“Hello there, Emily,” said Pete Ginty.
Emily simply had to tell someone the news. “Good morning, Mr. Ginty,” she said politely. “Did you know Fong Quock is going all the way back to China?”
Pete Ginty leaned against the wall of the post office, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and looked at Emily. “So I hear,” he said. “Fong told me so himself just a few minutes ago. Matter of fact he was carrying a monkey wrench—said he wanted to trade it for a girl about your age to take back to China with him.”
Emily did not know how to take this news. She looked at Pete Ginty. His eyes were not smiling. She could not tell about his mouth in all those whiskers. “What for?” she asked suspiciously.
“Because he has only sons and grandsons in China,” answered Pete Ginty.
“Oh,” was all Emily could say. Did he mean Fong Quock wanted to trade her for a monkey wrench to take her back to China? My goodness, she didn’t want to go to China. Go to China, and leave Mama and Daddy and Grandpa and Grandma? I should say not! Probably Pete Ginty was trying to tease her, but if he was, he gave no sign.
“Yep. Told me so just a few minutes ago,” said Pete Ginty. “Well, so long, Emily.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Ginty,” said Emily faintly as he went into the post office. My goodness! What a terrible thought—to be traded for a monkey wrench. Surely this was all a joke, but Emily could not be sure. She recalled how Pete Ginty used to brag about how he could play the piano, using only the black keys. Daddy said this was just some more of Pete Ginty’s humbug, until one day when he came to the sitting-room door to speak to Daddy about cutting some wood in the pasture. He stepped inside to the piano and played Upidee all on the black keys. So now Emily did not know what to think, but she was sure about one thing. Mama and Daddy would never trade her for a monkey wrench or even a dozen monkey wrenches.
But now what was she going to do? If she ran into Fong Quock, he might ask her to go back to China with him. Even if he didn’t, she might think he did, because he was so hard to understand. And what on earth would she say? If she said, “No thank you, I do not care to go to China,” when he had not asked her, he would think her mighty strange.
Clutching her coffee in her mitten-covered hands, Emily walked slowly down Main Street. The next person she came to was old George A. Barbee, whom she saw rather than met, because he was lying on his back under his Ford. My, this was certainly Emily’s morning to run into beards! “Good morning, Mr. Barbee,” said Emily, bending over to peer at him.
“Morning, Emily,” answered the old man, looking out from under his car. There was a dab of grease on his gray beard.
“Did you know Fong Quock is going back to China?” asked Emily, still eager to share the exciting news.
“So I hear.” Old George A. tapped at his car with his wrench.
Maybe Emily could find out something from old George A. “I—I heard he wants to trade a monkey wrench for a girl about my age to take back to China,” she ventured.
Old George A. stuck his head out from under his car. “Pete Ginty tell you that?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Emily. “Yes, he did.” So it was true. Old George A. knew that Pete Ginty knew. Oh dear, now she really would have to avoid Fong Quock.
It was easy to see that the old man was too busy to talk, so Emily went on. When she came to the corner she paused to make up her mind. The short way, on the boardwalk, to keep the new look on her rubbers? The long way, past the orchard and through the mud, to avoid passing Fong Quock’s house? This time Emily chose the long way. She could not expect to keep the new look on her rubbers forever.
Gingerly Emily stepped off the walk onto the muddy road. Oozy mud the color of chocolate sucked at her rubbers. Walking was not easy she soon discovered, because her rubbers were too big. If she lifted her feet too fast, her rubbers stuck in the mud. Emily walked carefully, lifting her toes out of the mud before her heels, so her rubbers would stay on. Mama would think she was never coming with the coffee.
Once Emily forgot and lifted her heel first. Her foot came up and her rubber stayed in the mud. This was a problem. She had to hang on to the coffee, keep her coat up out of the mud, and pull on her sticky rubber while balancing on one foot. It was quite a trick, especially since she was wearing mittens. After that she kept her eyes on the road to find the places that looked the least muddy.
When she came to the blacksmith shop, her friend Mr. Wilcox opened the door and called out, “Hello there, Emily. What do you think you are doing, wading in that mud?”
Emily was embarrassed. “Going home. I’ve been to the store.”
Mr. Wilcox shook his head, as if he could not understand Emily’s behavior. This is plain silly, Emily told herself sternly. That Pete Ginty was only trying to tease her. Or was he? She had expected him to tease her the day she Cloroxed the horse, and instead he had helped her. Emily’s feet started to fly out from under her, but she managed to grab a bush and at the same time hang on to the coffee. It would never do to drop the coffee in the mud, not with coffee at such a high price these days.
Emily stayed on her feet until she reached the Bartlett property, where she wiped her rubbers on the grass, which was brown and soggy from the long winter rains. She removed her rubbers on the back porch and as she went into the kitchen she called out, “Mama, I’m home.”
“All right, Emily,” Mama answered from upstairs.
Something caught Emily’s eye and made her glance out of the kitchen window. And whom should she see walking along the side of the house but Fong Quock! He was wearing a plaid Mackinaw over his overalls and on his head was a battered old hat. He was carrying a monkey wrench! Emily stared, fascinated, until he turned the corner of the house. When she heard his foot on the back steps she moved fast. Where could she hide? She lifted the lid of the wood box. It was too splintery. The footsteps advanced up the back steps and walked across the porch. Emily darted into the bathroom, closed the door, and leaned against the chill white edge of the second bathtub in Yamhill County.
There was a knock on the back door. Emily held her breath. She heard Mama moving about upstairs. Another knock, harder this time. Mama’s heels came tapping down the stairs, down the hall, across the dining room to the back door. “Why hello, Fong Quock,” cried Mama. “Won’t you come in? I’m sorry to keep you waiting at the door, but I thought Emily was down here.” Then Mama called out, “Emily, where are you?”
Emily did not answer. She was leaning against the second bathtub in Yamhill County and that was where she was going to stay. She heard Fong Quock step into the dining room and say something that she could not catch.
“Oh, you’re welcome,” answered Mama. Outside in the woodshed which was only a few feet from the house Daddy began to chop wood. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Between thunks Emily could tell that Fong Quock was having a long talk with Mama. She strained her ears, but she could not catch what he was saying. The farm began to seem like an extraordinarily noisy place. The windmill creaked, a cowbell tinkled, a hen told the world how clever it was to lay an egg.
“Why, Fong Quock!” exclaimed Mama. “Are you sure—”
Thunk. Thunk.
Emily opened the bathroom door and listened, waiting to hear Mama say, “Why, no, I wouldn’t dream of letting Emily go all the way to China.” Thunk. Thunk. She thought the old man said something about “many fliends” and “all likee me,” but she was not sure. She did wish he would speak up.
“What a wonderful thing for you to do!” exclaimed Mama unexpectedly.
What was wonderful, Emily wondered, straining to catch Mama’s next words.
“—and what it will mean to Emily!” she heard Mama say. “It will open a whole new world to her.”
Emily was shocked. A whole new world? Could that new world be—China? Was Mama accepting Fong Quock’s offer to take her to China? Mama had always said travel was a wonderful thing…but to send her only daughter and Grandpa’s only granddaughter all the way to C
hina…. But Emily was sure she had heard her mother correctly. Mama had said, “It will open a whole new world to her.”
And now Mama was saying, “I can’t wait to tell Emily. She will be so excited she won’t know what to do.”
Oh, I will, will I, thought Emily indignantly. No, I won’t, because I do not want to go to China. Mama didn’t need to sound so happy.
Thunk. Thunk.
“Where did that girl go?” said Mama. “She was here just a minute ago. Emily!”
Emily did not budge.
“I guess she has gone out to the barn,” said Mama.
Emily could hear her mother and Fong Quock walking toward the back door. The door was opened.
“We shall miss you, Fong Quock. Everyone will,” said Mama, “but we will never forget what you have done.”
“Goo’-bye, goo’-bye,” called Fong Quock, as he went down the steps.
Mama closed the door and returned to the kitchen.
Emily was not scared anymore. She was mad. Just plain mad. Mama wasn’t going to send her off to China, because she wasn’t going to go. That was all there was to it. She was not going to go. Emily burst out of the bathroom. “I don’t care what you say, Mama, I won’t go!”
Mama looked startled to see Emily appear so suddenly from the bathroom. “Go where?” she asked.
Emily’s eye fell on the monkey wrench lying on the kitchen table among her crayons and pussy willows. “To China with Fong Quock,” said Emily. “I don’t care if you did trade me for a monkey wrench and I don’t care if you do think everybody should travel!”
Mama sat down weakly on a kitchen chair. She looked both baffled and amused. “Emily,” she said, “will you please stop acting as mad as a wet hen and tell me what under the sun it is you are talking about.”
“About sending me to China,” said Emily. What else could she be talking about? “Pete Ginty told me Fong Quock wanted to trade a monkey wrench for a girl about my age to take back to China, because he had only sons and grandsons there.”
Mama stared at Emily with a look that was a mixture of love, exasperation, and amusement. “Oh, Emily, the way you let your imagination run away with you!” she exclaimed.
Emily calmed down and glanced once more at the monkey wrench. “But Pete Ginty said—”
“Oh, that man!” snapped Mama. “You should know better than to believe any of his yarns.”
“But he really can play the piano on the black keys…” answered Emily uncertainly.
“Emily, Fong Quock came here to return the monkey wrench your father loaned him. Pete Ginty was just teasing you,” said Mama. “You should have known that.”
Emily felt better, but she did not see how she was supposed to know Pete Ginty had been teasing her. It was so hard to tell about grown-ups sometimes. “But you said it would open a whole new world to me,” she said doubtfully.
“I was talking about the world of books. Many books instead of a few from the state library.” Mama smiled at Emily. “I didn’t tell you the other reason why Fong Quock came here.”
“What other reason?” asked Emily. Whatever it was, it must be good news, because Mama looked so excited and happy.
“He said that times are so hard that he can’t find anyone to buy his house, so he has decided to give it to the people of Pitchfork to use for a library!” Mama smiled at Emily. “Now what do you think of that?”
“Mama!” cried Emily. “A whole house?”
“A whole house,” answered Mama, “and the best part is that since we have a house for the library now, I know the people of Pitchfork will vote money for the library in the next election.”
Emily couldn’t think of a thing to say. A real library in a house all by itself! Fong Quock’s little house, the closest to her own. How handy!
“Poor old fellow,” Mama remarked sadly. “He says he has many friends here and that everyone likes him, but just the same I know he must have been lonely many times.”
“Why, Mama?” asked Emily. He did not look lonely to her. He always went to church, and she often saw him on Main Street talking to people.
“Because when he came to Oregon to seek his fortune as a young man, he settled in a strange town and had to learn a new language and new customs. He must have been homesick many times, even though in the early days there were other Chinese who came here to seek their fortune.”
Emily felt ashamed of herself for avoiding such a nice old man, a remarkable man who was giving a whole house for the library. And to think he had been lonely right here in Pitchfork. Emily looked at her crayons and mucilage and pussy willows still scattered on the kitchen table. “Mama, do you think Fong Quock would like a valentine?” she asked.
Mama smiled. “I am sure he would.”
That settled it. Emily went right to work with paper and crayons. She squeezed three drops of mucilage on her crayon fence and pressed three pussy willows on the dots. Then with red crayon she printed:
As long as kittens mew,
Fong Quock, I love you.
Guess who?
In tiny letters down in one corner she printed her initials before she slipped the valentine into an envelope.
Then Emily put on her coat and her rubbers again and went hippity-hopping down the boardwalk all the way to Fong Quock’s house. She tiptoed up to his porch, soon to be the porch of the library, where she intended to slip her valentine under the door. Now she discovered the pussy-willow kittens were too fat, so she leaned her valentine against the door where the old man could not miss it when he came out.
As Emily was tiptoeing down the walk, Fong Quock, who must have been watching her all the time, opened the door and picked up the valentine. He opened the envelope and studied the kittens with a smile on his wrinkled old face. Then he looked at Emily and smiled and nodded his head. Emily smiled and nodded her head. Fong Quock waved and Emily waved back.
With a light heart Emily went hippity-hopping on her way home. This remarkable man, who had given his house for a library and who was going to travel all the way to China, knew that someone in Pitchfork was thinking of him.
And just think—now Pitchfork was going to have a real library and she, Emily Bartlett, was the girl who almost a year ago had licked the stamp that went on the envelope that held the letter to the state library that started the whole thing.
Yes, Emily decided, she was pretty lucky to have the kind of imagination that ran away.
About the Author
BEVERLY CLEARY is one of America’s most popular authors. Born in McMinnville, Oregon, she lived on a farm in Yamhill until she was six and then moved to Portland. After college, as the children’s librarian in Yakima, Washington, she was challenged to find stories for non-readers. She wrote her first book, HENRY HUGGINS, in response to a boy’s question, “Where are the books about kids like us?”
Mrs. Cleary’s books have earned her many prestigious awards, including the American Library Association’s Laura Ingalls Wilder Award, presented in recognition of her lasting contribution to children’s literature. Her DEAR MR. HENSHAW was awarded the 1984 John Newbery Medal, and both RAMONA QUIMBY, AGE 8 and RAMONA AND HER FATHER have been named Newbery Honor Books. In addition, her books have won more than thirty-five statewide awards based on the votes of her young readers. Her characters, including Henry Huggins, Ellen Tebbits, Otis Spofford, and Beezus and Ramona Quimby, as well as Ribsy, Socks, and Ralph S. Mouse, have delighted children for generations. Mrs. Cleary lives in coastal California.
Visit Beverly Cleary on the World Wide Web at www.beverlycleary.com.
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Beverly Cleary’s books
FEATURING
RAMONA QUIMBY:
Beezus and Ramona
Ramona the Pest
Ramona the Brave
Ramona and Her Father
Ramona and Her Mother
Ramona Quimby, Age 8
Ramona Forever
Ramona’s World
FEATURING
HENRY HUGGINS:
Henry Huggins
Henry and Beezus
Henry and Ribsy
Henry and the Paper Route
Henry and the Clubhouse
Ribsy
FEATURING
RALPH MOUSE:
The Mouse and the Motorcycle
Runaway Ralph
Ralph S. Mouse
MORE GREAT FICTION
BY BEVERLY CLEARY:
Ellen Tebbits
Otis Spofford
Fifteen
The Luckiest Girl
Jean and Johnny
Emily’s Runaway Imagination
Sister of the Bride
Mitch and Amy
Socks
Dear Mr. Henshaw
Muggie Maggie
Strider
Two Times the Fun
AND DON’T MISS
BEVERLY CLEARY’S
AUTOBIOGRAPHIES:
A Girl from Yamhill
My Own Two Feet
Credits
Cover art by Tracy Dockray
Copyright
EMILY’S RUNAWAY IMAGINATION. Copyright © 1961 by Beverly Cleary. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780061972171
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