, and Purples, after all, had his own parents among them; however, by no means did he want to turn a shade of either.

And the thought of merging with a Yellow or a Red made him feel queasy and ill-humored. The more time that went by, the more fully he realized, sad though it seemed . . . he didn't want to blend—he couldn't; he wouldn't.

One day, as his mother sat talking with Kelly Green, Bright Blue stood listening, out of sight. They were discussing a Red—a certain Red Delicious—who had for a "roommate" a Neon Red. And it seemed that some had noticed, though they hated to say it, that the first was looking lighter, and that the other had moved a tinge the other way.

Suddenly, as if a light had been switched on, something inside Bright Blue came clear. He thought of his friend Sunny Yellow, and how she sighed and shook her head, gazing at Quiet Mustard. "We'd be so good for each other," she'd say. "I could brighten her up and she could tone me down." And now he understood that different though they were, he and Sunny Yellow were two of a kind.

Bright Blue was wild with joy . . . For now he knew a secret . . . choosing not to mingle was not choosing to stay single.

After this realization, Bright Blue could only wait, and this he did, though without calm and patience, and with alternating optimism and grim insecurity.

But he kept himself busy, filling his hours with the things that made him happy. He loved to swim through blue waters . . . and to fill the sky with song . . . and best of all, he loved loved loved to dance.

Unfortunately, the rule the majority placed on blending was also placed on dancing; color combinations should be heterogeneous. It didn't make any sense, thought Bright Blue. After all, there were no colors exchanged in the course of a dance—though if it was done right, it could feel like there had been.

One day, in what looked like compliance with the rules, Sunny Yellow took Bright Blue to a dance, a dance for primary colors.

They arrived after its start, and stood silently by the wall . . . nervous . . . watching. She was feeling a bit more yellow than usual . . . and he thought he looked a bit like a pansy . . . but soon enough they lost themselves to the scene before them.

Music swept across the room, catching up the colors on its way. They rushed together, Reds and Yellows and Blues streaming into a line and surging apart, every primary shade and hue splashing upward and dropping again, wherever the music placed them.

So enthralled was Bright Blue with the moves that it took his friend to point out that, at his dance, even the rules were getting swept away. Astonished, he saw that even though colors enough were paired up with someone different, plenty had for partners colors like themselves.

Bright Blue's heart leapt with the music, 'til Sunny Yellow brought it down. "Oh, no," she said, gazing at the doorway, "I never dreamed . . . ."

Bright Blue turned and saw Quiet Mustard coming in with Midnight Blue. He felt sad for Sunny, though he did think that Mustard had chosen well. The newcomers came and stood right beside them.

Quite suddenly, apparently on a whim, Sunny asked Mustard to dance the next round with her. For a moment, Quiet Mustard looked almost Red, but then she smiled . . . shyly . . . and accepted. Midnight Blue turned to Bright and sort of shrugged, as if to say they were now stuck with each other. Bright Blue shrugged too, then looked away, in case the stars in his eyes started gleaming.

That was not the last dance for Bright Blue . . . he made it a weekly event. He made many friends and danced with them all. He loved to sway with Pale Blue and swirl with Peacock, and to Royal Blue he even drifted near a time or two. But he was always happiest, it seemed, when he followed the music with Midnight Blue.

He danced from one week to the next . . . and the stars in his eyes shone and sparkled more and more. Before long, it didn't have to be nighttime for him to dream of changing shades . . . of turning a richer, deeper, darker hue . . . and seeing Midnight Blue . . . turn brighter.

Well, Sunny Yellow and Quiet Mustard had themselves moved far beyond dreaming. And one day Sunny Yellow, whose hue was looking more subdued, had a chat with Midnight Blue. She asked him, as gently as she knew how, if he thought Bright Blue had naturally sparkly eyes, or WHAT? And Quiet Mustard, who now had a special glow about her, took Bright Blue aside. He told her he wanted something to happen, but he was too frightened to make the first move. "Well, it's good to play it safe, " she told him, "but that doesn't mean doing nothing."

Well, after that day, it was a while before Bright Blue and Midnight had time for anybody but each other.

They even missed dancing once or twice, then could no longer stay away. When they walked in—cautiously, feeling rather conspicuous—a few chins were dropped and some eyebrows raised . . . Clearly Midnight Blue had a new, softer gleam . . . and Bright had a handsome new depth.

Well, so beautiful were these two new Blue hues, that even in the Land of Many Colors, strangers gazed at them with admiration . . . And their friends, well, their friends claimed them with pride.